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fawniswriting · 10 days ago

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𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗲𝘁 𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: When a visit to his office leaves you shaken, Bucky becomes determined to take care of you.

Word Count: 4.4k

Warning(s): CEO!husband!bucky x wife!reader. protective!bucky. no use of y/n. use of nicknames sweetheart and angel. established (secret) relationship. reader is a damsel in distress. "GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY WIFE" 🗣🗣🗣 trope. public humiliation. physical violence (reader is manhandled - not by bucky). hurt/comfort. angst, fluff, smut (holy trifecta) (18+ mdni!!!). vaginal fingering. lots of praising. bucky is Scary™ and only soft for reader.

Author's Note: GUYS HI I'M ALIVE 👋🏼 so sorry for being MIA. work has been kicking my ass. I've literally been skipping lunch and working through weekends bcs of how crazy it is (yeah I know it's bad). but other than that, I've also been having the worst case of writer's block ever. I have three fics in my draft that I kept deleting and rewriting because none of them turned out good enough. this is the only half decent thing I managed to produce. not fully happy with this bcs I wanted to spend more time on it, but I've also been itching to put out something for you guys, so pls bear with me 😔 hopefully you'll still like it 🧡 don't forget to comment/like/reblog 💕

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

As soon as you step through the rotating doors, a relieved breath escapes your chest.

The rain continues to patter outside, merciless in their mission to soak everyone who dares to leave the comfort of their home. Your wet hoodie clings to you like second skin; your cotton skirt dripping on the marble floors below. The back of your neck scorches as you notice a few sharp glances sliding your way.

This is so not how you thought this day was going to go.

A quick coffee run with the girls had been the plan. The only plan. A chance to catch up with Wanda and Natasha amidst the unpredictability of everyone’s hectic schedules. Everything was going well. Up until the point you left the coffee shop, started the trek back towards the subway station, and realized something.

Your wallet was missing.

Not misplaced.

Not forgotten.

But actually missing.

You spent the next couple of hours retracing your steps—going back to the coffee shop, peering under evey chair and table, even asking the clueless barista if anyone had turned it in—but nothing. You even emptied your tote bag in the middle of the sidewalk at one point. Confirming that the wallet was, in fact, gone. To make matters worse, your phone had also died somewhere between Wanda showing you her latest painting project and Natasha's crude remarks about your sex life. In that raging desperation, you made a decision to resort to one last dramatic measure.

Bucky's office.

Inside your drenched sneakers, your toes curl. It’s silly for someone to feel this nervous about visiting their husband's place of work. But when the husband in question is none other than James Buchanan Barnes—CEO and founder of Barnes & Co.—you suppose the churning in your gut is somewhat justified. Especially when the prospect of visiting his office, impromptuly and without the dark cover of night, feels like crossing a threshold you've been avoiding for far too long.

You and Bucky have been together for over two years, married for one short, whirlwind month. The news of your wedding broke across the country like a hailstorm. Stirring a media frenzy and a nationwide intrigue revolving one question in particular.

Who is the woman that managed to conquer the heart of one of America's most eligible bachelors?

You've always dreaded the attention that comes with being Bucky's partner, hence why you asked to keep your identity a secret at the start of your relationship. And Bucky—despite having his reservations about not being able to love you loudly in front of the whole world—had agreed, but not before promising you that his world was yours to enter whenever you pleased.

You just never thought that the entrance would happen today.

The dribbles of rain have gathered into a puddle under your feet. You squirm as more eyes begin scrutinizing you as if you're a ketchup stain in their otherwise polished world of Rolexes and Armani-clad egos. Taking a deep breath, you will the thumping in your chest to abate, forcing your chin up as you stalk towards the front desk across the lobby.

The two receptionists are conversing among themselves when you approach, huddled over a phone on the desk. You’re about to open your mouth when the mention of a familiar name stops you dead in tracks.

“Bet she's just a ditzy arm candy,” one of them remarks. “I won’t be surprised if he found her at a yacht party.”

The other gasps scandalously, pausing mid-way of applying her dark red lipstick. “You think she's an escort?”

“I don’t think. I know.” The first one smirks. “But then again, a guy who looks like that? With that kind of money? Hell, he could probably get with any woman in the world.”

“Yeah, you're right. I'd gladly get on my knees and be the sidepiece if Bucky Barnes asked me.”

The two receptionists snicker.

A few paces away, you're standing with hands curled into fists, commanding the red hot emotion in your chest to dissipate before you do something you might regret.

Instead, you clear your throat.

Two pairs of eyes look up, and the moment they catch sight of you—teeth chattering and skirt trickling with mud—their expressions twist into something unpleasant. Dismissive. Judgemental in a way that causes your skin to crawl and your ears to ring.

“Can I help you?” asks the one with the red lipstick.

“Hi. Yes, please. I, uh—” you shift on your feet, “—I'm here to see Mr. Barnes.”

“He's in a meeting,” she replies, already tapping something on her keyboard. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but—”

“You need an appointment to see Mr. Barnes.” She smiles, so sickly sweet as she drags her eyes from your head to your toe. “I can't let you in. Sorry.”

“Okay. But I'm actually—”

“She said you can't go up, Ma’am,” the other receptionist interjects.

“If you could just call his office and tell them—”

“Mr. Barnes doesn't receive walk-ins,” says Red Lipstick, her gaze acrid when it lands on you. “Especially not from… strangers.”

You grit your teeth. “I'm his wife.”

The other receptionist snorts.

It takes everything in your power not to snap right then and there.

“Look,” you sigh, tugging at the hem of your drenched hoodie, “can I at least borrow a phone, then? Just to call his secretary?”

Red Lipstick sneers. “We're not a public phone booth.”

Next to her, the other receptionist doesn't even attempt to hide her smug smile. There is an ache prickling in the back of your eyes. You're soaked, freezing, and exhausted, and the last thing you need is to defend your identity in front of two people who seem to have resolved their judgement upon seeing your appearance. All you want to do right now is to get home, curl up in bed, and forget that this whole day ever happened in the first place.

“Fine,” you mutter, exhaling a stuttering breath, “I'll just wait then.”

You head towards the seating area several feet away, the leather squeaking the moment you sink down. Red Lipstick whispers something to her friend before picking up the desk phone.

Two minutes later, security shows up.

Chill licks up your spine as you watch the man in the uniform talking to the receptionist from earlier, the latter throwing daggers in your direction without bothering subtlety. You move your tote bag to your lap—as though the material can shield you from the impending confrontation—and clutch the canvas in a death grip when the security starts marching towards you.

“Ma'am.” The large man, all muscles and ear-piece, towers over you. “I need to ask you to leave the premises.”

You close your eyes.

This can't be happening.

“I'm not doing anything wrong.”

“You're causing a disruption.”

“Disruption?” you seethe, your voice shakier than you would like it to be. “I'm only sitting.”

“Please, Ma'am—”

“I'm just waiting for my husband, alright?” Your voice cracks. “Just—just please… give me five minutes. I'll just wait for his meeting to be over and—”

You don't get to finish your sentence.

Before you can fully process what is happening, the security guard has stomped forward, plunging his claws around your forearm, and jerks you up to your feet. You yelp as he begins to try and drag you away, scrambling to peel his vicious grip.

“Hey! What are you—? Let me go!”

“You need to stop resisting, Ma'am.”

“I'm not! Please, just… just let me go, you're hurting me!”

All around you, people have paused and begun watching. Businessmen halt mid-call. Women with perfect sleek buns turn their heads to lour at the sudden commotion. You're half certain that someone in the crowd has even pulled out a phone to record the whole thing.

And yet, none of them steps forward to help.

Shame creeps up your neck, burning in tandem with the ache that now travels through your arm. Your sneakers screech against the marble floors as the security heaves you across the lobby, unperturbed by your whines of pain and your desperate pleas.

No one seems to care.

That is until a voice breaks through your choked cries.

“What the hell is going on here?”

The crowd falls into a sudden hush, panting like the Red Sea to reveal the figure standing in front of the closing elevator doors.

Bucky Barnes.

His suit jacket is unbuttoned, tie slightly loosened from the tumult of the day. You can almost picture him tugging repeatedly at that piece of fabric as he sits in one of his tediously long meetings—the same tie that you bought for him several months prior. His steel-blue eyes scan the surroundings, flicking from the mass of foreign faces standing in his lobby to the scene that has seemingly rendered everyone frozen on their spot. His gaze lands on you—dripping, scared, and on the verge of crying—and immediately zeroes in on the security guard's iron grip around your forearm.

Bucky steps forward.

And something inside of him snaps.

"Get. Your fucking hands. Off my wife."

The meeting is running long.

Too long.

Bucky keeps glancing at the clock above the screen monitor, counting down the minutes until the longer hand strikes twelve. He barely hears the pitch being presented. Not when his mind isn't even present in the room. His phone sits face-down on the table, buzzing occasionally with email notifications, meeting reminders, missed phone calls, but not from the one person who matters the most.

You.

He sighs quietly.

When the final slide clicks off and the lights turn on again, Bucky doesn't waste time standing to his feet. “Good work,” he says, already halfway out of the door. “We'll review the proposal and follow up. That's all.”

He doesn’t even give his team a chance to respond.

The hallway is deserted as he walks past. Bucky enters his office and shuts the door behind him, checking his phone to see the last four messages he has sent to you.

[08.28 AM] Have fun with Wanda and Nat. I'll see you tonight, angel ❤️

[11.47 AM] Still with the girls, sweetheart?

[12.04 PM] Let me know once you're home

[01.58 PM] Angel?

His jaw clenches.

Bucky presses the call button and brings the device to his ear, cursing when the line goes straight to voicemail. You never do this—leave his messages hanging for hours like this. You always answer—with a text or a phone call, sometimes with a single emoji response when you're too busy or too tired to form a proper one. A total silence is unheard of, and Bucky knows that this can mean one of two things.

Either your phone is dead… or something is wrong.

Bucky’s gut plummets.

He hits another number on his phone, his driver instantly answering on the second ring.

“Bring the car to the front,” Bucky orders. “I'm heading home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bucky moves in quick lightning. Gathering his things and shoving important documents into his briefcase. He leaves the office and stops by his secretary's desk, who shoots out of her seat immediately upon seeing him.

“Cancel everything else for today. I'm going home.”

“Wait, what? But, Mr. Barnes, you still have—”

“I don’t care,” he says, already turning towards the elevator. “I need to check on my wife.”

Inside the elevator, Bucky fiddles with his cuffs, trying not to imagine the worst. There is a good chance you probably just forgot to charge your phone and got way too caught up reuniting with your friends to notice the time. Maybe you're already back home, asleep, snoring softly into his pillow. Maybe there really is no reason for Bucky to worry.

But he does worry.

Bucky has been worried for sometime. Particularly since the story of your wedding broke a month ago.

He didn't say anything to keep you from stressing, but on the second week of your honeymoon in the Caribbean, Bucky received word from his security team that a stalker had tried to break into his house in Westchester. The perpetrator was caught and handed to the police before things could escalate, but it still wasn't enough to ease Bucky's mind. He had to relocate your residence temporarily to his penthouse in Manhattan—telling you a little white lie about doing some renovations at the house. Thankfully, you're none the wiser. You've always loved living at the heart of the bustling city, anyway.

The elevator doors open with a ding.

Bucky steps out, pausing in his tracks when he realizes there is a horde gathering in the lobby. People are murmuring among themselves, their necks craning as they attempt to sneak a peek at the center of the ruckus. Bucky's brows furrow.

“What the hell is going on here?” he bellows.

The crowd parts.

Bucky examines his surroundings. Seeing at least two people with their phones out, receptionists standing behind their desks, and heads turning towards a scene unfolding near the sofas.

There is a man there.

A man in uniform—a security guy—who has his hand around a woman's arm, trying to drag her away across the lobby.

The woman is drenched and shaking, voice hoarse from pleas that have fallen on deaf ears. When he finally catches her eyes—your eyes—blown wide with panic, the rest of the world seems to evaporate.

Bucky sees red.

“Get. Your fucking hands. Off my wife.”

The security guard falters, just for the briefest of milliseconds, but it's all Bucky needs to yank his hands off you. He shoves the guard so hard the man stumbles nearly five feet back. Bucky doesn't stop there—he grabs the guard by his collars, the man now trembling with fear in front of him. It doesn’t matter. Not to Bucky. Not after what he just saw this man was doing to you.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” Bucky froths, face twisting into stone. “Touching my wife like that? Dragging her out? Do you want me to fucking kill you?!”

“S-Sir, I—”

“Bucky.”

His head snaps.

Your voice is meek beneath the tense air of the lobby, but it reaches him nonetheless. It always does. One short utterance of his name from you is all it takes for Bucky to loosen his grip on the security guard, his breath catching in his throat as he finally takes you in—soaked to the skin, shivering, shoes drenched under your feet.

Everything else melts away.

In two long strides, Bucky is now standing before you, his large palms cradling your face with a softness that startlingly opposes the man that has threatened death upon another human being five seconds ago. There is a pinch in his forehead as he studies your face. His face contorting as if the sight of you alone has plunged a blade so deeply into his soul.

“Sweetheart.” His voice breaks. “What happened?”

Your lips quiver. “I-I'm sorry, Bucky. I didn't mean to… I lost my wallet, and my phone’s dead. Then it just—it started raining, and I—I didn’t know what else to do—”

“Shh, angel. It's okay.” He tugs you close, arms wrapping around you without hesitation, not caring the fact that your rain-soaked clothes are probably ruining his expensive suit. You press into him, an involuntary shudder running through your limbs. “Shit, angel, you're freezing.”

Bucky shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders, firm hands rubbing your back to transfer some of his warmth to you. His voice is so unbearably tender as it falls on your ears.

“I’ve got you now,” he whispers. “You’re safe, angel. I’ve got you.”

Then, Bucky turns.

Slowly.

“You,” he barks at the security guard, blue eyes burning with hellfire. “Explain. Now.”

The guard swallows. “Sir, I-I didn’t know. The receptionist said she was causing a disturbance. Said she was crazy. Claimed she was your wife. I was just following—”

“She is my wife.” Bucky’s voice is deathly quiet. Venomous. “And you fucking manhandled her.”

“I-I didn’t mean to—”

Bucky turns his gaze towards the front desk.

The girl with the red lipstick is now as white as a sheet. Beside her, the other receptionist doesn't seem to be doing much better.

“Mr. Barnes,” Red Lipstick begins. “I didn’t—I didn’t know. She didn’t look like… She just sat on the furniture like she owned the place, and she—”

“She does own the damn place,” Bucky snaps. “And she told you who she was. And instead of doing the one job you have—calling my office—you humiliated her. Called security. Let this entire lobby watch while you treat her like dirt.”

“I—I was just trying to—”

Bucky raises his hand.

The girl's jaw snaps shut.

“I want all of you gone. Now. Security. Receptionists. Both of you. Fired. I don’t want to see any of you here again.”

The other receptionist tries to speak, “But sir—”

“Do you want me to fucking repeat myself?”

The three of them stay quiet.

Bucky turns back to you then, still enveloped in his jacket, looking smaller and more vulnerable than the person he knows you to be. Something inside him splinters at the sight.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

He guides you through the lobby, tucking you against his side as if he's afraid to let even an inch of space separate the two of you from now on. Before he reaches the rotating doors, Bucky halts his steps. He sweeps his gaze across the crowd, a raging flame in his sternum when he sees some people with their phones still out.

Bucky takes out his own mobile, typing in something without ever retracting his other arm away from your frame. Seconds later, his driver appears through the rotating doors, taking a subtle double take at your state, before nodding dutifully at the two of you.

“I want you to get all the names of the people in this lobby,” Bucky commands. “Give them to me by tomorrow. Check their phones. Confiscate them if you find anything of my wife. Prepare a fund to reimburse them for the device, we will not be returning them.”

The driver nods.

“Oh, by the way—” Bucky adds, gesturing at the security guard and the two receptionists, “—those three? I want them gone by the end of the day. Make sure to blacklist their names. Notify our partners as well.”

With that, Bucky leads you away again. Out of the office, out of the rumpus, and straight into the safety of his arms.

By the time you reach the apartment, New York City is in mourning.

The rain has exploded into a full-blown storm. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, you can see the darkness that has befallen the entire city. The roar of thunder echoes through the floor, still rough, still formidable, but a little quieter now that you're swaddled in the safety of your home.

Next to you, another thunder is subsiding.

Bucky doesn't let go of your hand as you step further into the apartment. He holds you like you're procelain, tucking you a little closer into his side every time he feels a tremble running through you. His lips are pressed onto your temple as he leads you towards the hallway.

“You're shivering, sweetheart,” he points out. “Let me run you a bath, okay?”

You don't have the energy to respond.

In the bathroom, Bucky guides you to sit on the toilet. He moves through the space like a domesticated cyclone—filling in the tub, lighting up your favorite candles, adding in that lavender and eucalyptus oil that he knows you love. Steam is rising within minutes. Bucky turns back to you with the gaze of a man who is trying to spell out love with his eyes alone.

“I'm gonna take off your clothes now, alright?”

He sheds each layer with reverence. As if he was revealing your secrets rather than taking off rain-soaked worn cotton. Bucky pauses every now and then to squeeze your hand, peppering tiny kisses along the knuckles, shifting closer every time he detects gooesbumps on your skin.

The whole thing is so sweet.

He is so sweet.

And it makes the whole dam you've been straining to uphold finally collapses.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, surprising him.

“Sorry?” Bucky is perplexed. “Angel, why are you sorry?”

“S-Sorry for… for showing up like that. For making a scene. I shouldn't—I must’ve embarrassed you—”

“Hey,” he says firmly, cupping your face in his hands. “No. Don’t do that.”

Tears cling to your lashes.

“You can never embarrass me, sweetheart. You’re my wife. The most important thing in my life. If anything, I should’ve been there sooner. None of this is on you.” Bucky brushes his nose to yours, massaging the nape of your neck. “I'm so sorry, angel. You didn’t deserve to go through any of that.”

Your breath stammers.

Bucky leans back and presses his lips to your forehead.

“Come on.” He smiles. So tender and loving you think you might unravel completely. “Let me take care of you.”

He helps you into the tub, guiding you down into the warmth with a steady hand on your back. The water laps against your skin, chasing the chill from your aching bones as well as your bruised heart. The next thing that comes out of your mouth is a relieved sigh.

Bucky moves to stand.

Your hand shoots out and curls around his wrist before he can rise.

“Join me,” is all you say.

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Bucky never takes his eyes off you even when he starts stripping down his clothes. He steps behind you in the tub, tugging you to his chest the moment he has settled into the bath. Your whole body liquefies on instinct the second his arms engulf your middle.

“I’ve got you now,” he murmurs, pledging the words to your temple. “You’re safe.”

Bucky reaches for your soap, lathering his plams with the scent of lavender and peppermint. You sigh and sink deeper into his chest as you feel his touch working over your skin—shoulders, arms, the curve of your back. He kisses each spot every time he finishes rinsing it off, running his tongue down your neck, whispering praises with each breath.

“So strong. So brave.” He nips at your ear. “So proud of you, sweetheart. I love you so much.”

Bucky continues peppering your skin with kisses. Experimenting with the graze of his teeth and the scrape of his tongue. You squirm in his hold when his fingers begin swiping at your chest. Subtle, at first, but then he takes a nipple between his fingers and twist it just enough to make you mewl in delight.

It's the best goddamn sound he has ever heard on this planet.

He begins massaging your breast with his left hand, the other one sliding lower and lower with every bruise he is sucking into your neck. Bucky parts your nether lips, feeling you soft and compliant under his touch. You jolt in his arms the moment he skims over your sensitive nub.

“B-Bucky—”

“Shh, I got you, angel. Don't worry,” he soothes, burying his face in your throat. “Just feel me. Gonna make you feel so good, okay? Just lean back and relax for me.”

You follow his instruction, letting yourself fall back onto his chest. Bucky starts rubbing you slowly, earnestly, circling his fingers around the one place that is yearning for him, never quite touching it just to tease those breathless sounds out of you even further. In front of him, you're panting. Your hips grinding against his hand as you attempt to chase more of those heavenly feelings.

“Look at you,” Bucky muses, relishing the way you're chasing more of his touch. “Always so beautiful for me. You know that, don't you, sweetheart?”

“Bucky,” you whine.

“Shh, I know, angel. I know. Doing so good for me.”

Bucky rubs his fingers over your clit, groaning when the motion tears a wrecked sound out of your throat. He carries on with his ministrations, playing your body like a musician would their favorite instrument. Alternating between lazy strokes and desperate flicks that have you gasping and writhing against him.

“Oh God.” You close your eyes, brows creasing when Bucky eventually plunges two fingers into your heat.

He moves them in and out of you languidly. Curling his digits, feeling your walls contract and suck him deeper each time he stimulates that one spot that always paints your vision with stars. You're gripping his forearm now. Your head falling back onto his shoulder as his other hand slides downward towards your bundle of nerves.

Everything feels heightened.

Everything feels good.

You angle your head to the side and kiss his jaw as you feel a familiar knot forming in your abdomen.

“Bucky,” you whimper, locking your eyes with his. “I-I'm gonna—oh God, don't stop—I wanna—”

“Wanna cum, angel?” Bucky purrs, running his nose down your cheekbone. “Can feel you squeezing my fingers—shit. Go ahead, sweetheart. Let go for me. Let me see you.”

You come apart within seconds. The murmurs of Bucky's encouragement as your music and the kisses he leaves on your shoulder as your anchor. His fingers continue to drag in and out of you with reverence, prolonging your pleasure, never once relenting until he is sure you've given him everything that you could.

“That's it, sweetheart. You did so well.” He tilts your chin up, leaving a chaste kiss in the corner of your lips. “Such a good girl for me.”

He holds you until your breathing slows, until the thrum under your skin quietens and your nerve endings stop lighting up in flames. Bucky helps you out of the bath with a towel already warm in his hands, drying you carefully, each brush a well-concocted plan because he knows you deserve nothing less than the utmost form of care.

Once you're dressed, Bucky leads you to your shared bed. You're already half asleep by the time he tucks the covers around your frame, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

“I love you,” he confesses into the quiet. “You’re my whole world, angel.”

You blink at him, eyes drowsy but warm. “Love you, too.”

Bucky slides in beside you, pulling you close until your head is rested on his chest and your hand finds the steady beating of his heart.

Outside, the storm continues to rage. Anguish in its name and its promise, chasing thunders with the stable clatter of the rain.

Inside, though, it's quiet. A stretch of silence merely rustled by the intakes of breath and the soft snores of Bucky's whole life—his wife. His world. Kept securely inside the certainty of his embrace where nothing and no one else would be able to lay their hands on you.

And with that reassurance, Bucky closes his eyes, drifting off with his heart stitched solidly to yours.

2K notes · View notes

verekatt · 1 month ago

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Inspired by @greenglowinspooks post

I love the Danny Phantom fandom's medical gore, but why not torture our DC blorbos too?

Lots of fics make Jason an underdeveloped halfa. Lots of fics make Danny basically unkillable because he's a halfa.

I'm going Maximum Angst Route on this one.

The Justice League buys the GIW's rhetoric. They hear about these dangerous energy imprints, these volatile mimicries of life that are hurting people. The GIW claim they've controlled it in the rest of America, but this one small town has a strong one that protects the rest and helps them attack. They ask for help stopping this one, assure them that once Phantom is neutralised, it'll be easy to deal with the rest. The JL agrees. The JL captures Phantom and hands him over to the GIW.

It takes months to capture most of the other ghosts, as they slowly trickle through the portal to find each other. The JL gains an appreciation for the GIW, having previously fought off entities like Skulker and Plasmius without hero help. They trust the GIW, and so when they ask to scan the heroes for any lingering radiation, they agree.

They're alarmed to find many heroes are mildly irradiated. The GIW removes the lingering ectoplasm from most of them, and they're drained afterwards, but they recover. Damian, who had much higher levels than most, seems almost sedated from his usual fury and violence. Cass privately notes that she can't read people as well anymore, and Damian's lethargy looks uncomfortable for him. She gets suspicious, but when no one listens to her concerns, she leaves for Hong Kong again. She's scared that if her levels get higher and they drain her again, she'll lose the ability to read people entirely. She doesn't want to lose such a fundamental part of how she interacts with the world.

When scanning, however, Batman gets pulled aside. They explain they've found a parasitic ghost in Red Hood, and removing it will be a much longer process. They show the ectoplasm levels, the scans with a visible core. Bruce connects this to the Pit Rage, and agrees to let them take Hood, hoping he will finally get his son back. Jason is cautious, but eventually agrees. This could be the cure he never thought he'd get.

The GIW is estatic. They've discovered a new halfa, and if they do this right, they'll be able to study halfa development. They have Phantom to tear apart to see what an actualised halfa looks like, but watching Hood grow and form? Trying to influence his development, maybe even weaponise him? This is an opportunity they have to make the most of. All they have to do is claim the parasite killed Hood before they could remove it, and they can keep him forever.

The second Jason is alone with the GIW, they sedate him. He wakes up in a cage too small to stand in, right next to the very Phantom he helped capture. The kid is asleep, curled on the floor, bleeding through loose stitches on an autopsy wound. He immediately realises they fucked up, and his rage/guilt/panic attack wakes Phantom up. He expected the kid to be angry, upset, even gleeful that Jason was caught too. He didn't expect the kid to look at him with sad pity, to calm him down and say he's sorry that Jason was mislead and betrayed like this. That yeah, shit's gonna suck now, but Danny (as he insisted) would be there for him for as long as their cages were kept together. That unlike Danny these past few months, Jason wouldn't be dealing with it alone.

The scientists slowly feed Jason ectoplasm, and cut him open daily to monitor how it affects him. Ironically, his Pit Rage is cured, but that doesn't make it any better. If anything, it's worse, because now he's fully cognizant and has no extra energy to fight with. He still does fight at first, even without the Pit, but he knows no one's coming to his rescue. Eventually, he joins Danny in his nihilistic snark and dead-eyed stare. And yeah, they joked about that pun.

Time becomes meaningless. They do whatever they can to escape the hopelessness. Horrifyingly morbid jokes, empty bets on what form of torture they'll endure next, whispered stories about the people they miss. They reach through electrified bars just to feel a hand that doesn't mean harm. They spill their guts, metaphorically and literally, exchanging their deepest fears and secrets until they know each other entirely. Their necessary codependency becomes actual love, because how can you go through this together and know each other so deeply and not love each other? Platonically or romantically or the secret third option that's just insanely codependent affection.

Not sure who ends up rescuing them, but I'm thinking either a) Tim gets suspicious, b) the Outlaws go hunting, or c) Cass realises they have Jason and immediately freaks out. Whoever, they meet up with Team Phantom. Tucker and Sam been on the run since Danny was caught, and Jazz could be in Arkham? Or dead, or on the run too. Team Phantom was only held back by their lack of muscle (that's usually Danny), and now that they have trained fighters on their side, they're able to break in and get their boys. Cue long healing journey and revenge time.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #dcxdp #writing #writing prompt #danny phantom #jason todd #this can be #dead on main #bruce is gonna be so guilty when he realises what he did #the rest of the bats too #handing his son over for vivisection is FOR SURE worse than not killing the joker #the gang's definitely gonna move to the realms after this #like “fuck the living i'm out”#trauma bonding in the torture lab <3 #also they kept them together because it's just more convenient #they have the most guards cos danny's strong and jason's bat trained #shove em in the max security ward

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lietogirlsss · 2 days ago

Text

SPRING INTO SUMMER !

girl!dad bucky barnes x mom!reader

𝖘ummary: the one where the thunderbolts all think it's weird that bucky keeps pulling a disappearing act every couple of months, only that he's been taking the quinjet and coming back with a raging tan. After a particularly harrowing mission in amsterdam, they needed a place to lie low and bucky is already regretting his decision before even making it.

𝔞uthor's note: was craving for some domestic bucky fics and I remembered oh shit yeah I can write, amazing use of my free will and free time! This was set in the middle of the 14 month period as the new avengers(z). Also I watched Monday... yeah.

𝔴ord count: 9.4k

𝔴arnings: violence, blood, mentions of various weapons of defense, humor as a coping mechanism for trauma, various injuries, swearing, mentions of drugs, mentions of human trafficking, mentions of death, your daughter is described with curly dark brown hair and blue eyes, reader is an ex widow.

Five highly-trained assassins and a Bob walk into a bar and it becomes apparent to them that they seriously needed to go back to the drawing board with their plan of attack.

What was supposed to be a standard recon mission with moderate to heavy security on the exclusive bar they've been observing for the past two months became a really ugly, bloody battle where they were ambushed by black ops that spawned from nearly every direction.

Yelena had gotten intel on a potent form of mdma being smuggled by an international pharmaceutical company and selling it to exclusive night clubs all around Europe run by Hugo LaForteza, a Spanish crime syndicate with ties to organized crime. That same pharmaceutical company has tried burying their sketchy past of producing biological weapons and super soldier serum made from scratch before Thanos' snap and instead dabbling into the production of drugs after nightclubs rose to popularity again after everyone returned from being Blipped.

Now, a couple years later they were still up and running and over 40 people have been reported missing all over Europe. The rest of them managed to locate the warehouse where the victims were kept before they were set free and were sent home to their families

Now that the company had been exposed, they've done a good job at covering their tracks and hiding in plain sight. It was only the beginning. Ava, Yelena, and Bucky scouted potential hideouts, safehouses, certain covert routes the supply trucks have been taking to move the products, cross-referencing bank transfers and purchases to off-shore bank accounts containing billions of laundered money. Meanwhile, John weaselled his way into federal databases, built profiles against a hundred men and women who have been involved with the human trafficking scandal. Alexei has been revamping the Avengers brand by spending several hours a day on ms paint designing new avengers merch and arguing with vendors on Amazon when the set of hoodies and shirts he ordered two weeks ago came looking like someone taking a remedial Home Economics class sewed them together.

Meanwhile, Bob has been working in the background, making everyone cups of coffee that had been too watered down, too strong, or too sweet during long, intense nights of work. He went out one afternoon and purchased several cookbooks containing recipes for meals from around the world and promised the rest of the team that their long streak of ordering takeout every night was over because he would be the one cooking for them. So far, there had been no complaints, Bob had become an excellent cook.

After a year's worth of hunting down and investigating leads they finally took to the streets and began taking down nightclubs, bars, and raves from inside out. Flushing out the wealthy and loyal clientele to get closer to shutting down all the suppliers and manufacturers across Europe. They went in strong and took down Berlin, then Ibiza, followed by Rome, Belgrade, then Amsterdam.

And through it all there had been a consistent theme.

Bucky had a habit of disappearing every now and then, usually during the crack of dawn and then coming back a couple of days later with a harsh tan that Alexei had made abundantly clear suited him.

"You could pass off as summer catalogue model! All you need is coconut oil! Take off your shirt, give people what they want!"

John's mentioned it offhandedly once or twice, asking the rest of them if they knew why Bucky kept disappearing every now and then. Ava quickly brushed him off, claiming that he should worry less about Bucky and more about the fact that his shield's only use to him now is to hold lettuce, meat, cheese, and beans. With the matter getting increasingly pressing caused by their own detective work, the rest of the team was itching to find the real reason behind it. There had been multiple accounts in which John had attempted to ask Bucky about it, only for him to be pulled away by either Ava or Yelena unceremoniously. Or other instances where John managed to corner Bucky in the kitchen and ask him about it, only for him to deflect the question or glance at him and walk out like it was nothing.

Yelena did the math. Bucky left every three to four months, his trips lasting either three days or a week and there was no in between. She kept a journal where she would write entries regarding Bucky's unusual absences, possible theories as to why, and if he had been double crossing them- a list of how they would kick him out of the team. So far the list has been empty.

A week later after another night of endless tossing and turning in her shared bedroom with Ava when they were in Amsterdam- she swears she hears the door down the hall click as if somebody closed it from the outside. Then, after dismissing it as nothing, she sees a shadow swiftly pass by the gap the door had to the floor. She sits up. Ava, being the heavy sleeper she was, did not notice Yelena quietly slip out of the room, closing the door behind her.

She is startled by the figure of John in his pajamas standing by the window, who clearly has just woken up about 10 seconds ago and dragged himself out of bed without giving two shits about the fact that anybody from a mile away could see the outline of where drool had once pooled by the side of his mouth. "Jesus Walker, what the hell are you doing??? You look like a pervert." She hissed, narrowing her eyes at him before he placed a finger to his lips and shushed her aggressively.

"It's Bucky, pretty sure I just caught him in the act." He says, jerking his neck to the side, beckoning Yelena over to the window. She plodded towards him and lo and behold, there stood Bucky with his knapsack slung around his shoulders, his hands busy with untying the busted boat they rented that was currently floating in the canal. "Nearly missed the sound of his bedroom door close because of Alexei's snoring. I swear he could level this apartment if he wanted to."

"Where is he off to now?" Yelena asks, albeit somewhat rhetorically.

John clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I've got no clue. Who knows what's going on inside that man’s head?"

“A black and white 24-hour montage of him and Sam with a Mariah Carey song in the background?” Yelena replies under her breath, causing John to laugh through his nose.

“I was gonna say the same thing-”

"-what are you two doing by the window???" Ava's voice grumbled all of a sudden, causing Yelena and John to whirl their heads around. "You do realize it's too early to stare at murky canal water, right?"

Yelena makes a face at her. "Wh- that isn't what we're doing."

"Well then what's got you two staring out the window for???"

"Bucky's out by the dock, I'm convinced he's headed to the quinjet to pull a Houdini on us again." John explained, peering out of the window once more as he pointed at a spot on the glass pane. Ava walks over, Yelena makes room for her as all three of them watch Bucky stand by the boat, talking to somebody on his burner phone. Muffled segments of the conversation could be heard from the slim aperture the window had to the windowsill. Words like "be right there" and "they don't know" were heard, which made all three of them exchange glances of suspicion.

"Who is he even talking to?" Ava asks them. "D'you guys got any ideas?"

"There's no way it could be Sam..." John began quietly, making Yelena and Ava furrow their brows as they turned to him. "Right?” He supplements.

"Too soon. You heard him when he came back from Louisiana, he sounded like someone gutted his cat."

“Why can’t I just crack the window open??? It would make more sense to just call Bucky from up here-” John wonders, extending his arm to open the window before Yelena and Ava stop him.

“-Don't open the window!” She and Ava hiss, startling John.

“Fine! Alright!” He exclaimed, almost scandalized. "So who else has he got on speed dial? Do you think it's still Congressman shit?"

"He sent that resignation letter ages ago."

"It's definitely not Valentina."

"What about that assistant of hers? Me- Melissa? What was even happening with them when we were in New York?"

Ava makes an unimpressed sound. "I don't know, but I'm not interested in finding out anything about that dynamic at all."

"Get your head out of the gutter, Ava."

“Wait, who are we talking about?" Bob suddenly spoke up from behind them making all three of them flinch once more, causing a commotion. Yelena grabs the hem of Bob's pajama shirt and yanks him to the floor as the rest of them fit themselves underneath the window, terrified that Bucky might've heard them in the scuffle.

"Jesus, we seriously gotta tie a church bell around you or something." John scowled in between Ava and Bob. "He's too quiet."

"Thank you?" Bob chuckles, baffled, in between Yelena and John.

“We didn't hear him at all.”

Yelena sighed, craning her neck to take a peek at Bucky once more before sinking back down on the floor resembling a sack of flour. "Ava go look, I'm not looking."

Ava snaps her head to look at her. "Why am I doing it?"

“Because,” Yelena began, widening her eyes and raising her shoulders to accentuate her point. “-Because you’re the only one out of all of us who can go invisible.”

Ava screws her face even tighter. “Is that your only argument to get me to do something none of you want to do?"

“The situation kind of warrants stealth though.” John appends, coming to Yelena's rescue in which he is recognized for.

“Exactly!”

Ava wasn’t happy about the idea of having to phase this early in the morning but does so without any more protest. Her eyes screw shut and in the blink of an eye she becomes invisible, they see a little iridescent shimmer where her body was supposed to be as the meager amount of sunlight piercing through the heavy clouds floating over Amsterdam hits her invisible form. A second later she reappears as a mechanical whirring could be heard from outside.

“He's ready to leave, the boat's acting up again though.” Ava reports as the rest of them scramble to get on their knees and look outside the window where Bucky could be seen at odds with the motor of the boat, pulling the cord repeatedly until he yanks it too far and the boat engine roars to life.

“Soooo,” Ava prolonged. “Are we gonna do something about it or-”

“-What's Bucky even doing down there?-”

“-Planning to go on a ride around the canal-”

“-he is? But Bucky doesn't even like riding boats let alone that piece of junk-”

“-we were kidding, we obviously don't know shit-”

“-huh, coulda fooled me-”

“-Again if we just open the window-”

“-We're not opening the window!-”

“Look, we can't just go in blind and demand an answer out of him, we gotta have a plan.” Yelena fought, eyeing John whose mouth opened. “and it can't be you cornering Bucky expecting him to tell you the truth.”

“It was worth a shot.” John hissed. “Besides, I haven't seen any of you try and get the truth outta him.”

“That's like picking a fight with fucking optimus prime, do you want to get your throat to get crushed like an empty soda can?” Ava argues, glancing up at John as he glances outside of the window again.

Bob reaches up to turn the rusted knob of the window as the rest stare at him in horror. "You know what?, instead of us sitting here and guessing why don't I just-"

As he twists the aged knob to the side, instead of the window lowering inward like windows in the Netherlands usually do, it completely dislodged from its hinges and slides inside, the glass shattering as it comes in contact with the floor in great commotion. The rest of the team only barely managed to roll away before they were inevitably pancaked by the window- Ava who tucked and rolled towards the cupboards, John who army-crawled towards the table, and Yelena who lurched towards the entrance to the kitchen with Bob in tow.

They gawk both at the wreckage and each other, startled. A beat passes and they hear a sudden drumming of heavy footsteps coming from one of the bedrooms, the door flew open reverberating through the entire apartment.

“YELENA?! YELENA?!-”

Alexei comes running into the kitchen in nothing but a pair of boxers and a robe- he instantly relaxes when he sees Yelena glaring at him over her shoulder. “Hi, dad.”

The man stands there, stupefied. “Wh- what are you doing???”

Yelena pauses, lost in thought. “People-watching.” She settled.

“He's gone-!” John's voice suddenly called out. Ava, Yelena, and Bob rush towards the window only to see that the boat was gone and Bucky along with it. Each one of them shared a look of defeat and a disgruntled sigh that seemed to ricochet across each member of the team as they moved around the window. They promised each other that this wouldn’t be the last time they’d catch Bucky leaving and hear some lame excuse to patch up the real story. When he finally came back after a week, they all entered the kitchen together which earned them a raised brow from Bucky who was enjoying a cup of coffee by the window.

“You guys look like a herd of terrified gazelles moving through a grazing patch.”

“Bucky,” John began. “We need to talk.”

He raised his eyebrows. ”Oh good, are you guys finally gonna tell me who opened the one window the landlady told us not to open, broke it, and is helping me explain to her why there's broken glass hidden under the fridge?”

“No, that isn't what we wanted to talk abo-”

“-It was Bob, Bob did it.” Ava interjects, glancing over at Bob who stiffened at the sudden turn of the conversation.

Bucky's eyes shut tight as he pinches the bridge of his nose, a familiar habit. “How many times do I gotta make myself clear not to open things you aren't supposed to open?”

Bob's eyes widened even more. “I- I only opened it because John and Yelena and Ava were arguing about why you kept on disappearing, an-and they saw you outside with the boat so-”

“-Exactly, why were you outside with the boat at 7 in the morning?” Yelena appends quickly, narrowing her eyes at Bucky, his face passive.

Alexei chuckles as he leans forward to look over at Yelena. "Right??? Makes you think- Where is that guy off to all the time??? He is like every cheating father in the American dramas that claims he is going on so-called work trip but is secretly seeing mistress that looks like she just graduated from highschool." He chimes, albeit rather colourfully.

“I wanted to do a sweep of the red-light district to see if our informant’s been telling us the truth. He has. That special event some of LaForteza's men are hosting tomorrow night is the perfect cover for some recon, slipping in and out the bar would be easy. Then I had to stay in Washington for a couple of days because I got my couch reupholstered and needed to turn over the keys to my office.” Bucky says with ease, like he'd practiced this a dozen times.

“Bullshit.” Yelena spat, which had the same effect as a streak of lightning lighting up the sky seconds before a deafening thunderclap.

"We can't work a mission where you disappear days at a time when we’re only left with a little note on the fridge.” Ava seethed. “Gone to collect my things at the office, need to sign off on some documents- it doesn't take a week to do either of those things, Bucky. We know you’ve submitted your resignation letter for Congress bloody ages ago!”

“Well I don't know if you haven't noticed but it's pretty hard trying to do all these things when you're under cover and have to fly across oceans, so I'm sorry if I keep you waiting.” Bucky reasons.

“We aren't leaving you alone until we get the truth outta you. No more stupid excuses, no more lies.” Says John this time. “Being lied to feels like shit, you don't gotta be a hundred years old to know that.”

“Why the hell have you been sneaking around like we wouldn't notice and taking phone calls when you think nobody’s listening?” Yelena asks once and for all. The sunlight had only now started peeking out over the roofs of the hedges of houses and shops that lined the streets. Beams of buttery sunlight illuminated the otherwise dreary kitchen. They all stood there, blanketed by immense silence. "Are you going to answer my question or are we going to sit here in dead silence?"

Bucky sets his mug down, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine, but let's get one thing absolutely straight. I'm not pulling a goddamn Lotso on a mission I've risked my life numerous times for."

John straightens from his spot instantly. "How does he know Lo- have you watched Toy Story 3?” his eyes swung like a pendulum, looking at Yelena beside him to Bucky in front of him.

"Who?" Yelena wonders, raising an eyebrow.

Bob slumped. "Come on, the pink bear? The one with the cane?"

"Ahhh," Yelena says after a beat, pointing a finger at him. "Is he the one that kept eating sandwiches and went to jail?"

Ava opens out her hands, palms facing the ceiling as she frowns at Yelena. "No, that's Paddington. And there's more to his story than him going to jail! he's helped out so many people, made so many marmalade sandwiches, and is the most polite bear that ever graced television."

"So why did he get arrested?"

"He was framed! Because Hugh Grant stole the pop-up book he's been saving up for!" Ava argued.

Yelena's brows furrow even more. "Who's-"

"-Are you done? Because my coffee's getting cold." Bucky drawled, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand.

"Look, man, if you're working against us now is a good time to tell us." John chimes in, moving past the rest of his teammates and advancing on Bucky. “I don't know what kinda game you're playing with us here, watching us connect the dots while you’re off someplace else doing only God knows what- but if you can’t already tell we’re a team now. Which means we do this shit as a team. If we can't trust each other, why bother?”

“Shockingly, he is very right.” Alexei says from the back of the group.

Bucky sighed, shifting his weight onto the other foot. "If I tell you, people's lives will be in danger, not just mine." He says, tone heavy with meaning. "I'm sure as hell not letting that happen, not when I just started getting a handle on things- not when things just started to look up for me."

"What are you talking about?" Yelena demands, voice rising. "What else could you have got to lose, Barnes?"

"Everything." Bucky answers without missing a beat. “I'm asking you to believe me when I say that I'm not jeopardising this mission nor am I double-crossing any of you. I know it's asking a lot but I want you guys to trust me.”

“Can we?” Yelena wonders, making Bucky's gaze flit across the group.

“You can.” He says. “I promise.”

Cut to several weeks later, they are dancing through the jam-packed streets of Amsterdam lit up by head-ache-inducing neon signs and differently colored bulbs. Several black-ops agents remained hot on their tail as they slip into a dark alleyway, taking a detour inside a busy kitchen where they are overwhelmed by the cacophony of angry voices yelling in Dutch and English, the chopping of vegetables, the fervent stirring, the clanging of pots, the sizzling of a wok that quickly erupted flames. One of the line cooks suddenly appeared from the walk-in and handed Bucky a duffle bag; they exchanged a brief conversation in Dutch before the line cook patted Bucky on his metal arm and left, seemingly to go back to his station.

Bucky turns to the rest of them, beaten up and in bad shape. Everyone had suffered too many bruised and wounds to count, John was shot in the shoulder and needed bandaging, Alexei was nearly gutted by one of the agents that had a knife, Yelena was trying to get Bob to calm down after becoming The Sentry so as not to invite the other terrible twin to surface, Ava had a sprained ankle, and Bucky was pretty sure he broke a couple of his ribs.

“We can’t go back to the apartment, it isn't safe, chances are they've been tracing our steps since before we left Ibiza.” Bucky informed them all, slouched, out-of-breath, and wincing at him as they tried to listen. “We gotta leave Amsterdam before dawn or we’re as good as dead.”

“All the evidence we've been building for the past year, the maps, the photos, everything- we left everything back in the apartment for them to see. We might've just handed all our progress to LaForteza on a goddamn silver platter.” John yelled, leaning against the bread rack before one of the cooks pulled the bread rack to the side and shooed him away.

“Which is why they'll know where we're headed to next, they're gonna reroute all their operations, go underground, cover their tracks to the point that they've completely erased themselves from the face of the Earth. But that won't matter, not when we've got all the proof we need.” Says Bucky, pulling out a leatherbound journal from one of his pockets to show to the rest of the team.

Ava makes a sound, almost like a scoff but also a wheeze. “Where do you expect us to go after we've just unleashed hell on their operation? We're literally standing in the middle of a scorching kitchen bleeding all over the floor.” She gestures to the busy kitchen around them. “It's surprising they haven't kicked us out by now.”

“We'll figure it out on the way.” Says Bucky. “For now, we'll get dressed and get the hell outta here.” He drops the duffle bag on the floor and starts handing out articles of clothing to the rest of the team. Out of the corner of Yelena's eye she sees Bob pulling at his torn sweater and pivots on her heel to face him.

“He didn't mean right now, Bob.” She said, causing him to pause mid-action before he pulls the sweater down and shoots her a little smile.

“Woops.”

She turns another couple of degrees to spot Alexei half-way through unbuckling his suit, his helmet and belt already discarded on the floor. “Let go of that zipper!"

The same line cook from earlier showed up once more and escorted them to the locker rooms where they all hastily got dressed. Then when they finished, Bucky moves one of the lockers aside, revealing a crawl space that leads to an abandoned part of the Amsterdam Metro. Once they managed to hitch a ride on the back of a truck, steal a family wagon, and get to the quinjet it was smooth sailing. So to speak.

Bucky, who had taken upon himself to pilot the jet, hadn't spoken a word since they took off. Too laser focused on the dark skies ahead and the controls. Yelena only approaches him after they've stabilized in the air and Bucky had turned on autopilot to hopefully stretch his legs inside the cockpit.

“So, have you finally decided to tell us where we're going or do we have to stare into your dark, broody eyes to figure it out?” She wonders, making him let out yet another heavy sigh. By now everyone who had been resting had perked up at the sound of Yelena's voice and the sudden apparition of Bucky inside the cockpit.

“Livorno. I've got a place there near the port. It's secluded, but also busy enough in the day for us to slip in and out without getting unwanted attention.” Bucky finally answers. “We can squat there for the time being, lay low while we figure out a solid plan.”

“We've already lit one of their dens on fire. If they realize we've stolen LaForteza's journal too it won't be long until they come after us.”

“That is, if they do notice it's gone.” Says Bucky. “When you, Alexei, John, and Bob were taking out the guards Ava and I broke into the safe, swapped it out with a replica. If we manage to intercept their plans in Croatia, we'll manage to end this once and for all.”

Bucky places the journal on one of the crates, open to a page where he points at a cut out map- several red lines stretching out across Europe converging on what was marked to be Belgium. The team gathers around him. “They're shutting down all their operations in South-Eastern and North-Western Europe and they’re bringing what's left of their supply to a giant EDM festival in Split happening in five days.” He explains.

“So then we sneak in, guns ready, take them out once and for all. Easy Peasy.” Says Alexei with a grin.

“Except there'll be thousands of people, we can't risk endangering any more civilians.” Ava reasons, raising an eyebrow. “With the amount of weapons we have there's no way they'll let us in at the checkpoint.”

“Hence the sneaking.” Alexei clarifies, two of his fingers prancing atop the journal.

“There has to be some other way to get in undetected. If those people at the festival take whatever LaForteza’s goons have been distributing there's no guaranteeing what'll happen to them.”

“We've got an hour and fifty minutes in the air, try and rest up, yeah?” Bucky sighed as he attempted to get comfortable on one of the long bench-like chairs in the cockpit, cracking his neck.

Yelena scoffs. “I'll rest when I'm dead.”

Half an hour before their descent Bucky wakes everyone up. Yelena seemed to be well-rested, what with using Bob's arm as a pillow, and of course John who somehow woke up on the floor of the quinjet with Ava sleeping on the chair beside him. Alexei had been keeping Bucky awake for the duration of the trip, recounting his conquests in Russia as the Red Guardian which made Bucky question the accuracy of his stories.

They hid the quinjet in a secluded warehouse and began the trek to Bucky's place. Moving through the lively cobblestone streets of Livorno undetected. The air smelt strongly of salt and brine, ships both large and small were entering the harbor, and the faint hollers of sailors could be heard coming from the docks. Long lines of laundry could be seen hung across the windows of houses, pink bougainvilleas lined the streets. Bucky takes them through a set of narrow alleyways, passing by a group of teenagers heading down to the beach and a man singing an Italian love whilst playing an guitar.

They stop at one of the houses at the end of what seemed to be the umpteenth alleyway they've walked through. Bucky approaches the front door first, kicking what was a pebble out of his way, to knock. It had white bouganvilleas crawling all over the front of the house, rows of different colored flowers in different sized pots lined the entrance, all the shutters painted green were closed. It didn't take long for them to notice the brightly colored drawings in chalk on the path they were standing on, scrawled on butterflies, rainbows, and flowers- or the purple bike with shimmery tassels and training wheels pushed to the side near the door and beside a golden pothos.

They exchanged glances of confusion- but also, a look of understanding.

The door creaks open and they see a woman standing in between the gap, unsure if she was supposed to look happy or confused. She looked like she had just woken up but had gotten dressed to go somewhere. “James what are- oh my god what happened to your face?” You began, opening the door wider to step outside, taking Bucky's face into your hands.

That's when they all see it.

The wedding ring glinting in the morning sunlight, clear as day. They all slowly, almost comically, turn to look at eachother, baffled. John's mouth parted in shock, Ava's brows rose, Yelena's eyes widened.

“James??? ” Ava mumbled in shock.

Yelena opens her mouth, closes it, then shrugs- frowning at the girl.

“She's got a ring.” John mouthed to the group, with his hand concealing one side of his mouth. Yelena rolls her eyes so far back it hurts.

“Bucky's married???” Bob's whispers suit, clearly in disbelief.

“I told you.” Alexei enunciates joyfully, pointing at Bob's face, jaw on the floor. But who wasn't at this point?

They just found out Bucky has been married this whole time.

“Hey, don't worry about it, it's nothing.” Says Bucky, taking your hands into his. “It looks worse than it feels, trust me.”

You placed your other hand on your hips, eyeing him oh so incredulously before you narrowed your eyes at him. “Sure it is, tell that to someone who believes you, hmm?”

Bucky glances over his shoulder to look at his team, their intense yet homely demeanour only demanded more questions out of you. “We needed a place to squat for a day or two, think of a plan… we couldn't risk going back to the compound or Geneva.” He says to you as you look at them curiously. “I promise we weren't followed, we scrubbed our tracks clean.”

You exhaled deeply, lifting a hand to cup his cheek- your thumb grazing over the stubble that had formed over the course of several weeks without it being touched by a razor blade. “Could’ve called me, told me you were coming… I could’ve cleaned up a little.”

Bucky smiles. Smiles. The rest of them don't know whether to watch in horror or in awe. “Had to see you again somehow, one week is never enough.”

You snort in suppressed laughter before you glanced towards the rest of the team. “You guys must be tired as hell, I hope James hasn't run you into the ground by now. Come in!” She smiled warmly, her head motions towards the inside of the house. “Dropped by just in time, you guys like pancakes?”

“Yes please.” Bob chirped from the side, earning a glance from the others. They all file into a single line as they enter the home, you could tell that somebody lived here and not squats here on occasion- what with the mismatched pieces of furniture that complimented the interior of the house well. There was your standard coffee table except it looked like a smaller picnic table, a bookcase lined with endless books, odd trinkets, photographs, a TV, a vintage lamp, another vintage lamp near the 8-seater dining table, a gramophone sitting by the corner of the room in pristine condition.

Then they see a teepee in the shape of a princess castle, little animals dressed in vintage clothes beneath the TV having a tea party next to a well-furnished toy townhouse with multiple rooms, stuffed animals, barbie dolls on top of the coffee table, books with brightly colored illustrations scattered across the floor with endless crayons and pencils, and a backpack with pieces of paper sticking out from the opening.

At the top left of one of the papers, there was a scrawled on name written in pencil. Madeline Barnes.

“Don't mind the mess, we're usually much tidier if we knew we'd be having guests over.” She says, gesturing to the mess on the floor. “I'm Y/N, by the way. You guys don't have to introduce yourselves anymore, James tells me a lot about all of you.”

“We didn't even know you existed.” Ava uttered, astonished, mirroring the dumbfounded expression the rest of them had as they stared at Bucky with his arm around his wife's waist- looking at you with so much love in his eyes that the rest of them felt like this was a social experiment. Bucky? Married? Bucky? In love? It didn't sit right with them at all. They were four words they'd never imagined would fit altogether in a sentence.

“Yeah, well I had to keep that part of my life a secret for a reason. It's why I've been disappearing every now and then.” Bucky explains, and all of a sudden it starts making sense. One by one they all managed to grapple with the fact that Bucky lived with a wife here, and a daughter.

“Is she up yet?” He whispered. You shook your head from side to side.

“Nah, Maddie was still asleep when I went downstairs. She might be now though.” You tell Bucky like you anticipated what was to happen next. Then from the floor above them, they could hear the sound of feet rapidly padding across the floor and then out of nowhere a little girl in purple pajamas ran down the stairs. Bucky bent down to grab her and she leaped into his arms- overcome with giggles as she squirmed in Bucky's grip.

“d'you miss me, sweetheart?”

The little girl nods adamantly, deep blue eyes glistening with excitement. “Uh-huh! I missed you sooooo much, Daddy. Loads and loads. Last night I dreamt that the next day when I woke up you'd be there and then I whispered it to Mommy cuz I thought it was silly, but she was kinda asleep so I don't think she heard me and then I woke up today and I heard your voice!”

Bucky couldn't help but laugh. “What??? You're kidding, there's no way you could have guessed I was coming to visit today.”

“But I did, and now you're here! I have magic, I'm just like Twilight!” She affirmed, grinning at him as she toys with his hair. But then she pauses. “Daddy, are you having a playdate?”

“No, sweetheart, why?” Bucky wonders, furrowing his brows.

She glances at the rest of his teammates. “Cuz all your friends are here!”

“Yeah, no, we're not having a playdate honey. I brought them over here because we got tired… playing and they're hungry.” Bucky explains briefly, shooting them all a look as they all nodded and agreed as a collective.

“Sure are… we're really tired from all the running around… that we did.” Says John.

Ava laughs, nodding. “Pshh, super tired. All the other people we were playing with didn't stand a chance! They dropped dead in seconds!” Ava earned a jab on the side from Yelena.

The shorter woman laughed nervously. “What she meant was that we were so fast that we caught them all, and they lost and… went back home.”

Her eyes lit up. “What were you guys playing? Can I play too?!? Mommy i'm going to get my outside slippers-”

You intervened, shaking your head as you took Maddie from Bucky’s arms, bringing her away. “Nuh-uh no one’s playing outside until we have breakfast.” You tell her as her lower lip protrudes into a pout, that is until she realizes what was placed on top of the dining table.

“YAAAY! Pancakes!” She squealed, pumping her tiny fists into the air as you placed her on her designated seat at the dining table. “Wait… Mommy, did you read my mind or something? I was dreaming about pancakes last night, yknow.” She accuses you with a suspicious look on her face.

“No baby, I just knew.” You tell her, smiling. “Must be a coincidence, huh?”

Maddie giggled as you fixed her curly hair out of her face. “Yeah, coins-incident.”

“You had tiny soldier all along, eh?” Alexei whispered fondly, draping his arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Looks very much like you, beautiful girl. Reminds me of my ‘Lena when she was little. I hope you and the wife gave yourselves a pat on the back after uhh… hanky-panky. Nicely done, my friend.”

Yelena makes a grumbling noise somewhere on their right as you invite the rest of them to take a seat. “Let's eat now, yes?” She called out rather impatiently.

Bucky shoots him a look. “Thanks?”

Alexei pays no mind and simply keeps going. “Very rewarding, fatherhood. Being father? not easy, but very worth it. Fighting off grizzly bear in the forest in Winter with nothing but nail clipper and beer bottle? Much easier. When she learns how to shoot with a glock for the first time? You find you will cry a lot, tears and the snot.”

You appear on Bucky's left, carrying a pitcher of orange juice you've retrieved from the fridge. “You two can bond over being fathers after the three-year-old gremlin in purple and the rest of the assassins in this room get to eat a proper meal, okay?” You pat him on the chest before moving towards the table.

“Lucked out on wife too! Such wonderful hostess, you will build strong army of little soldiers soon, I am counting on it.” Alexei grinned. “I cannot wait to share wisdom words to you as a father who raised his little girls into becoming strong, cutthroat killers.”

“Appreciate it, man.” Bucky replies, trying not to sigh.

They all settled and ate the wonderful breakfast spread consisting not only of a hefty stack of pancakes but fresh berries, hash browns, bacon, and sunny side up eggs- of course with chocolate milk and orange juice to wash it all down.

“Sorry, we just ran out of coffee. I hope the chocolate milk will suffice for now.” You say, as you passed the plate of bacon to John who briefly muttered a ‘thank you’ to you.

“I haven't had chocolate milk in forever.” Says Yelena in assurance. “It's no issue.”

Maddie's jaw dropped in shock. “What??? But how???”

Yelena shrugged, leaning back against her chair almost cooly. “There was a really bad man that didn't let me drink chocolate milk for a long time.”

Maddie seemed outraged, like the foulest of offenses against humanity have been committed- and it might as well have. “You can come here and drink as much chocolate milk as you want, I wouldn't mind! My Mommy wouldn't mind either! Right Mommy?”

You nodded in agreement, chuckling. “Yup, Auntie Yelena can come over and drink as much chocolate milk as she wants.”

“Oh! Also Auntie Ava.” Maddie added with a toothy grin, making the woman sitting across from her smile gratefully. “And then we'll play princess mermaids in my room and I'll teach them how to curtsy and wave while riding the carriage like a real princess.”

“What about the boys, can they play too?” Ava wondered with a smirk, as she glanced over to look at Alexei, Bob, and John who sat at the other edge of the table. Yelena lets out a laugh.

“Only if they want to be pulling our carriage.” Maddie mutters before taking a sip of chocolate milk from her my little pony cup, making the rest of you erupt with laughter.

Yelena snorts. “Hear that Walker? She's making you be the horse.”

“What if I wanna be the footman?” John says. “Can't I be a footman? ”

“Hey man, if she lets you play it's best not to ask any questions.” Says Bucky before taking a sip of water. “Trust me.”

“If you want, you can be one of the princess's pet chickens! They ride inside the carriage!”

Right on cue, Bob chokes on his juice and cleverly plays it off as an accident.

“So uhh, Y/N.” John began, taking advantage of the momentary lapse of the conversation. “How'd you and Bucky meet?”

Your eyes move across the dining table, meeting Bucky's eyes as he looks at you knowingly. “Funny story actually uhh, I was sent on a mission to track down one of HYDRA's elitist assets after the fall of SHIELD. I followed him all the way to Romania, then Vienna, stalked him. Then the whole bombing at the United Nations happened just as they were about to sign the Sokovia Accords. Went back to my superiors empty handed because of his involvement with the Avengers.” You tell them. “Second time around, I tracked him all the way into Wakanda, nearly lost an arm because of it. He fought me off exceptionally well for a man with just one arm, and then when it came to it I just couldn't kill him.”

“Then they fell in love and got married.” Maddie finished before taking a bite of her pancakes. “Then came me, the end! ”

“So, who did you work for?” Yelena wonders, raising a quizzical brow.

Your tongue kissed your teeth before ushering Maddie to finish her glass of water and turn on the TV to watch her cartoons. To which she happily agreed. When she was preoccupied only then did you continue.

“I was one of the defected Widows they threw out after they realized we were no good at our job. They saw us as liabilities in the field. We never completed our training hence…” You tell her looking over at your daughter, giggling at the TV. You cleared your throat and continued. “Dreykov wanted us gone but I guess the world hasn't had enough of me yet so I crawled my way out, got back on my own two feet. Ended up on the streets of Madripoor, living off of people's wallets. I started working as a shadow operative for one of the most elusive crime bosses in Southeast Asia, but I wanted an out- a clean slate so I agreed to help Bucky and Sam out when they were taking down the Flag Smashers, covertly.” She finishes, eyes landing on John who stared at her like she'd grown another arm from her head.

“Dreykov orders firing squads, they dispose of the bodies in the incinerator.” Yelena told you, clearly puzzled. “How did you-”

“Just not mine.” You reply, a faint smirk ghosting on your lips. “I guess Dreykov isn't so good at cleaning his tracks afterall.”

After clearing all the plates and Ava offering to help with the dishes, you, Bucky, Alexei, and John went outside as they needed a change of bandages. You weren't about to scar your child. So you left her in the living room with the rest of the team, telling her to be on her best behavior.

“Jesus, they look so bright now.” Yelena says all of a sudden as she frowned at the television. Maddie sat in the middle of the living room with her dollhouse as she played with the fuzzy animals, writing a story as she went along.

“What?” Bob says from beside Maddie, holding a small husky in a sweater vest and slacks.

“The ponies.” She says, pointing her chin towards the television. “They used to be… easier on the eyes.”

“You used to watch My Little Pony?” Bob chuckles.

“Yeah, back in Ohio. My favorite was Twilight, I'd always force my sister to watch it with me but she never wanted to.” She smiled, remembering the times during her childhood where the days seemed brighter, warmer.

Maddie stopped playing to turn around to look at Yelena. “She's my favorite too!”

Yelena grinned. “Really?”

“She's my favoritest favorite out of all the Mane 6, my pajamas have Twilight all over them!” She points out, pointing at her sleeve where an outline of Twilight in a darker purple could be seen. She only now notices how Maddie's pajamas were full of Twilight's face alongside her cutie mark. “Do you have any other favorites, Auntie Lena?”

She then proceeds to think. “Hmm, Rainbow Dash is a close second.”

Her eyes glimmered with interest as she takes into account Yelena's answer. “Fluttershy is my favoritest favorite number 2.” She says, turning back to her toys. “Uncle Bob is a lot like Fluttershy, cuz they’re both very quiet but really nice.”

“You think so?” Bob wonders earnestly as he watches the little girl arrange a rabbit family inside the doll houses' living room to make it seem like they were watching TV just like the three of them were.

She looks up at him. “Uh-huh!” Maddie replied. “And so is, Auntie Lena, and Auntie Ava, and Alexei… and only the tiniest bit Uncle John cuz Daddy said that before when I was a baby he was pretending to be his best friend Uncle Steve and hit him and Uncle Sam a lot. But now he's not a sock sucker anymore? I don't know, that's what Daddy said. Then Mommy got mad.”

Yelena sits up from her once laxed position on the sofa. “You really think that?”

“Uh-huh.” She explains, fixing her hair out of her face. “I know it, cuz you guys are playing with me. So you guys are nice people.”

Yelena meets Bob's eyes amidst the momentary pause in conversation. The lives they’ve led were not anything to be proud of, not in the slightest. They were in this constant cycle of shame and regret that they’ve allowed it to nestle deep inside themselves and eat them from the inside out. Yet this child thinks they were nice people regardless. It didn’t matter if she didn’t know what they’ve done, it mattered that someone said it, that someone sees past their faults.

“Uncle Bob! the Dad needs to be in the garage, not the bathroom! He just got home from the office!” Maddie interrupted, bringing them back to the moment.

“Oh sorry, right.” says Bob, bringing the husky out of the house and have him enter through the back door. Bob clears his throat. “Honey! i’m h-“

“-Not like that!” Maddie whines, laughing. “Why is your voice so weird?”

“I had creative freedom and I took it,” Bob defended. “Okay, i’ll start over.”

“Can I join?” Yelena asks all of a sudden, intrigued.

“Okay! You can be the girl husky. She owns this hamburger stand and sells hamburgers and fries and also soda.” Maddie blurted out excitedly, pulling the little hamburger stand closer to the house as Yelena moved to sit on the floor beside Maddie. She lets out a sound of approval.

Maddie settles back into position. “Okay, Uncle Bob, we can start now!”

“Honey, i’m h-“

“Nooo, Uncle Bob his wife isn’t at home! She's working at the burger stand!” Maddie frowned, pointing at the burger stand where the other Husky stood behind the cashier. Perfectly orchestrated, Yelena wheezed out a laugh.

“But I thought his wife was the Rabbit…” Bob trailed off, looking up at Yelena for help who only snickered at his misfortune.

“Let’s just do it again.” Maddie sighed quietly, crawling towards her school bag before pulling out a folded piece of paper. “Okay, I'll read from this, you two can just act it out.”

“She’s got a script, this whole time...”

“Yeah, this is definitely Bucky’s kid.”

Later in the day, after they’ve had lunch and Maddie woke up from her nap- they all decided to get some fresh air in the backyard. Maddie suggested they play freeze tag, Ava was currently it and had been chasing Bob around the expanse of the backyard like a bloodthirsty maniac, but then she spots Alexei crouching behind the garden shed. When he realizes what was happening he makes a break for it- he grabs a fistful of grass and throws it at Ava's face in hopes to distract her as he turns around the garden shed and runs away, laughing.

But then he doesn't expect Maddie to be on the other side and tags him, he was now frozen until somebody else manages to unfreeze him. John had been standing in the middle of it all as he had been frozen for a good 15 minutes now, but raised his arm to scratch his nose.

“WALKER, YOU'RE FROZEN FOR CHRIST SAKE.” Ava yells. “Act like it!”

“UNCLE JOHN IS CHEATING!” Maddie cries out, pointing at him like he's been accused of witchcraft.

John screws his face tight. “Can you people relax? It's just a game.”

“Surprise, surprise he's talking out of his ass again.” Yelena grumbled, making Maddie burst out into a fit of giggles.

“I heard that!” Bucky warns from his seat beside you as you chuckled.

“We've said worse things, in front of her accidentally. You don't have to worry.” You tell him, shooting him an earnest look. “Not when I threatened her that if she said another bad word an evil witch would come flying through her bedroom window and break all her toys.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at you. “That's why she told me to check if the windows were shut tight the last time I visited."

You laughed through your nose. “Worked like a charm.”

Bucky and You continued to watch the rest of your teammates and your daughter run around the backyard of your home, carefree laughter filling the salty air. You glance back at Bucky watching the scene with a faint smile ghosting at his lips, you notice the threads of silver weaved through his hair, you notice how the lines beside his eyes are deeper, how he slumped against the backrest of the garden chair- so relaxed, at peace. Then he notices you looking at him and looks at you, his smile grows larger. “What? Is there something on my face?”

“Nothing, just… thinking about how you gave me this.” You say alluding to everything your heart held dear. “This life, our daughter.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, that's where you're wrong. You gave me all this, all this and everything I could have ever possibly dreamed of.” He tells you, eyebrows knitted together ever so slightly as his eyes study every point of your face like he hasn't done it a million times before.

“I've never prayed much in my life before but sometimes I think God is merciful because He gave me you.”

You don't speak, you let him continue. Quite frankly, you're stunned.

Bucky wasn't done, not even a little bit. “I'm not proud of my past, what I've done, who I was. But you, Maddie, you two made me realise that maybe I'm not a monster, that maybe I was worth saving, that I deserved another chance. I'm the luckiest man on this entire planet because of it.” He says. “You saw me, the real me. Some days I forget that I lived most of my life ashamed of myself, you did that.”

You feel tears well up in your eyes all of a sudden. “Someone had to show you that the people who believe they aren't worth saving are the ones that need saving the most. I'm just glad you let me, with your stubbornness and all.”

Bucky laughs, looking away. He wipes a tear collecting from the side of his eyes and looks back at you. “I wouldn't be who I am today without you.”

“So would I.” You returned, looking at his dog tags and the wedding band strung through the chain as it rested atop his chest. “We saved each other. When I was a Widow I thought that that was all I was ever going to be, fight, do some sadist's dirty work, die in an alley in some foreign country with no one to mourn me.” You say as Bucky listened to you with utmost intent.

“I thought that if those were the cards I was dealt with, then fine. But then when I found a way out I realized my story didn't end with the Red Room, I fought, I spied, I went on missions and then the one asset I couldn't kill slips outta my fingers like sand.” You say, accentuating your statement with a little chuckle. Bucky himself laughs, almost like he was proud of himself.

“You showed me there was more to life than what I thought there was. I never knew I was gonna get married, be someone's mother.” You continued. “We could've never had this if we hadn't saved each other.”

“You're right.” Bucky says, sincere. “I thought I was gonna be born and buried in Brooklyn, but I could have never guessed this was how I was gonna end up.”

“What, a DILF?” You deadpan, raising an eyebrow at him.

Bucky's smile drops too fast; it makes you let out a raucous laugh. “Again with that word. You gotta know I still don't know what that means nor do I ever want to know.”

“Dad I'd like to fuck?” You say, grinning at him.

“I mean sure, there's plenty of time for that later on.” Bucky shrugs, shooting you a sly look. You roll your eyes. “Right time, right place, doll.”

“Huh,” you enunciate looking at the sky, lost in thought. “Where'd I last hear you say that? Oh yeah, two months before our wedding and then we ended up in the moving truck while we were moving the stupid bed-”

“-Was it?” Bucky asks you, frowning. “Seemed like it was yesterday, we were sleeping on the floor of the house taking turns rocking Maddie's cradle because she wouldn't settle.”

You poke his side. “That was seven months after we got married.”

Bucky shoots you a cheeky grin, flinching at the sudden action as he laughs. “Time flies by so fast.”

“It's been three years,” You sighed. “Jesus, she's growing up too fast.” You turned to look at Maddie on Alexei's shoulders as they were being chased by Ava, Yelena and John were seated on the swings engaging in a conversation that miraculously didn't have them wringing each other’s necks, and Bob was sitting on the grass watching the scene as you and Bucky were.

“I'm gonna enjoy every moment I can carry her around without her telling me she's embarrassed while I can.” Bucky tells you. “The day I hear those words I won't know what to do with myself.”

“Eventually the tea parties, the bedtime stories, and her choosing to sleep in our bed even if she's got her own are gonna end and I'm not ready for that.”

“I don't think we ever will.” Bucky concluded, turning to look at you once more. “The same way she won't be ready to hear about what we had to do in the past to survive.”

“she'll understand.” You say, tone full of hope. “we earned this.”

Bucky gazes into your eyes, letting out a thoughtful hum. “Did I tell you how much I love you? Because frankly I don't think I do it enough. I love you, I love you with everything I am and with everything I can offer. Thank you for knowing me inside and out and still finding someone worth loving.”

You laughed, bright with melancholy as you sniffed, tears overcoming you once again. “I love you more, not just because you're my husband, not just because you're Maddie's father, but because you showed me that loving someone wasn't a sign of weakness- that I didn't need to bleed myself dry to get somebody to see me and love me… all of me.”

“I'd do it again,” says Bucky tenderly, reaching out to dry your cheek. “As much as I need to.”

“So would I,” You added. “As long as you'd let me.”

“Forever, then.” Bucky decided.

“Forever.” You finished.

That night after a long and wonderful dinner full of laughter and stories that made some hold onto the edge of their seats and the rest gasp in thrill, it was time for bed. With the rest of the boys deciding over who got to sleep on the couch and who would sleep on the floor with a game of paper football, the girls got the privilege of sleeping in Maddie's room. And like the courteous host she was, she introduced them to all 25 of her stuffed animals currently occupying her room.

Eventually she gave up after the number 12 and was whisked away by Bucky into your bedroom for the night. Not after she decided to bid everyone by name a good night, that was when she closed her blue eyes shut and was fast asleep. That night you watched Bucky and Maddie sleep peacefully under the glow of her favorite night light. How she was enveloped by Bucky's arms like she always wanted- her small hand wrapped around Bucky's metal one, how she starts to look like an exact replica of him as the days go by and that was fine with you, for the most part.

Tonight there was no fighting, noise, or danger. No, there was just you, your daughter, your husband, and his rag-tag team of antiheroes turned heroes sleeping soundly around your house.

You let your eyes close all on their own, knowing that this wasn't a dream and that when you wake up in the morning they will still be there.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

dts: @dylsvqid @94namkooksworld @worldofsaturnsblog @wildflowersandvibranium @tmblrgirls777

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #dad!bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes one shot #marvel x reader #captain america brave new world #thunderbolts

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heedeungism · 6 months ago

Text

𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧.

•°. *࿐ PAIRING ― riki nishimura x fem!reader •°. *࿐ SYNOPSIS ― in which riki is smitten with you and your sharp tongue. •°. *࿐ GENRE ― one-shot, friends-to-???, fake dating, angst, fluff, crack, rich kid au, highschool lacrosse au •°. *࿐ WORD COUNT ― 20.9k (yeah, i went kinda crazy) •°. *࿐ CONTENT WARNING(S) ― violence(fighting), cursing, high school, mc has a shitty ex-bf, cheating(not riki obviously), almond grandma(mentioned), a singular cigarette is smoked, mc is shorter than riki, riki can also pick mc up, suggestive jokes, kys jokes, mc has hair (texture and length unspecified, but can be put up), objectification of girls(not riki tho), mc objectifies boys back, dreamy riki, not suggestive or smutty but mc is absolutely a horndog, mc is her own worst enemy, mc using riki to get back at her ex but he likes it, i did not edit this lmao •°. *࿐ EXTRA NOTES ― inspired by euphoria and my hs experience, riki is a loser and a lover, implied that mc is 18, eunseok(riize) is an absolute asshole in this sorry guys i needed a villain, enha are all in the same grade, mc wears makeup and has a manicure of an unspecified length, mc has sick lore, also shoutout to my hg @1ntaks for digitally holding my hand thru this <3 •°. *࿐ SOUNDTRACK ― busy woman by sabrina carpenter, hiss by megan thee stallion, low by sza, i did something bad by taylor swift, without you by lana del rey, agora hills by doja cat, girls like me don’t cry by thuy, only girl (in the world) by rihanna, safety net by ariana grande, snooze by sza

part two

AT THE BEGINNING OF 2024, you lost for the first time in your life.

Finding your boyfriend of two years making out with a girl you know too well as Lee Nayeon, your best friend, on the Carrara marble countertop of your family home that you had trusted her to take care of for eight days while you were in New York was not on your New Year’s resolution. You had planned to stay to see the Times Square Ball Drop with your mom and stepdad, but you realized you’d prefer to spend it with your boyfriend.

He didn’t seem to share the same sentiment, considering he has his tongue down the traitorous bitch’s throat. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

She screams, both of them startled by your appearance and scrambling off of each other. You feel an urge to slam her face into the precious marble they were defiling, but you stay where you are. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“It isn’t what you think, babe—“

The speed at which Nayeon’s eyes filled with guilty and horrified tears fuels your rage, and behind you, Bahiyyih appears.

“Look who’s back—oh?” She stops beside you, arm hovering to wrap around you until she sees what you’re seeing. “Eunseok? Since when were you back from Stanford?”

“Since he’s been fucking Nayeon, apparently.”

The barbie-haired girl’s eyes widen, and as she looks between the two she notices the same things you’re painfully aware of. Nayeon’s smeared lip gloss, her tears, Eunseok’s undone jeans, and the sparkly residue on his mouth. “Oh…”

Nayeon’s whimper as she slides off the counter snaps you out of your daze, “You’re crying?” The angry tears forming in your eyes go unshed as you walk closer to her, “You fuck my boyfriend, and you’re fucking crying?”

Anger turns to fury when the boy in question gets between you and her, pleading to let him explain, his hand grabbing your elbow to pull you away, only for you to jerk away, “Okay, I won’t touch you, just let me explain—“

“How long?”

“What? Babe, this isn’t-“

“How long have you been fucking him?” Your question is directed at who you thought was your friend, who avoids looking at you as she silently weeps. Scoffing, you realize you won't get a straight answer and choose to reel in your urge to beat her face in with one of your stepdad's bowling trophies that’s on display a few steps away. “Get out.”

“Babe, let me—“

The attempts at holding in your temper are lost on you, quickly forgotten as you walk over to the fireplace, grabbing the fire poker hanging up and holding it up. Nayeon lets out a scared, oh my God, while Eunseok tries to calm you down, demanding you put down the weapon. Instead of that, you walk past them, out the front door, ignoring Bahiyyih’s, “No, no, no—”

Eunseok’s red Mustang sits prettily in the driveway, and you can hear him realizing what you intend to do, but it’s too late for him. You slam the poker down onto the hood of his car, “Get. Out!”

“You crazy bitch, what is wrong with you?!” He screams, and you find yourself screaming back.

“Take your side piece and get. Out!” You slam the poker down again, and in minutes he’s got Nayeon in the passenger seat and is peeling out of your driveway like it’s on fire.

If rage had a physical human form, you would be it. Clenched jaw, a deadly weapon in your hands, and a white-hot fury in your eyes that promised to make those two regret crossing you.

The amount of junk food you have consumed in the last week would’ve sent your almond grandmother into an early grave. Your other friends had been visiting as often as possible to keep you from being alone in your thoughts for too long, offering to take you out or go shopping, yet the thought of possibly seeing either of those backstabbing fuckers in public made you sick to your stomach.

Pride didn’t allow you to cry, so instead of sadness and heartbreak, which you definitely felt but would never admit to, you felt pure seething fury.

“So I’ve been thinking,” You take a drag from the cherried slim between your fingers, exhaling towards the sky as you lean against the side of the pool.

From her spot on the lawn chair sunbathing, Belle says. “You can’t kill them.”

“I can, you’re just a party pooper.”

“The party should not include going to prison for murder.” Her statement makes you roll your eyes, “You aren’t built for prison, babe.”

“Well, that I can agree with,” You sigh, the water shifting around you as you turn to face her, arms resting on the edge, “but that wasn’t what I was thinking about.”

Pausing, you take one last drag from your cigarette before smothering it into the stone, “One of the things about him that pissed me off to no end was his temper, right?”

Remembering the many conversations and rants had and heard, Belle nods, “Mhm.”

“So what if I date someone I know will piss him off?”

“If that’s what you think will help you heal, then…” She trails off, and you groan.

“Why can’t you just say it’s an amazing idea?”

“Girl…” Sighing, she asks, “I just don’t think a third party should be involved.”

“He already got one involved, so why can’t I?”

Making a face that screams, well you’ve got a point, Belle then adds, “I think you should find someone who pisses him off but they should be aware of your plans. Don’t lead someone on.”

A cunning smile grows on your glossy lips, “I’m not.”

“Oh, so you already have someone in mind?” She gathers with a growing smile of disbelief, “Please tell me it isn’t one of his frat brothers.”

You grimace at the thought, “Ew, no. The only one of them remotely dateable is Wonbin and that’s meeting the bare minimum standards.”

Shrugging, Belle offers, “At least they're hot?”

“Hot does not equal dateable, plus I hardly believe any of them would date their friend’s ex anyway.” Shaking your head, you push yourself out of the pool and sit on the ledge to let yourself drip dry, “What about one of the lacrosse guys?”

“You say no to a frat boy but not a lacrosse player?”

“I know, I know, but at least I have eyes on them instead of hoping they're being loyal in another city.” You put a hand above your eyes to block out the sun, “Me knowing the coach kind of helps, no?”

“If loyalty is your goal then good luck, bitch.” Belle snorts, sipping from the pink bendy straw sticking out of her Dr Pepper bottle, “Lacrosse players are mansluts.”

“I know that, but…” You push yourself to stand, grabbing the towel Belle holds out when she hears the sound of your feet leaving the water, her eyes still closed and covered by a pair of Prada sunglasses, “I have a few options.”

“The only, as you put it, ‘remotely dateable’-“ she emphasizes those two words with quotations using her perfectly manicured fingers, “-lacrosse players are Jay and Sunoo. Jay is taken and Sunoo friendzones every apretty girl he meets.”

“I don’t know, Jungwon’s cute.” You think aloud, placing a hand on your hip, “He’s just a tight ass.”

“And therefore undateable.” She finishes for you. “What about the baseball team?”

“Eunseok plays, I’m trying to not be reminded of him.”

Belle hums in acknowledgment, “Let me look at the Lacrosse team's insta.”

You pull the claw clip out of your hair as you wait, patting your body dry until she holds out her phone for you to look at. Taking it with your dry hand, you examine the team photo.

You recognize the majority of them, rolling your eyes at a few familiar ones before your eyes land on one particular member of the team you don’t recognize. “Who’s number 10?”

Handing it back, you walk over to the oversized Hall & Oates shirt you’d stolen from your brother’s room(he left a lot of his clothes when he moved out, something about ‘finding his style). You hear the tap of her nails on the screen a few times before she answers, “Some guy named Niki? Or Riki? He doesn’t have any posts on his profile but in the photos he’s tagged in he’s called either of those names.” She gasps, a cackle escaping her lips, “Some of these are his mom tagging him in baby photos, please come look!”

Leaning over, you peek at her screen, “Oh my god, I would die.” You can’t help but giggle as she scrolls, this woman’s Instagram is a gold mine of childhood photos of this guy. “Okay, I feel weird looking at his baby photos, show me the other ones he’s tagged in.”

“On it.” Belle affirms, “Let’s go inside, too.”

“Okay, so-“ Belle stands before a whiteboard, one that your stepdad used to use before upgrading his office to have a massive one mounted on the wall, a pink dry-erase marker uncapped in her hands as she looks down at her phone for reference. After a quick text to the group chat, a brief summary of your plan was explained when everyone got to your house, and it seemed that everyone was invested. “-are we all in attendance.”

Jongseob is eating cereal in the white tufted chair in the corner of your room, Eunchae is in the bean bag, and Bahiyyih is on the floor between them, lined up like a good audience.

“We’re making a pros and cons list for Riki Nishimura,” Belle announces, writing his name on the whiteboard as ‘Niki’ between the two names, “feel free to interject when you have a pro or con to list.”

“Con,” Jongseob raises a finger with his mouth half full, swallowing before saying, “His nickname is stupid.”

“Opinions don’t count, stupid.” Eunchae rolls her eyes, earning the finger from the boy in the chair.

“But like, why is his nickname Niki?” Hiyyih asks, and Jongseon lets out a nearly intelligible ‘thank you!’.

“I assume it’s because there's another Riki on the team,” Belle guesses, and the three nod. You sip the Baja freeze you’d had them pick you up on the way to your house and hum.

“Make an ‘unsure’ column,” you instruct, and she does so, writing ‘nickname kinda dumb’ under it.

“Pro, he’s on the Lacrosse team so he’s fit,” Belle starts, writing it on the board under its labeled column.

“Con, he’s on the lacrosse team.”

A chorus of agreement accompanies it to its column.

“Pro, from the photos he’s tagged in and the team photo, he’s at least 6’.” Eunchae adds, Belle nods and writes ‘tall’.

“How can you tell?” Jongseob asks, and she rolls her eyes like his question is the most idiotic thing she’s ever heard.

“Because I pass Heeseung in the halls from 5th to 6th period and in these photos, this guy looks a little taller than him.” She explains, and you hold a hand up when Jongseob opens his mouth to insult her.

“Con, no instagram posts.”

“Pro, I just found a pic from Jake’s insta and I can see him in the back. He’s got abs.” (Thank you, Bahiyyih.)

By the time the sun has set, the whiteboard is packed, the pros heavily outweighing the cons. You had even searched the large group chat you were added into on Snap in freshman year full of girls you barely know who dated around and kept each other informed, and found his name zero times.

“I think he’s the one.” You sigh.

Jongseob snorts, pulling the cherry soda vape from his lips and asking, “Why do you think Eunseok will hate him?”

“He hates Lacrosse guys ‘cause he didn’t make the team, I figured it would hit a soft spot.” You smile and shrug.

“Hold on, the plot thickens,” Bahiiyih announces, eyes on her phone screen. “Do you guys remember that guy Nayeon had a crush on in freshman year?”

A chorus of confirmation causes her to grin, “I’m pretty sure it was this guy.”

You push yourself off your bed to peek over her shoulder at record speed, “No fucking way. How do you know?”

“I backread in the group chat, and she sent a picture of him, look!” She turns her phone for everyone to see, and from the slightly blurry and oddly angled photo that she obviously tried to take secretly, you can certainly see a resemblance, “Am I hallucinating, or is that him?”

“No that definitely looks like him,” Belle agrees, turning her head to face you with her jaw slack and a look, “He’s the one.”

“How are we gonna convince him to fake date you, though?” Jongseob asks, and you roll your eyes.

“Leave the planning to those qualified, Seob.”

You, all things considered, would call yourself a professional at annoying men. From years of experience before your brother moved out, you learned every which way to annoy him, and more importantly, boys in general. You are also smart enough to understand that his best friend, Jungkook, is your ticket to getting closer to the lacrosse team, aka Riki, even if you have to deal with Jake’s flirting and Heeseung’s annoyingly beautiful smile, you will get through it purely out of spite.

When you get to school extra early the day before the semester is set to start, parking your car and turning your sights to where you knew he took the team to practice in the mornings, and where you knew he would be even if he and your parents got back from New York just last night. “A hoe never gets cold.” You mumble the chant to yourself over and over as you turn off your car’s engine and the warm air stops blowing.

You curse rather loudly when you open your door and are met with a frigid breeze that makes your body clench to preserve its warmth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

With your school bag on your shoulder and a thick white puffy jacket lined with fleece that keeps your torso warm, you speed walk toward the field, which the student parking lot happens to be in relative close proximity to.

The sight of you approaching is enough to stop a good half of the players in their laps around the field, a typical start to Jungkook’s diabolical training regimen. The distraction you pose catches the man of the hour’s attention, and when he turns to face the source, he seems shockingly displeased. With a barked order to keep running thrown at the stopped players, he turns to you again and asks, “What are you doing here?”

Your lips part in dramatic offense, “You seem unhappy to see me and I don’t appreciate it.”

Rolling his eyes and pulling two hotpacks from his bag on the ground and handing them to you, he repeats, “What are you doing at school so early?”

Shrugging, you shove your hands into your jacket pockets and glance at the team, catching the eye of Sunoo and winking as he passes by. “I’m bored and single. What better way to spend my time than watching lacrosse players train in frozen hell?”

Jungkook’s face tells you he’s far less than impressed, and he seems at a loss for words. You decide to let him in on your plan, not seeing any harm in doing so.

“Okay, I’m trying to ruin Eunseok's day, every day, by reminding him I have a hotter, taller, and more athletically skilled boyfriend than he ever was or could be,” You start, “And I’m calling in a favor.”

“What favor? You don’t do shit—“

“Okay then, tell me more about him or I’ll tell my brother about what really happened to his Audi last Christmas.” The Audi in question had a large scuff on the back bumper that Jungkook had paid you three hundred dollars to take the blame for, which while your brother was upset, you knew he’d be far angrier if he knew the truth. Jungkook knew that too.

If the cold wasn’t already doing the job, you would say he lost all color in his face. A sweet smile forms on your lips, and you take the moment of his speechless horror to take another glance at the team.

When you meet the eyes of the familiar boy in a dark red hoodie with the number 10 on it you feel your face warm up involuntarily. Instinctively, you swallow the nervous lump in your throat, something that’s never happened to you, and quickly turn back to the coach (not before catching sight of the slight tug at the corner of #10’s plump lips). “So?”

Jungkook sighs, “Which one?”

“Number 10.”

Immediately, the man shakes his head, “Nuh-uh.” At the raise of one of your eyebrows, he quickly explains, “He’s one of my best players, I don’t need him being distracted by my best friend’s kid sister.”

You roll your eyes, “If you have a better option for me, then please, do share.”

“What about Jungwon?”

“Tight ass,” You say barely a breath later, eyes watching said player jog past, lingering on his backside as he moves away, “In more ways than one.”

“Okay, stop.” Jungkook says, disgust on his face, “What about Taehyun.”

“He’s Dr. Evil and Jungwon is his mini-me, they’re both so strict they’d never agree.”

He makes a face, point heard, before suggesting one last player in a last-ditch effort, “Jak—”

“If the name Jake Sim leaves your mouth I’m setting your Mercedes on fire.”

His mouth shuts automatically, and he sighs.

“So, tell me about him.”

“Why don’t you go ask?”

You give him a look that read, don’t be fucking stupid.

“Ugh, fine. What do you wanna know?” Jungkook caves, blowing the whistle around his neck, signaling the team to start the next warmup, pushups.

“What’s his favorite color?” You ask, obviously pulling his leg considering the grin on your face.

“Nishimura!” He immediately calls, and number 10 looks up from his position on the ground. You don’t look longer than a moment, your spine straightening up automatically when his eyes meet yours once again, “What’s your favorite color?”

You don’t look, but you can bet money that he probably looks confused considering your brother’s best friend tells him to ‘just answer the damn question’, and then you hear his voice.

“Black.”

Fuck, this is bad. The little shit in you wants to say that black isn’t technically a color, that it’s the absence of such, but the thought of looking at him and saying something like that makes your palms go clammy and your heart beat out of your chest. His voice is deep, and with the exertion in it from the warmup, you think you might just have to throw yourself into an active volcano.

“Mine is green, coach!”

“I didn’t ask, Huening.” Your lips flatten, your hand flying to cover your mouth as you try not to giggle. Instinctively, you look at Kai, whose ears have gone red in embarrassment, and you take pity.

“I like green too, Kai.” You say loudly for him to hear, and his head perks up to look at you.

“I like blue!” Jake pipes in, all too eager to include himself.

“Nobody asked, Jake.” Jay grunts, on his hundredth push-up and losing patience.

Jungkook blows the whistle again, “Burpees.”

“You’re a monster.” You muse, watching the team lose all faith in a heavenly being as they do what he says. Every jump grants you the sight of rock-hard abs, so you're not really complaining.

“Stop ogling the team, it’s gross.” Jungkook hisses, “What else do you want to know?”

“Girlfriend?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Type?”

He makes a face, “I don’t know. He’s a teenager, probably anything that breathes in his direction.”

“Age?”

“Turned 18 in December, the team threw him a pizza party.”

“Beginning or end of December?” You ask quizzically.

Rolling his eyes, Jungkook huffs, “Why does it matter?”

“I need to know if I’m dealing with a Sagittarius or a Capricorn. Please, please, tell me he isn’t a Capricorn.”

“Jesus Christ…” Thinking about it, Jungkook answers, “I think it was in the first week?”

A sigh of relief leaves you, “Thank god. I cannot stand an earth sign.”

“I’m an earth sign.”

“And it took me ages to forgive you for that.”

“Okay, go away.” Jungkook shakes his head, obviously annoyed and desperate to get rid of you.

“But I’m not—“

“Nishimura.” Dread fills you, and before you can stop him from opening his mouth again, number 10 stands up.

“Yeah, Coach?”

“Walk this one to her car.”

Confusion is etched on his pretty face, but he nods, jogging over as you curse at Jungkook quietly enough for him and the lord to hear but not the approaching lacrosse player.

When he stands just a few feet away, waiting for you to start walking with him, you turn to face him and feel a jolt in your stomach. He’s tall.

You already knew this but seeing it with your eyes is a different experience than seeing photos of it. Get a grip, bitch.

Offering him a condescending smile, a defense mechanism to keep yourself from humiliating yourself by showing how affected you are, you shoot your brother’s friend the finger and begin to make your way off the field.

You pass Riki, not even sparing him a look as you do so, but listening to make sure he’s following. With his much longer legs, it isn’t long before he’s walking just slightly behind you, not at your side but close enough for you to sense his presence. When you make it to your car in what felt like awkward silence to you but was probably nothing to him, you heave a sigh of relief when she unlocks and you open the door.

Not sitting yourself inside yet, despite the cold and the fact your body hurts from it, you turn to face him.

“This yours?” He asks. God, that voice again.

You hum in confirmation, “Her name is Manon.”

“Nice name.” He compliments, and you tilt your head, looking between his eyes and glancing down to his mouth every so often. He swallows almost unnoticeably, “What’s yours?”

Resisting the urge to ask if he truly didn’t know, you conclude that would sound far too conceited, and tell him your name.

He tries it out, and you can see the tip of his tongue flick across his teeth before he says, “I’m Riki.”

“I know.” You say shamelessly, “You can go back to practice, now.”

If you didn’t know any better, you would think the slight smirk that tugs at his lips is of annoyance, but with the way his eyes look down your face every other second, you know exactly what you’re doing. He blinks, turning his body slightly to walk away, “Yeah.”

You wait until his back is to you to slide into your driver’s seat, quickly pulling your phone out to text the group chat.

bitchqueen: guys this is bad

bitchqueen: he’s HOT

bitchqueen: i can’t do this

Glancing back up to see if Riki left, you sigh in relief when he’s nowhere to be found. You look back down when your phone dings. bellenotdelphine: eunseok bought nayeon a van cleef bracelet

bitchqueen: okay bitches im back

myrootcame2005: ur resolve inspires generations

Going back to school wasn’t so bad, or at least it isn’t as bad you thought it would be. You were the only licensed driver in your friend group, and as such you expected to have a full car every morning, picking up Belle first as she lived down the street, and then Jongseob and Eunchae, who grew up neighbors in a neighborhood you pass on the way to school. Bahiyyih usually gets a ride with her brother, though she does complain his truck still smells like the musky car freshener he spilled back when he got it.

After parking and putting on your shoes that you’d taken off because you hate driving with them on, you had Belle hand you your backpack from at her feet and the four of you exited the car into the frigid weather. “Jesus fuck, why is it so cold?”

Belle huddled by you as you sped walked to the school doors, where you finally took notice of the stares directed your way. Ignoring the staring was the easy part, having a freshman walk up to you and ask, “Hey, is it true you destroyed your boyfriend’s car with a crowbar?” was hard to avoid.

Belle seems ready to tell them to fuck off but you smile sweetly, “It was a fire poker, actually, and destroyed is a strong word. Also, who the fuck are you?”

You got in enough trouble with your parents when they found out, these people could at least get the facts right. When the 14 year old boy opens his mouth to answer, you make a face, “I don’t actually care.”

Ignoring that encounter, you would say it was a relatively normal day. AP classes already gave you packets and mounds of homework, but with the semester classes you took last year you only had 5 periods of the day before being allowed to go home, perks of being a senior, you guess. The fact almost every class you had was an AP class was a definite downside, though.

The only AP class you didn’t have happened to be Medical Microbiology, which you had dreaded to take but it was the same teacher you had last semester for A&P who loved you enough to exempt you from the final without you having to submit the form like everyone else, and luck was on your side it seemed because while you were seething to find that Nayeon was in your 5th period class, the sight of the seating chart and the name labeled next to yours made you decide to postpone ingesting whatever deadly chemical Mrs. Wilson had in her locked cabinet.

Nishimura, Riki

The short curly-haired woman seemed overjoyed to see you, of course, and like clockwork you handed her a small pink box containing her favored cookie from the shop down the road, earning yourself a nice sidehug.

You know a way to a teacher's heart, which had made your high school experience better than most could imagine, though Mrs. Brooks from Pre-AP English freshman year was a cunt and you gave up on making her like you within the first month. Sitting down at your seat, which happened to be somewhat close to her desk, you were looking down at the packet she’d left stacked on the table by the door for students to take from as they came in when you felt a tap on your shoulder.

Growing up with a brother gave you a good understanding of how boys worked, and when you saw no one in your periphery, you looked to the opposite side, seeing the familiar lacrosse player. You dread small talk, though when the late bell rings as he sits down, you thank the heavens you don’t have to.

Moving your hair off your shoulder, you took a pink mechanical pencil from your matching pencil case as Mrs. Wilson started speaking.

“Hey.” He leans ever so closer, whispering to get your attention, “Can I borrow a pencil?”

The raised eyebrow you send his way makes his raise his own, and you roll your eyes, grabbing one of the orange ones you never used and handing it to him, when you notice his look between the two pencils, you say, “Can’t risk you taking one of my good ones.”

He rolls his eyes this time, but starts writing his name with it anyway. At first, he uses his right hand, but ten minutes into the lecture about the staining process, he switches hands.

It isn’t annoying until he starts intentionally brushing your elbow with his own, and you know it’s intentional because when the word you’re writing comes out jagged and you look at him, he has a smug look on his face while avoiding meeting your eyes, snickering softly when you erase the word you deemed too ugly to continue writing. You turn in your seat, facing away from him and rotating your paper with you as you cross one leg over the other, it was easier writing this way anyway.

With your new angle, you can see Nayeon glancing over every now and then in the corner of your eye.

Now, to say your reputation wasn’t ruined but in fact reinforced by everyone finding out about what you did to Eunseok’s car, was a factual statement. You didn’t like the term ‘anger management issues’ which is what the therapist your mother made you see last year used to describe your behavior.

In your humble opinion, Jaclyn Delvacchio deserved the bruise you left on her brow bone and is honestly lucky you didn’t get a good enough hit in before the history teacher pulled you off of her, maybe she should’ve kept her mouth shut about Eunchae’s braces.

Then, there was Kaley Graham in your freshman year, a sophomore who told you to stay away from your then-situationship, Eunseok, to which you responded to her threats by grabbing her head and slamming her face into the window of an active classroom. You thought the photos of her face smashed against it were funny, the school and your suddenly-present father did not.

So really, you’re already labeled a crazy bitch, violent, ‘untameable’(as you'd heard uttered by boys you wouldn't touch with a twenty foot pole). You might as well act like it.

When the bell rings 45 minutes later, you breathe a sigh of relief, finally time to go home.

You don’t notice he’s waiting for you until you’ve gathered your things and taken your keys out. He leans against his desk, waiting for you with observant eyes that land on the key-fob in your hand before moving up to your eyes. “Free period?”

You nod, “as are the next two.”

He whistles low as the both of you walk out, “I didn’t get any free periods, you’re lucky.”

“Lacrosse?” You ask, and he nods with a small grimace.

“And I failed Chem last year, so I’ve got to take it again.” He sighs, “I’m not great with all the math.”

“AP?” You ask innocently, and he snorts.

“God no. Regular.” He states, raising a brow as he adds, “Did you take AP?”

You hum, nodding, “Yeah.”

“So, if I come to you with a radiation equation, would you help me?” He asks in a way that almost feels teasing.

“It’s called a nuclear equation, and I suppose I could be persuaded.” You stop in front of the double doors at the front of the school, and from how others are rushing through the halls you assume the bell is going to ring soon.

“Could I try to persuade you after lacrosse practice? I’m gonna be late for Chem.” He says, though his tone is anything but worried, just like the smirk on his face.

“There’s a cafe next to the nail salon down the road, I might be there when lacrosse practice is over.” You hint, before turning to leave without another word.

After texting the group chat about the plan to meet up with Riki after his practice ends, you felt good. Flirting came easy, especially when you wanted something, which obviously was the case with him, but you weren’t oblivious to the fact he was flirting back.

hueningbarbie: damn u act fast

bitchqueen: i'm just a girl who knows what she wants and gets it ;)

hongchae: do you think he’ll agree?

bitchqueen: if he doesnt i think jake is my only other option

bitchqueen: killing myself means i let them win

bellenotdelphine: jake is NEVER the only option

bellenotdelphine: hang in there queen

You sit in a worn out booth facing the big wall of windows lining the front of the hole-in-the-wall cafe. Part of you regrets choosing it considering Gloria, the old lady who always takes your order and brings you your food, seemed all too excited when you said you were waiting for a boy that wasn’t Eunseok.

You try not to look up every time you see a car pull into the strip center of cafes and food joints, only glancing when you see a black Jeep pull into the parking spot next to your car, quickly acting like you weren’t looking when the familiar lacrosse player hopped out of it with wet hair and the same sweatshirt with his jersey number and name on it.

It isn’t until he slides into the booth across from yours that you look up from the menu you weren’t even reading, “How was practice?”

He sighs, leaning back into the booth and you feel his shoe brush yours, “Coach had me on offense,” he says, rubbing his side with a wince.

“Want some tiger balm?” You ask nonchalantly, reaching into your purse to pull out the small container of it you keep to help with the pain you get from looking down and taking notes, not to mention scrolling through social media, too.

He takes it with a whispered please, and you try not to watch as he moves his hand under his shirt to rub it in. Bahiyyih was right.

“Any drinks, mija?” Gloria appears beside your booth with a knowing look on her face as she looks between you two, “and you?”

“Dr Pepper, please.” You order with a smile, and she affectionately rubs your arm with a nod before looking at Riki, who repeats you.

When Gloria walks away to get the drinks, Riki seems curious, “I come here a lot.”

Nodding, he says, “I figured. What’s good, here?”

“Oh, everything is good. Do you recognize anything on the menu?” When he shakes his head, you try not to act offended, and say, “The enchiladas are really good, but if you’re picky I would get the tacos.”

“Mm, I’ll get an enchi-“ he struggles to mimic your pronunciation of the word, and you laugh quietly.

“Enchiladas?” You ask with a cheeky smile, and he scrunches his face up in shame, “It’s okay, it’s hard to say.”

“You’re good at it.” He states, not an opinion, a fact.

“I am.” You agree, and the smile on his face is enough to send your heart into your throat. Get. A. Grip. “Like I said, I come here a lot.”

“So, what do I have to do to persuade you to help me pass Chem?” He asks after Gloria sets down your drinks and takes your orders(sending you a hidden wink as she turns to walk into the kitchen), and you realize now's the time to bring up your plan.

“So, I actually have a proposition for you.” You admit, and he leans forward a little, curious to hear it. When you say it, albeit a slow and awkward version of what you intended to say as the nerves got the better of you because of that damn look in his eyes, you swear you almost see his face drop a little.

“So you want to…fake date? To make your ex jealous.” He sounds unsure, and you quickly shake your head.

“Not jealous, I kinda just want to ruin his day...everyday.” You state, “I’m the crazy bitch, you’re the hot athlete. Match made in heaven, right?”

He seems to take the ‘hot’ comment well, crossing his arms and tilting his head, “So, what are the rules? If we’re dating, do we have to go all out or just spread the word?”

“Spreading the word only works for so long,” you say, pleased by his question, “Kissing is a bit much, especially since it’s only been a few weeks since I dumped him. If we move too fast everyone will think you’re my rebound. We should take it slow.”

“So…” he thinks for a second, “Holding hands?”

You hum in agreement, “Get me flowers, too.”

“What’s your favorite kind?” The question shouldn’t throw you off, but it hits you rather suddenly that you’d never been asked that by a guy, especially not Eunseok.

“Lilies.” You say, “And baby’s breath.”

He nods, taking a mental note of that just as Gloria comes out with your food. The enchiladas were a win, he devoured them like he hadn’t eaten for years, though there was a pause in the process when he insisted on trying the salsa you had poured generously over your own food, which was far too spicy for him, to your delight.

You exchanged numbers outside of the restaurant after paying(he had picked up the bill before you could grab it), and as you were putting a name to his number, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

Laughing at the look on your face, he subtly motions behind you, and when you glance back you find about five girls no older than 16 piled into a Corolla and staring, but snapping their eyes away and hiding when you meet their gazes.

Turning back to him, you swallow the sudden lump in your throat when you see he’s already looking at you.

“Good catch.” You cough, ignoring the smug smirk growing in his face, “I’ll text you.”

“Okay.” He says, waiting for you to move away before he does, and you find yourself sucking in a deep breath and turning to get into your car.

“So he agreed?” Belle asks from the passenger seat of your car, “I told you, teenage boys are easy.”

You pull into your parking spot in the school lot, pulling down the ugly parking pass they make you hang from the rearview mirror that you always tuck back up when you leave because it's an eyesore, “We tried to work out the technicalities last night but I fell asleep on the phone.”

Eunchae gasps as if scandalized, “You fell asleep on the phone with him? That’s so cute.”

You groan, “I know, it’s embarrassing!” Getting out of your car, you try to withhold a groan when you immediately spot Jake practically skipping over, a cheeky grin on his face. Shit.

You don’t hide your displeasure when he calls your name, shooting a giggling Belle the finger before turning to give him attention you know you’d regret, “You and Niki?”

“Is that any of your business?”

He starts giggling, the grin on his face widening as he starts hopping around like an excited puppy, “No way! You gotta tell me how he fi—“

“Jake!” A girl from the cheer squad calls his name from across the courtyard, and he whirls around to wave with a flirty smile.

By the time he turns back to you, you’re already walking away with the girls. “We’re talking about it in 2nd!”

“No we’re not!” You call back, waving your hand dismissively. Eunchae snorts, hooking her arm with yours as the three of you walk through the entrance. Jongseob had come in early with his other friend group for club prep, so his presence is sorely missed.

“Do you think he’ll get you flowers?” The junior on your arm asks, and you shrug.

“I mean, maybe.” Your answer makes Belle roll her eyes.

“Manifest it, or…” She stops in front of your 1st class of the day, ready to drop you off, and a grin overtakes her face, “Bitch.”

You step closer to see when she sees, and at your assigned seat is a bouquet of the same flowers you told Riki you liked, pink and white lilies with baby's breath sprinkled in. Habitually, you bite your lip to withhold the smile, sliding your arm out from Eunchae’s and walking in.

The girl who sits next to you, Hikaru, has an almost fox-like grin on her face as she sees you finally arrive. She says a few things that you hum in response to as you pluck the tiny folded card from between the blossoms, opening it and allowing Belle and Eunchae to peek over your shoulder to read it with you. “Shut up!” Belle practically squeals.

For: Pretty

“God.” You sigh, closing the note and grabbing the bouquet from Eunchae who had picked it up to smell them, “I wonder where he got these.”

“I don’t know but they look expensive.” Belle muses with a grin and you hum in agreement with a smile.

A text tone dings from your phone, a familiar one that makes you groan. When you look at your screen your jaw clenches and shifts.

spermdonor: lunch? we need to catch up.

You suspect your mom told him about how you get off early now, cursing the woman mentally as you send back a simple thumbs up to her ex-husband.

Between 1st and 2nd period, you had put the bouquet in your car to avoid walking around with it, and you’re so very thankful you did with the annoying grin on Jake’s face as you sat across from him in College Algebra.

“You and Niki.” He repeats with a cheeky raise of his brows, his grin unaffected by the look of utter distaste on your face at his presence.

“What about Riki and me?” You ask monotonously, clearly unimpressed with the prompt.

“You guys datin’?” He asks cheekily, clearly already aware that you went on a ‘date’, but wanting to hear it from you.

“If I say we went on a singular date will you leave me alone?” You ask with a sigh, using your knuckle to massage your temple.

Jake shakes his head with a shit-eating grin, “Not a chance.”

You groan softly as the bell rings, and the sigh of relief is quickly smothered with your hopes of escaping this period without having to answer a question as a familiar substitute walks in, Mr. Morrell, a nice old man who usually just lets everyone do their own thing. He’s your mortal enemy now, you’ve decided.

The moment he announces those wretched words, ‘free day’, your fate is sealed.

Jake is snickering like a freak, leaning over his desk as if you aren’t just a few feet away from him, “You and Riki.” He giggles, and you look at him as if he’s possessed and it disgusts you.

“Please, leave me alone.” You say with a bit more emotion than your last few words.

Jake is too busy giggling like a little girl to listen or even hear what you said, nearly cutting you off as he asks, “Where was your first date?”

“The Mexican place next to the nail salon down the street.” You answer monotonously, just wanting to get it over with at this point.

“Did he pay? He paid.” Jake asks then nods to himself as he says the last statement.

“Yes, he paid.”

“Ooo, did he kiss you? Nah, Niki’s way too pussy to do that—“

You cut him off with an invisible twitch of your brow, “He gave me a solid kiss on the cheek.”

It’s as if you’ve broken the already clearly leaking dam of pure giddy delight. He’s practically squealing with a breathy and high-pitched ‘naur way~’, whipping out his phone you assume to text their group chat. He’s bouncing in his seat, and you make a face as you pull your desk an inch away from his desk to stop feeling the movements.

You open your coloring book you bring with you to classes when you have no other work, you have other work but you’d rather not do that while Jake giggles and grills you.

The rest of the period is filled with him asking questions you either answer shortly or choose to not answer at all. (“Do you think he’s the one?”)

You of course could not see was that across the campus Riki was hiding his phone in his lap wanting to sink into a hole and die as Jake spams the team group chat like a live tweet of his, though strongly condemned by him, weirdly thorough interview like your barely started kind-of-relationship is his favorite sitcom.

“Thank you, lord.” you sigh as the bell rings, freeing you of your torment as you grab your gathered and organized bag to pull over your shoulder and hasten out of the classroom before Jake can get you. (Yes, like a boogeyman.)

It seems you can’t catch a break as you find out Park Sunghoon is in your 4th period. Park Sunghoon, jersey number 23, goalkeeper of the Decelis Demons. Also, you’ve decided, another mortal enemy.

You don’t even know how you hadn’t noticed him all semester or the semester prior, given how awkwardly talkative he is. Sitting beside you with a cute but unsettling smile, holding out his hand like he was meeting a celebrity, which you weren’t exactly complaining about but the smile was weird. He was almost just as bad as Jake, if not worse simply because he freaked you out a bit. Seriously, why is someone so beautiful so fucking weird. His moles look like constellations but something about his vibes unsettle you.

It isn’t like you don’t have weird friends, you’ve watched Jongseob stuff fifty chile-coated gushers into his mouth purely because Eunchae told him he couldn’t. Weird usually isn’t the issue, except it is in this scenario.

Escaping him and getting to go to your teacher’s aid period was like a shining of heaven’s pure light on you. You find yourself grading papers in the back of the classroom while your freshman-year Latin teacher plays Hercules in New York on the projector, a purple glitter pen in your hand as you go through the stack of exams.

“Hey,” one of the freshmen a cluster of desks away calls to you in a semi-hushed voice, halting the movement of your glitter pen and directing your attention to them, “your boyfriend’s waiting at the door.”

‘I don’t have a boyfriend’, parts your lips before you suddenly remember that Riki exists and halt before it can leave them. Looking to the closed door of the classroom, you find the boy in question peering through the small window in the door, and raise an inquisitive brow.

He only waves at you, a clear signal he wants you to come out and talk to him, part of you wonders why he knew where you were but memories of the phone call the night you both agreed on the whole ‘fake dating’ thing, exchanging school schedules and discussing preferences, come back to you and you nod lightly.

Mrs. B looks up from her laptop as you cap the glitter pen, “Don’t be gone too long.”

Shooting her a smile and a small ‘yes ma’am, thank you’, you get up from the desk and shoot the snickering freshmen a weak glare as you walk to the door, opening it just enough to side step out of the room and shut it behind you.

“Hey.” is the first thing he says, his voice is deep despite its softness, mindful of the other classes going on in the language hall as well as the other teens clearly trying to get a good look at him as the door closes behind you.

You say it back just as softly, “Hey.”

He smiles just a bit, a boyish quirk of his lips that has your heart picking up, get a fucking grip, bitch. “I’m sorry about Jake and Sunghoon.”

The mention of them has you pressing your lips together with a nearly-sympathetic smile, “It’s okay.”

“No, they’re…a lot.” He chuckles softly, though his words are still genuine, “I don’t want you to get scared away.”

Something in your heart flutters, “Don’t worry about it.” You say with a soft laugh that has his eyes darting to your smile. “Sunghoon was…weird, but I already knew that Jake’s a pest, so…”

He laughs at your words, head shaking slightly, “Still, I’m sorry about them.”

“It’s fine, really.” You say with a shake of your head. A student exits the Spanish class down the hall, pausing at the sight of you and Riki before walking in the direction of the bathrooms.

Riki spares them little more than a brief glance over at the sound of the door shutting behind them before his gaze is back on you. God, why is he looking at me like that, you think just before he speaks again, “Do you bowl?”

The question catches you off guard, and you tilt your head and ask, “Like do I know how or do I do it often?”

“Both.”

“Kinda and no.” You answer, “Why?”

He brings a hand up to rub the back of his head, your eyes darting to the way the sleeves of his t-shirt stretch to accommodate the movements of his arm and a few veins are visible up his arm, “Some of the guys and I were going this weekend, I…figured I’d ask.”

His words are finished with a bit of hesitance that you have little time to linger on as you question with a slight laugh, “Did they ask you to bring me?”

You see a slight pink tinge to the tips of his ears as his elbow drops yet his hand lingers on his trapezius, creating yet another visual that has you wanting to repeatedly slam your forehead into the wall beside you. He shakes his head slightly, “No, I, uh, wanted to bring you.”

The words are said with a soft laugh like he’s a bit embarrassed with himself, and you find your teeth catching your bottom lip to hold in the despicable grin that you know should not be growing on your face right now. You just broke up with your long-term boyfriend, wake up.

If Riki’s eyes dart to your lips, you don’t see it as you glance to the door of your class. “Then…yeah. I’ll come.”

Your answer has his lips forming a pretty grin that he quickly covers up with a bite of his bottom lip and a nod, taking a step back as he prepares to leave, “Cool. I can pick you up, yeah?”

Yeah, you can. You nod, “Just text me.”

“Yeah, I’ll text you.” He finishes with another nod, and you giggle softly at his repetition. His eyes soften at the sound, another thing you don’t notice as you see the student returning from the bathrooms, glancing your way every so often as they approach the closed Spanish class door.

Riki sees them too, and as they look over again, he leans down to press his lips to your cheek in a quick but sweet kiss, “See you next period.”

He shoots you a swift wink as he backs up again, and you put it together that he kissed you because of the third party in the hall. You exhale a soft response as he turns to jog off, clearly not meant to be gone from class as long as he has been, “Yeah.”

As soon as he turns the corner and you’re alone in the hall, you close your eyes for a long blink to bring yourself back to Earth. A soft curse leaves your lips as you turn back to the door to re-enter the Latin class, heart racing and hands slightly clammy.

Clammy.

The fact that a boy is making you feel so damn juvenile with the way you can’t help but react to his words and face and voice and eyes—

The walk to 5th period fills you with a sense of dread before you remember who else is in that class. Mrs. Wilson greets you happily as she sets up the activity for the day on the projector, which alerts you to the fact someone is standing by your seat who doesn’t belong there.

Riki has a look of confusion on his face as he looks up at Nayeon, clearly a bit confused by whatever is leaving her lips. The teacher’s greeting alerts the both of them to your presence in the doorway, where you paused at the sight of her. The corners of Riki’s lips quirk up at the sight of you, but Nayeon looks like she’s about to puke.

You don’t even speak. Something about the sight of pure panic in her eyes gives you a boost of serotonin but the fact that she’s standing in front of your ‘boyfriend's desk, speaking to him. Oh, you’re pissed.

Yes, you are aware he isn’t actually your boyfriend and the two of you hadn’t even discussed publicly referring to each other as such, but the principle still stands. You want to punch her face.

Unfortunately, Mrs Wilson would be quite upset if you slammed Nayeon’s head into the whiteboard, and you like your teacher too much to debate starting a fight in her class.

Your eyes follow Nayeon’s every move as she hastily removes her hands from where they were on his desk, avoiding your burning stare as she moves to her own seat.

Walking to your desk, you smile at Riki as if what just happened has zero effect on you despite the burning fury in your gut, and sit down beside him. “Hey.”

Your soft greeting has him saying it in kind, shifting in his seat to lean back and see you better, “You know her?”

His question has you tilting your head in a faux innocence, “Mhm. Why?”

Riki has a slight knowing look on his face as he watches your reactions, “She had a lot to say about you.”

“What did she say?” You ask as if it’s a simple question, like you aren’t dying to know and anxiety isn’t clawing at your chest making it harder and harder to make your hands not shake.

He shrugs with a purse of his lips, a slightly cheeky smile forms on his face as he asks, “You jealous?”

A scoff leaves your lips and your eyes roll before you can even think to hold the sass back, “Jealousy implies she’s better than me in some way.” You say with a defiant cross of your arms, “and she is not.”

“Then why’d you glare so hard?” He asks, clearly amused by both your words and body language.

You think, why did I not tell him about Nayeon?

The answer? Eunseok and Nayeon’s little affair had more of an effect on you than you would like to admit. Anxiety claws at you everytime you even imagine Nayeon interacting with Riki, and the fact that you just walked in on her saying something to him that your pride won’t allow you to ask him about just makes it all so much worse for you.

The truth is that the irrational part of your brain, the one that often wins the battles against its more logical other half, made the thought of Riki knowing you were betrayed by your best friend all the more sickening to imagine. It’s embarrassing. Humiliating.

“I wasn’t glaring.” You argue, and Riki raises his brows as if to say ‘really?’ before he huffs softly in amusement and the bell rings.

“Yeah, you were.” He says with a lingering curiosity in his gaze before he looks to the board as Mrs Wilson starts class. Your first instinct is to argue, to be stubborn like you always are, but the lingering anxiety in your chest makes you want to never speak again just to find some kind of peace.

The entire time you take notes you aren’t truly absorbing any information, your brain is stuck on every possible thing that Nayeon could have said to him and how you’re gonna find out without directly asking either of them if possible.

You feel sick and he’s not even your real boyfriend.

Oh, fuck.

Between realizing you want Riki and remembering that you have to go to lunch with your father, you simply didn’t have enough time to achieve as much mental preparation as you’d like before lunch. The Italian restaurant you find yourself sitting inside with a menu in your manicured hands is a relatively ‘fancy’ establishment, at least if the $35 fettuccini alfredo was anything to go by.

Your dad is the one paying, so you aren’t all that mad about the prices considering the look in his eyes is enough to ruin your enjoyment of the basket of breadsticks between the two of you. If you thought it would make a dent in his bank account you’d order another plate of mozzarella sticks just to spend his money, but the satisfaction just wouldn’t be there.

Punching his face might feel better.

“Am I gonna have to put you in anger management again?” His anger is hushed and composed, but the shift in his jaw and the patronizing look of disappointment on his face belied his composure. Always being hyper-aware of how people view him is one of the things you hate about your dad. His attitude takes a higher spot on the ‘Why You Hate Your Dad’ pyramid, though.

“You can’t ‘put me’ anywhere.” You bite back as you dip the breadstick in your hand into the small bowl of marinara, “Eunseok deserved it.”

“You don’t get to decide what people deserve.” He argues, still so patronizing.

The feeling of being talked down to is one you're all too familiar with when it comes to your father. The man can’t accept his own faults, one of which being how shit of a father he was and is. You roll your eyes as you take a bite of your breadstick, half-drowning his words out with your own and the other half remembering every single thing coming from his lips to throw back in his face next time he cries about how you never reach out to him.

“Eunseok is a smart and successful, young man. And you throw it all away for—“

Ah, you almost forgot how much more your father likes your ex than you. Offering him internships, a place at his firm when he graduates, none of which he’d ever even mentioned to you. You wouldn’t ever work for or with your father, but the fact he had never spoken a word about any chances to help you gain experience like he did your ex was as infuriating as it was unsurprising.

“I didn’t throw shit away.” You snap, “He cheated on me, you keep skimming over that detail, father.”

“I’m not skimming over it, it’s irrelavent.” He exhales, trying to calm his slightly raised voice, “And you know I hate it when you call me that..”

“Irrelevant? Oh, I’m sorry, should I have stayed with a boyfriend that sleeps with my best friend?” You scoff, sipping your Dr Pepper, “And if you wanted me to call you dad, you should've acted like one.”

“Hey.” He warns, yet you only roll your eyes. “Reaching out goes both ways—“

“I know you did not just say that to me.”

“—and I am your father, so you speak to me with respect.” He finishes, voice raising slightly in frustration before he settles it back to a more composed volume.

“No.” You shake your head, “That’s not how shit works.”

“Yes,” He bites back sternly, “If you want me to keep funding your life you’ll—“

Normally, you let your father say whatever it is he wants to say, tell him you really don’t care what he thinks and then for about a month he doesn’t text you. Then it’s ‘I want to improve our relationship’ and ‘I feel like you’re drifting away’. Today was not a normal day, however.

“Then cut me off.” You say with a shrug, “You can’t hold that shit over my head like I ask for the money you send, which you only send because you know you’re a shit father and you feel guilty.”

He doesn't respond, his jaw shifting, so you continue.

“And considering the fact that you are a cheater yourself, why the fuck would I listen to a word you say when it comes to my own love life?” You ask, not really caring that you aren’t exactly speaking quietly, “Eunseok deserved a fire poker to the face, and I used it on his car instead. Which is what Mom should have done when she found you with the nanny.”

“Quiet down, you’re making a scene.” He hisses, and you tilt your head and look around as if you give a single fuck. “I already took care of Eunseok’s car, which will be taken out of your allowance—“

Your eyes narrow at his words, “You paid to repair his car?”

Your father doesn’t skip a beat as he continues, “—Yes, I did. And you don’t get to throw the biggest mistake I’ve ever made back in my face—“

“Yes, I do.”

“—No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.” You argue back stubbornly, continuing before he can speak over you again, “And you paid for Eunseok’s car, the same boy who fucked one of my best friends for months while actively dating me and you don’t see a single problem with that?”

“His parents were discussing pressing charges—“

“That’s when you tell them to go fuck themselves.”

He sighs at your words, clearly sick of your temper (which you inherited from him), “You need to start handling your emotions better, you’re graduating this year.”

“I have literally witnessed you throw a chair in anger, get someone else to say that to me.”

He seems ready to respond, when the waiter comes with the food, and you speak before he can, politely asking if you can get a to-go box for it instead. Your father doesn’t seem to have the guts to speak as the waiter glances between you both unsurely before nodding, “Of course.”

He takes the dish back and the moment he is out of ear-shot, your father says, “We aren’t done talking.”

“I am.” You shrug, clearly not willing or planning on sitting here any longer than you have to.

The waiter is back out with your to-go container wrapped in a bag that has mint-chocolates inside as well as a complimentary box of breadsticks that you’ll probably eat while crying your eyes out later. You ignore the stern orders from your father to sit back down, thanking the waiter with a polite smile and promptly walk out of the restaurant.

The tears of frustration start falling the moment you’re in the safety of your car, a soft curse leaving your lips as you put the bag of food in the passenger seat and pull out of the parking lot, turning ‘this is me trying’ by Taylor Swift all the up as you drive the highway back home. You ignore the texts from your father, as well as the calls.

You’re at the red light before turning into your neighborhood when Riki’s caller ID shows up on the screen of your console, and you debate even answering, but wipe your eyes and clear your throat as you press the green answer button, “Hello?”

Your voice is more stable than you expected it to be, and Riki responds in kind, “Hey, I just got out of practice—you okay?”

“M’fine, what’s up?” You say with an attempt at a sneaky sniffle, the thought of him knowing you’re crying is too humiliating. Part of you is disappointed he somehow could tell that something was up. The other part of you, the vulnerable and hurt teenage girl with daddy issues and a yearning to be listened to and understood, begs to just break down.

He doesn’t seem to buy it, you hear the sound of keys jingling and then a car door opening and shutting, then he’s speaking again, “You sure?”

The light turns green, and you finally turn into your neighborhood, “I’m fine.” It’s almost a snap, one you instantly regret as you quickly say, “Sorry, just—“

“It’s okay,” He assures, and you feel even more guilty, more tears threatening to fall as your bottom lip trembles again. You’re pulling into your driveway as he continues, “Wanna talk about it over lunch?”

“I just got lunch with my dad, actually,” You say with a soft, bitter laugh, voice wavering and a soft curse leaving your lips the moment it does, “Fuck, sorry, this is just weird.”

He seems a bit panicked by the way your voice only turns more tearfilled as you apologize, “Hey, don’t worry about it, seriously—“ There’s a sound like a knock on the other end, and you hear him whisper something like ‘go away’ before he’s continuing, “—sorry I teased you earlier today, I, uh, thought I made you mad so I was calling to make up for it.”

A soft sob leaves you as you laugh with it, “I’m not mad about that, but I did wanna talk about it,” You sniffle, “About Nayeon, I mean.”

“You don’t have to, I was just messing with you.” You can imagine him shaking his head slightly as he speaks, “She didn’t really say much, just asked if we were dating.”

“What’d you say?” You find yourself asking.

He hesitates before answering, “Yeah.”

It sends a weird hot jolt to your stomach and your worried lips turn into a girlish smile that you quickly wipe off your face, “That’s okay, y’know. I’m pretty sure my friends have been telling everyone you’re my boyfriend, so the whole ‘taking it slow’ shit is out the window.”

He chuckles on the other end and it flips your stomach like a fucking pancake, “Great, I’m not that type anyway.”

(There’s a feral voice in the back of your conscience that screeches like it’s a beast gnawing at the walls of its enclosure.)

Your teeth catch your bottom lip and your eyes shut like you’re trying to come back to Earth and not hang up out of pure flustered reflex. You force out a response, “Just means we have to make it more believably genuine.”

“What’s your plan, pretty girl?”

Oh, you want to bang your head into the steering wheel. “Do you mind coming over? I wanna discuss it in person but I just got home.”

You jaw slackens in shock at your own words, looking into the rear view and mouthing at yourself; Bitch, what the fuck—

“Yeah, sure. What’s the address?” His response is so natural and unperturbed the catastrophizing your brain has done in the last second slips away and you silently scream.

A second later you respond like normal, “I’ll text it to you.”

“Okay, I’m on my way, then.”

When the two of you hang up after a few more words, you realize what you have done and quickly turn off your car, grabbing the food and your purse and hastening into the open garage, struggling with the doorknob and pressing the garage door button before entering.

Your room isn’t messy, per say, but your duvet is covered in cat fur, and you don’t even know if Riki’s allergic to them or not. “Gus, can you move, please?” You ask your cat as you begin to pull the duvet off your bed but he remains unmoving on the end of your bed.

He blinks at you slowly, and you sigh.

After taking too much time carefully moving the duvet from under your cat and hurriedly tossing it into the laundry room while grabbing your spare to put on the bed instead, the doorbell rings.

With one(at least three) last look in the mirror to check your appearance, still in the outfit you changed into for lunch with your dad, you open the large iron front door.

“Hi.” You greet softly with a slight smile, and Riki has one himself that almost looks shy.

He bites his bottom lip and says back, “Hi.”

As you let him in, you look down at the door handle, waiting for him to step inside before shutting it behind him.

As his eyes move to assess his surroundings with slow steps, you catch up to him, grabbing his sleeve and pulling his hand from his pocket as you tug him along toward your room with unhurried steps. He lets you, though you hear the chuckle under his breath.

“That’s Gus. I hope you’re not allergic to cats.” is the first thing that leaves your mouth as you pull him into your cleaned room(though you’ll have to un-ass your closet later), and he gasped softly.

The voice that comes out next is higher in pitch and softer as he hesitantly approaches your loafing cat, who sniffs his fingers for a second or two before headbutting them. You witness Riki practically melt as he coos at the feline that happily receives his pets.

“Wanna guess his full name?” You jest, and he hums, looking over at you curiously but not halting his petting of Gus. “Gazpacho.”

Riki looks elated by the information, grinning so prettily you want to use the vintage lotus lamp on your nightstand to beat your head against, and he softly goes back to cooing, “Hi, Gazpacho.”

A giggle laugh leaves your lips that you quickly cover with your mouth and a quick avert of your gaze, eyes landing on the whiteboard against your wall. The fucking whiteboard.

“Oh, fuck.” leaves your lips before you can stop yourself but you’re already moving to grab the object of your doom, “Don’t look, close your eyes.”

Your demands are met with pure boyish defiance, and his eyes follow your movement to your closet door, opening it just enough to toss the whiteboard inside and quickly shutting it. “You saw nothing.”

He slowly pulls away from Gus with a growing suspicious smirk, “I’m scared to ask.”

“It’s just a whiteboard, nothing of consequence written on it, or anything.” You say with a purse of your lips.

“A whiteboard?” He questions with a tilt of his head.

You nod, moving away from your shut closet door and taking the opportunity to change the subject, “My stepdad’s a physicist.”

“Ooh, that’s cool.” He says with a thumbs up, taking the moment to move his eyes around the room as he had been distracted by the cat, “This is a nice house.”

“Thank you,” You respond softly out of instinct, “My mom’s a big lawyer too, so….”

“Ah, right, I think Jake mentioned that once.” He nods, sitting in the bean bag(you’ll have to break the news to Eunchae later).

You hum, sitting on the edge of your bed beside Gus and petting him, “What do your parents do?”

He has a slightly shy grin on his face as he says, “They own a pretty big dance studio.”

“That’s super cool.” You compliment with a tilt of your head, “Do you dance?”

If you could audibly coo at the redness blooming on the tips of his ears as he nods slightly you would, but you settle with a giggle that has him squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment, “I do, yeah.”

“I did ballroom for like, ten years.”

It’s as if you’ve revealed a hidden treasure, and he asks, “Do you still know how?”

You immediately hold up a defiant hand, “I am not showing you, and it’s been years.”

He whines, hands moving to clasp pleadingly, “Aww, c’mon, I’ll take you to my family’s studio and show you mine.”

This piques your interest and you ask before you can think about it, tone playfully flirty, “Taking me to meet your parent’s so soon?”

He chuckles softly, voice still so low, “Like I said, I don’t like slow.”

It takes a few more minutes of pointless chatter(and many more flirty remarks that make you want to scream into your pillow) before you get to the core of your problems today; Nayeon.

“Okay, wait, so—she and your ex…were together?” He reiterates to better understand, and you nod, and he then asks, “In your house?”

“Why do you think I took the fire-poker to his car?” You shrug, and he has a half-grin on his face.

“I thought that rumor was exaggerated.” He admits, giving you an appreciative once over like he’s impressed, “You’ve got a temper, huh?”

“I’ve never overreacted in my life.” You say with a slight raise of your hands.

He nods with a slight smirk as if he absolutely believes you, “‘Course not.”

“Anyway, she had a major crush on you in freshman year, literally fantasized about your wedding and everything,” You blissfully expose, “And I already had my eyes on you so it all worked out.”

He nods with a hum and slight smirk, “I see, so I’m sweet revenge.”

“The sweetest.” You playfully flirt, and his eyes turn into shy crescents.

“So, who were your other options?” He asks after a few seconds to let the pink on his cheeks fade, and you grin.

“Jealous?” You mimic his tone from earlier in the day and he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I am.” The admission falls naturally from his lips and your gut flips, “Curious, too.”

“Jungkook didn’t want me to choose you.” You respond with a tight smile.

His eyes widen, “Coach knows?”

“He’s got an idea.” You respond with a slight shrug.

“Did he suggest anyone else?”

“Jungwon,” You answer easily, snickering softly when he groans and throws his head back, “but he’s a tight-ass, he’d never agree.”

Riki snorts, and with a shrug says, “You’re pretty, I think he’d come around.” Your raised brow has him quickly changing the subject with a curious tilt of his head, “You already had your eyes on me, though?”

His question is cheeky and paired with a matching grin that makes you roll your eyes and fight nervous giggles as you say, “I never said that.”

“Really? ’Cause I heard you say it.” He seems much too determined to not let you move on from the subject but your mother loves to compare you to a mule in regards to obstinance.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You shrug innocently.

He leans forward slightly in the beanbag, his elbows resting on his knees, and that grin of his only widens. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“And you’re annoyingly persistent,” you counter, but there’s no real bite behind your words. You stand up, moving toward your desk under the guise of rearranging things that don’t need rearranging, mostly to avoid his knowing gaze.

Riki tilts his head, watching you with amusement. “You know, if you’re trying to throw me off, it’s not working.”

You glance over your shoulder, trying not to crack under the weight of his attention. “Throw you off from what? I’m just tidying.”

“Right. And I’m just here for the cat.”

“Good. Gus loves the attention,” you quip, folding your arms over your chest as you turn back to him.

“But I’m not done yet,” he says with mock seriousness, shifting in the beanbag like he’s settling in for the long haul. “What’s so bad about admitting you’ve been into me? I mean, look at me.” He gestures to himself in a way that’s more playful than cocky, but you still roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck.

“Wow, humble too,” you shoot back, but the warmth in your cheeks betrays you.

“Hey, just stating facts. Can’t help it if you have great taste.” He pauses, letting the silence stretch just enough to make you squirm. “Besides,” he adds, his voice dipping lower, “you’re kind of making it obvious now.”

Your hands find your hips in defiance. “How, exactly?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he muses, standing up slowly, his movements deliberate as he closes the distance between you. “The way you got all flustered when I asked if you still know how to dance. Or how you won’t look me in the eye right now.”

You refuse to back down, lifting your chin as you meet his gaze. “I’m not flustered. And I’m looking at you right now, aren’t I?”

He smirks, leaning just a little closer, his tone teasing. “Sure you are. But you’re still not answering my question.”

You blink innocently up at him through your lashes and you swear you see his eyes dart below your nose. “What question?”

Riki lets out a soft laugh, a mix of exasperation and amusement, as he shakes his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” You shrug, trying to look nonchalant, but the proximity is starting to get to you.

He watches you for a moment, his smirk turning into something softer, though no less mischievous. “Alright, fine. I’ll let it go. For now.”

“Oh, how gracious of you.” Your sarcasm earns you a grin as he steps back and flops dramatically into the beanbag again, sprawling like he owns the place.

“Gotta keep you on your toes, don’t I?”

“More like get on my nerves,” you mutter, though the twitch of your lips gives you away.

“Same thing.” He winks, and you hate how charming he looks doing it.

The smirk he gives you as he leans back has your stomach doing somersaults, but you refuse to let him see you sweat. Instead, you turn your attention to Gus, pretending to be more interested in your cat than in the boy currently making himself at home in your life—and your head.

As Riki lounges back in the beanbag, his eyes drift lazily around the room again, lingering on the neatly arranged desk and the wall beyond. “You’ve got a pretty organized vibe for someone who just tossed a whiteboard into a closet like it was a bomb.”

You freeze mid-pet, your hand hovering above Gus’s head. “You’re still on about that?”

“I mean, it’s a whiteboard. What kind of secrets could it possibly hold?” His tone is teasing, but the glint in his eyes says he’s not letting it drop.

You debate lying, but the little smirk playing on his lips tells you he won’t believe you anyway. “Nothing important. Just… research.”

“Research.” He repeats with an arched brow, “Like, ‘solving world hunger’ research or me research?“

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “I hate you.”

“Now I really have to see it.” He starts to rise, and you spring to your feet, blocking his path to the closet.

“Riki, no.”

“Riki, yes.” He steps closer, towering over you slightly, his grin widening as you try to stand your ground.

“Don’t make me sic Gus on you,” you warn, pointing toward the loafing cat.

“Gus and I are best friends now. He’d never betray me.” Riki gestures toward the cat, who yawns dramatically like he’s staying out of it.

“Traitor,” you mutter at Gus, which earns you a laugh from Riki.

“C’mon,” he cajoles, his voice dropping into that infuriatingly soft tone that makes your heart do weird flips. “What’s the worst that could happen if I see it?”

Your resolve wavers, but the idea of him actually reading the whiteboard is too mortifying, “I’ll have to kill you.”

His grin only widens at your threat, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Wow, straight to murder, huh? Didn’t realize you were so passionate about…whatever’s on that board.”

“You have no idea,” you mutter, crossing your arms in an attempt to look intimidating. It doesn’t work. Riki’s grin turns smug, like he knows he has the upper hand.

“Now I really need to know.” He leans closer, and the proximity sends your heart into overdrive. You can practically feel the heat radiating from him as he tilts his head, his voice dipping into a teasing drawl. “What if it’s, like, a shrine to me or something?”

The gasp you let out is equal parts offense and panic. “You think way too highly of yourself.”

“I don’t know,” he teases, tapping his chin as though deep in thought. “I’ve heard people do wild things when they’ve got a crush.”

“Bold of you to assume—”

“You’re avoiding the question again.” He cuts you off, smirking as he steps back just enough to lean casually against the end of your bedframe, his arms crossed. “What’s on the whiteboard, really?”

You hesitate, the words sticking in your throat. There’s no way you’re admitting to the utterly ridiculous pros and cons list your friends talked you into. Not yet, anyway.

“It’s… study stuff,” you finally say, your tone lacking conviction. “School projects, maybe some physics equations. Boring things you wouldn’t care about.”

“Physics equations?” he repeats, clearly unconvinced. “Yeah, because I look like the kind of guy who’d buy that excuse.”

“Hey, I’m trying here,” you snap, which only makes him chuckle again.

“I can tell. You’re terrible at it.” His grin softens slightly, the teasing replaced with something that feels a little too close to genuine. “Relax, I’m just messing with you. You don’t have to tell me.”

You blink at him, surprised by his sudden shift in tone but immediately suspicious of it. “Really?”

“Sure.” He shrugs, though there’s still a playful glint in his eyes. “But now I have leverage. You’ll owe me later.”

“Owe you for what?” you demand, but the smug look on his face says you won’t get an answer you like.

“For letting you off the hook, obviously.” He straightens and gives you a wink before heading back to the beanbag like he didn’t just upend your entire equilibrium. “Don’t worry—I’ll think of something good.”

You stare at him, your jaw slightly agape, as he makes himself comfortable again. Gus hops onto his lap, clearly picking sides, and Riki’s attention shifts back to your cat like nothing happened.

“You’re infuriating,” you mutter, though you can’t quite keep the fondness out of your voice.

He glances up, his smirk softening into a smile that’s entirely too charming. “And you love it.��

You hate that you do.

The week passes by with a dreadful speed, and after four whole days of anxiety-induced stomach aches, migraines, and a few breakdowns in the dark privacy of your room at midnight, it is the weekend.

It is the weekend, and Belle, Hiyyih, and Eunchae bear witness to a minor crash-out.

“I’m gonna puke.” You mumble, sitting on the ottoman at the center of your walk-in closet with your face in your hands as the older two walk around you, going through your options for an outfit.

“Keep that shit in bitch,” Belle says without looking away from the clothes hanging in your closet, pointing a finger blindly at you in warning, “You puke, I puke.”

Eunchae moves towards your hunched form from her spot on your bean bag(which she moved into your closet to sit on), snickering softly as she sits beside you and brings her hand to rub circles on your back. “There, there.”

A part of you wants to snap at her that she isn’t funny, but the act is weirdly comforting so you let her continue. Bahiyyih speaks from where she is in front of your shoe shelf, “Why do you have so many shoes?”

“My mom gets sent them monthly by some guy she was a lawyer for a while ago,” You exhale as you drop your hands into your lap, eyes still closed as you contemplate opening them ever again, “She hates wearing pumps now so she gives them to me or regifts them.”

“What if you wear these?” Hiyyih holds up a pair of Louboutins, and you open your eyes to see before looking at her like she’s crazy.

“Not only is it bowling and I’m gonna have to change shoes anyway, but I’m not wearing a So Kate for something that isn’t even a date, Hiyyih.”

She pouts her bottom lip as she puts them down, and Belle pulls a top from the collection of them hanging in your closet and holds it up in question towards you. After a few seconds of staring at the article of clothing, debating if you remember looking cute in it or not, you nod and she tosses it into the ‘maybe’ pile.

Two seconds later, you’re hunching over and blindly grabbing a pillow near you to scream into.

Eunchae pats your back again, her snickering turning into full-blown laughter. “Feel better now, drama queen?”

You lift your head just enough to glare at her over the pillow. “No.”

“Good,” Belle says, tossing another shirt into the ‘definitely not’ pile without even showing it to you. “Because if you puke or scream again, I’m calling your mom and telling her you’re being insufferable. She might take those Louboutins back.”

“That’s not funny,” you mumble into the pillow.

“It’s a little funny,” Hiyyih chimes in, holding up a sequined crop top like it’s the Holy Grail. “Okay, but seriously, what about this? It says ‘I’m fun,’ but not, like, too fun.”

Eunchae tilts her head at it. “It also says ‘I moonlight as a disco ball.’”

You groan, sitting up straight and snatching the crop top out of Hiyyih’s hands. “Why is this so hard? It’s bowling! I should just wear sweatpants and call it a day.”

Belle spins around with the precision of a K-drama villain. “Don’t you dare. Do you want to show up looking like his cousin who just rolled out of bed, or like the mysterious, unattainable enigma that you are?”

“Unattainable?” you ask with a hesitant furrow of you brows.

“Yeah, unattainable, as in: unattainable by anyone else but him,” Belle clarifies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re playing the long game, babe.”

“You say that like this is some kind of psychological warfare,” you deadpan.

Belle shrugs. “It kind of is.”

Eunchae raises a hand like she’s in class. “But what if he’s bad at bowling? Like, gutter ball after gutter ball bad? Do you let him win or destroy him?”

You pause, genuinely considering it. “Destroy him, obviously.”

“Bold choice.” Hiyyih nods approvingly, tossing a pleated skirt into the maybe pile. “What if you’re bad, though?”

You gasp. “That’s not even an option.”

Belle smirks. “So confident for someone who hasn’t touched a bowling ball since middle school.”

“You’re supposed to be helping me, not roasting me!” You grab the nearest pillow and launch it at her. She dodges with ease, laughing as it smacks into the closet door behind her.

“Roasting you is my way of helping you,” Belle retorts, unfazed. “It’s called multitasking.”

Eunchae picks up the discarded pillow and hands it back to you, patting your head like you’re a distressed pet. “There, there. At least you’ll look cute while you embarrass yourself.”

“Why are all of you like this?” You drop your head back into your hands, half tempted to cancel the whole thing.

“Because we love you,” Belle sing-songs, pulling out a denim jacket that you forgot you even owned. “Now shut up and try this on. We’re on a schedule, ho.”

You sigh, begrudgingly taking the jacket as the three of them continue their chaotic brainstorming session around you. It’s not helpful in the slightest, but somehow, it makes you feel a little less like throwing up again.

By some miracle—or maybe just the collective force of Belle’s bullying, Eunchae’s comfort, and Hiyyih’s endless suggestions—you finally land on an outfit. The moment you pull the halter top over your head, the three of them fall silent, which is either a very good sign or a very bad one.

“Okay, that’s cute,” Belle finally declares, hands on her hips like she personally designed the top. “It’s giving effortless, but still hot enough to make him sweat.”

“It’s super cute on you,” Hiyyih chimes in, tilting her head as she appraises the outfit.

“It is,” Eunchae adds, grinning as she slides off the bean bag to circle you.

The cropped halter top clings just right, the rich color complementing your skin tone and making you feel…hot. Paired with the baggy jeans that sit low on your hips, the whole look is casual, but not too casual. You glance at the mirror, adjusting the jeans slightly and eyeing the way they pool at the hems over your socked feet.

“Am I pulling this off?” you ask hesitantly, smoothing the fabric of the top.

Belle snorts. “If he’s not staring, I’ll be personally offended on your behalf.”

Eunchae pretends to swoon dramatically, throwing herself back onto the bean bag. “The mysterious unattainable enigma strikes again.”

“Okay, but shoes,” Hiyyih cuts in, crouching by the pile of options at your feet. “You’re wearing sneakers, obviously, but which ones? The Nikes or the New Balances?”

You glance down, debating for a moment before pointing to the Nikes. “They’re cleaner.”

Belle raises an eyebrow. “Barely. When was the last time you cleaned your shoes?”

You glare at her, picking up a sneaker and threatening to launch it her way. She holds up her hands in mock surrender, moving to pull a jacket from the rack as she says, “Make sure you bring a jacket, though. It’s cold as shit.”

“Or she can not bring one and Riki can lend her his.” Eunchae suggests with a cheeky grin.

Belle promptly tosses the jacket into the back of your closet.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. The nerves are still there, bubbling under the surface, but with your friends around—and an outfit that actually makes you feel cute—you start to think that maybe, just maybe, tonight won’t be a complete disaster.

riki 🙈: im here

“We’re seeing you off,” Belle declares, handing you the Prada bag she just stuffed your lip combo into. Hiyyih trails behind her, spritzing your neck and wrists with your favorite perfume.

The dread must be plastered all over your face because Eunchae immediately starts snickering from where she’s leaning against the doorframe. “We just wanna see his reaction.”

“To me or to you guys making kissy faces at him from the porch?” you deadpan.

The chorus of giggles that erupts from your three friends is all the answer you need.

“Oh, come on,” Belle says, looping her arm through yours as she drags you toward the front door. “We’ll behave.”

“You behaving is a scientific impossibility,” you mutter, trying to resist, but she’s got the strength of someone fully committed to the bit.

“Hold on,” Eunchae pulls something out of her hoodie pocket she must’ve forgotten was there until just now, uncapping the small bottle and holding it in front of your lips, “Open.”

You obey with a slight furrow of your brows, and she sprays it into your mouth, giggling when you flinch slightly in surprise and grimace at the strong mint taste. Eunchae grins, unzipping the bag on your shoulder just enough to slip it in before closing it, “To prevent food breath.”

The moment Belle opens the front door, your breath catches at the sight of Riki leaning casually against the passenger side of his Wrangler, hands tucked into his pockets. The golden light of the setting sun highlights the faint smirk on his face, his jewelry glinting as he shifts.

"Lord have mercy," you mutter under your breath.

You didn't expect him to show up in sweatpants and a hoodie, but you weren't prepared for this either. The necklaces layering his collarbones and the glint of piercings--does he have an eyebrow piercing?—are almost too much. You quickly shove down the spiral threatening to start and glance back at the three traitorous girls behind you.

Their kissy faces drop immediately, though Eunchae barely suppresses her laughter.

With a playful shove to Hiyyih—who stumbles into the porch pillar but resumes her antics without missing a beat—you flip them all a perfectly manicured middle finger and step off the porch.

As you walk toward him, you swear the faintest blush tinges his ears. He waves briefly at your friends before straightening and meeting your gaze.

"You look good," he says, voice low and easy.

"I know." Your response is swift and confident, though the smile on your face is warmer than intended.

The moment is interrupted when the backseat window of his car rolls down, and Jake's grinning face is revealed. Your smile drops.

"Why is Jake in your car?" you deadpan, your smile dropping.

Riki groans, dragging a hand over his face. "Dude, I told you not to be weird."

Jake looks offended. "I didn't even say anything!"

"Seeing your face is enough," you reply flatly. Jake pouts dramatically while you shoot Riki an accusatory glare. "You could've warned me."

"If I did, you would've come out frowning," Riki whines playfully. "You have such a pretty smile."

From the backseat, Jake's obnoxious "ooooh" echoes, accompanied by giggles that make Riki's blush spread down his neck. Still, he keeps his composure enough to open the passenger door for you.

"What a gentleman~," Belle teases loudly from the porch.

Eunchae waves at you, practically bouncing with glee. You shoot Belle a glare, mouthing "kill yourself" as you accept Riki's hand and climb into his lifted car.

"Bye, Manchae," you call, snapping your attention away from him as he closes the door. You're too aware of his cologne and the lingering warmth of his hand. He looks way too good.

Riki salutes your friends playfully before circling to his door. Through Jake's open window, you hear Hiyyih shout, "She likes Dr Pepper!”

"And winning!" Eunchae adds.

"And tongue," Belle finishes just before the window rolls up.

You cringe. Riki's amused laugh is confirmation he definitely heard that. "I hate her so much," you mutter, pulling the sun visor down to touch up your lip gloss to dostract yourself.

You're halfway through the motion when you notice Riki hasn't started driving yet. Turning, you catch him just as he’s looking back at the road, his hand on the gear shift. (There’s something attractive about the fact he drives stick.)

Jake's giggle breaks the silence. "Oh, shut up, Jake," you snap, not necessarily to defend Riki—though it only makes Jake laugh harder. “Why couldn't your other friends bring him?" you grumble, swiping the gloss over your bottom lip.

"He's my neighbor," Jake says cheekily.

"I would've made him walk," you reply, clicking the gloss shut and shoving it back into your bag. "Or Uber."

"That's just cruel," Jake protests, but you shrug.

"Sucks."

Riki snickers and nods. "Okay, he'll Uber next time."

Jake looks appalled. "Bro."

"You're annoying me too," Riki replies, barely glancing back as he rests his hand lazily on the gear shift.

You pointedly ignore the way his rolled-up sleeves expose a line of muscle up his forearm, a vein standing out as he moves to grab his phone charger. "Play your music," he says, holding the cord out to you.

Jake gapes. "Bro, you never let us play our music."

"That's because you guys have shit taste," Riki says without hesitation.

Your lips twitch, a sliver of pride blooming in your chest.

You connect your phone, Sabrina Carpenter's Taste filtering through the speakers. Jake perks up. "Oh, I actually like this song."

"You better," you reply, humming along as the music plays.

Riki bobs his head lightly to the beat, his usual laid-back energy soothing you as the drive continues.

"Who else is bowling with us?" you ask, turning the music down slightly.

"Jay, his girlfriend, and Heeseung," Riki answers casually.

You hum in understanding and turn the volume back up, inhaling the soft musk of his cologne mingling with your perfume. The scent is annoyingly pleasant, calming in its own way.

By the time he pulls into the parking lot and finds a good spot, the sky has dimmed to a deep navy. Riki is out of his seat in a flash, jogging around to open your door before Jake even unbuckles himself. His hand lingers on yours as he helps you down, his fingers interlocking with yours naturally.

Jake trails behind you two as Riki leads you toward the neon-lit entrance, the muffled sounds of bowling balls and laughter drifting through the glass doors.

Jay, a pretty girl you are pretty sure was in your art class in freshman year, and Heeseung are standing near the entrance, and you wish you could hide behind Riki from their gazes that immediately find your intertwined hands.

You send a smile to the only other girl reflexively, and she sends the prettiest one back. She grins excitedly as the three of them meet your trio halfway once you enter the door that Riki holds open for you to enter first.

(You wonder if these are manners his sisters and mother taught him or a previous girlfriend—wait, no you don’t.)

“I told you it was her!” She smacks Jay’s arm, and he winces with a soft laugh, clearly used to his girlfriend’s antics. Her approach is welcomed as she explains, “He was saying Riki was lying.”

“About?” You question curiously, an easy smile on your glossy lips.

She giggles as she answers, “You being his girlfriend.”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Riki says lowly, clearly embarrassed by the subject as you snicker at his misfortune.

“I’m Gaeul, by the way.” The girl states with a giggle as she pulls you from Riki with her elbow hooked with yours, and you barely glance back at your ‘boyfriend’, who’s being patted on the shoulder by Jay. “They’ll handle paying for everything, let’s get some snacks.”

“Oh, okay.” You say softly before smiling with her, delighted that she brought up food before you had to ask Riki about it. You aren’t ashamed of eating, or shy about doing so in front of him, but having another girl who also seems to prioritize food was immensely comforting to the anxiety in your gut.

She grins as the two of you step into line at the concession counter, “I’m also glad I got you away from the boys for a second, they’re so…”

“Boyish?” You finish, and she laughs softly.

“Yeah.”

“Girl to girl,” You start, moving up in line with her, “I don’t think I’m gonna be good at bowling.”

She gasps joyfully, “I suck!”

You laugh at her clear excitement that she’s finally not alone in that aspect, “But that means the boys are better than us.”

She rolls her eyes at the mention of them, “Riki and Heeseung are the really good bowlers,” There’s one more person between you two and the counter now, “I love my boyfriend, but he and Jake suck compared to those two.”

“I don’t want to lose to Jake.” You sigh, “It just doesn't seem ethical.”

“Riki’ll handle him.” She snickers softly, “You should've seen him at practice when Jake and Hoon messed with you.”

Your interest is piqued, but the person in front of you finishes paying for their food and you are forced to put your questions aside as she begins ordering and you realize you don’t even know what you want.

You’re skimming over the menu above when your phone dings in your purse.

riki 🙈: what size shoe do u wear?

Quickly typing an answer, you glance between your phone and the menu, and Gaeul turns to you, waiting for you to add to the already sizable order with how much the four athletes can eat. “Oh, I can pay for myself—“

“Riki already venmoed me enough to spot you,” She interjects with a soft giggle, and you feel your cheeks burn.

“Oh,” You let out before shaking your head and looking at the waiting cashier, “A large drink and a basket of cheese fries, please.”

Gaeul hands you the stack of cups she’s handed, and you startle slightly when a hand and arm appear in your vision, plucking the cups from your hand. When you look over your shoulder you find a smirking Riki, “I got this. Go sit.”

You huff softly, fighting your smile that threatens to grow even wider, “I can fill up my own drink.”

“I know, but I wanna do it.” He states with a nod like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and you can’t do much more than glare weakly. He only chuckles softly as Gaeul finishes paying and realizes he’s with you, “Go. Dr Pepper, right?.”

You look away from his cheeky smirk with a shift of your jaw, and you lose the fight against the grin now on your face, “I hate you.”

He only huffs softly in amusement as you walk away with your arms crossed, making your way to where you spot Heeseung’s orange hair. There’s a pair of green bowling shoes beside another bigger pair that are red placed on the bench seating, and Jake has a grin on his face the moment you sit down to put them on.

“I am not above hitting you in the head with a bowling ball, Jake.” You say as you pull the white sneakers off your feet to put on the bowling shoes, not even soaring the Australian boy a glance as his mouth shuts, clearly rethinking speaking.

Heeseung snorts, “Shit, you are violent.”

You look up from your bowling shoes at the Lacrosse captain, who’s grin drops and he quickly looks away, acting like he wasn’t just laughing. Jay shakes his head with a laugh, “Thank you, for shutting them up.”

You give him a smile with a scrunch of your nose, “My pleasure.”

The moment Riki and Gaeul return, you’ve barely gotten your shoes tied. You’re still shooting looks at Jake, who’s pretending to look anywhere but at you while Jay wheezes softly into his hand. Riki raises a brow, setting a tray of drinks and snacks on the table. “What happened now?”

“She threatened Jake’s life with a bowling ball,” Heeseung informs him with amusement still clear on his face.

Riki pauses mid-sip of his drink, glancing at you with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Already? We haven’t even started the game yet.”

You shrug innocently, tugging the laces on your bowling shoes tighter. “He looked like he deserved it.”

“I didn’t even say anything!” Jake argues with a whine, and you roll your eyes.

“You had that stupid look on your face.”

“Not defending him, but that’s just what Jake looks like.” Jay interjects with a finger raised to make a point, and Gaeul smacks his hand lightly with a disapproving shake of her head despite her snickering.

Riki sits beside you, handing you a large cup full of what you assume is Dr Pepper that you immediately taste to prove your theory, humming happily and smiling as you thank him. His smile mirrors yours as he begins to put on his own bowling shoes, and you grab your purse, which you had initially placed to your left, from between the two of you to place it elsewhere.

“Here,” He says softly, grabbing your purse from you to put on his other side with his jacket, which he had shed at some point between entering the building and sitting down, and you mutter a soft ‘oh, thank you’ that has his soft smirk widening just a bit before he focuses back on tying his shoes.

You’re somewhat thankful that they seemed to have agreed on teams instead of each of you having your own scoreboard, though seeing every ‘x’ between your ‘5’ points was embarrassing enough.

Gaeul seems wholly entertained by the gutter ball she just achieved as you cheer for her from your seat between Riki and Heeseung, too distracted by the fun of the game to see the goosebumps on your arms. You’re leaning forward to pluck a fry from the basket of them on the table when you feel a warm something draped over your shoulders.

Riki is standing for his turn before you can even react, but across the table Gaeul turns to hide her face in Jay’s shoulder to poorly muffle the high pitched squeal she lets out. You ignore the heat rising up your neck, catching the fry between your teeth to slip your arms into the jacket sleeves.

Jay and Gaeul seem to be the only team playing purely for fun, because Jake and Heeseung are neck and neck with you and Riki on the scoreboard and your ‘boyfriend’ looks less than pleased about it.

It’s near the last round when Jake scores a miraculous nine points that you mentally prepare to accept defeat, looking up at Riki who had just gotten back with your refilled cup, “Horrible news.”

He raises his brows, looking at the scoreboard and cursing under his breath. It’s your final turn, and while you hadn’t completely embarrassed yourself with your subpar bowling skills you probably weren’t good enough or lucky enough to score anything higher than six points. At the moment, HeeJake is in first place.

Gaeul is cheering you on with her back against Jay’s chest, and Riki leans down, resting a hand on the edge of the table beside you, his face just close enough to make your heart race. “No pressure,” he says softly, smirking. “But if you lose, we’re never hearing the end of it.”

You roll your eyes, trying to act unimpressed. “Great pep talk. Truly inspiring.”

He snickers softly, straightening back up as you stand with dread clear on your pretty face. Heeseung pipes up, “Give her a good luck kiss, Romeo.” The glare you shoot the Lacrosse captain only makes him snicker with his hands held up in mock-surrender, “Was just a suggestion.”

The feigned smile you give him has your fake boyfriend plucking your drink from your hands (how did he knew you had an urge to throw it at Heeseung’s face, you’ll never know), and his hands move to your shoulders to walk with you to edge of the lane to grab a pink 7lb bowling ball.

Riki’s grip on your shoulders lingers, and he leans down slightly to murmur near your ear, “Just—aim in the middle.”

You glance at him over your shoulder with a withering look, choosing to ignore his proximity, “Like that isn’t what I’ve been doing.”

“Could've fooled me—ow! Okay, okay,” He’s still laughing despite rubbing his chest where your punch landed, much too cheeky for your liking but his smile is too…something for you to want to wipe it off his face, “You’re better than Jake.”

You shoot him a skeptical look, but it’s hard to ignore the encouragement in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, you grip the heavy pink ball tightly, positioning it at your waist. Riki steps back, hands on his hips, his smirk still in place.

“Alright, show us what you’ve got, baby.”

“Oh, shut up.” You grumble softly, shooing him away to get his heart-fluttering grin out of your face, and as you pull his oversized sleeves up your arm to keep it from getting in the way you give yourself a mental pep talk.

Don’t lose, bitch.

It doesn’t help that your nails make putting your fingers in the three designated holes a struggle, and the moment the ball is released into the lane, veering left toward the gutter before God herself takes control and it curves back toward the center and slams into the center pin, you cover your face.

Strike!

Gaeul practically shrieks in excitement as the pins scatter, “Yes, girl!”

You blink, lashes fluttering as you process the cheering as well as groans from Jake, and you gasp, “Holy shit!”

Riki’s joyous laughter is infectious and warm, and you let out a soft shriek that fades into giggles as his arms wrap around your waist and he lifts you off your feet in a hug, “Hell yeah, baby!”

The moment your feet are back on the ground, Gaeul is before you with her hands up for high fives, practically bouncing in excitement for you. It’s practically second nature to you as you match her energy, too high on your miraculous win to notice Riki’s hands lingering on your waist.

Another thing you fail to notice in your moment of joy is a familiar couple just a few lanes over, one party too distracted by the ruckus to pay any attention to the game her boyfriend and his friends dragged her to join.

She watches you smile and laugh as Riki helps you out of your bowling shoes, and her eyes follow you as you walk toward the restrooms with the light blue Prada bag she had always wished you would give her. It isn‘t fair.

You sigh softly as you place your bag on the sink in front of you, unzipping it to grab your lip combo to touch up in the mirror before going back out. As you uncap your lipliner with a muffled click, you hear the bathroom door open but don’t think much of it at the moment.

It isn’t until you look into the mirror, leaning forward slightly to see your lips better, that you see who it is.

“Can I help you?” You ask her reflection with a tilt of your head, tone less confrontational than it should be, but you’re trying to keep your good mood and Nayeon’s face is threatening to ruin it.

She scoffs softly, yet keeps a safe distance, “Do you even like him?”

You look away from the mirror to really look at her, ignoring the satisfaction that her slight flinch brings you, “Excuse me?”

“You moved on fast.” Nayeon states, and you scoff with a smile of both fury and amusement at her audacity, “Is it even real, or did you use daddy’s money to get him to date you?”

The tilt of your head should have been a sign for her to shut her mouth, but she continues when you don’t respond like usual, “But I guess moving from one guy to another is just like you.”

She’s just trying to rile you up, it’s obvious.

You shake your head with a soft and bitter laugh, looking back at the mirror to continue what you had intended to do, the lip pencil gliding over the edges of your lips and the pad of your ring finger blending the harsh edges.

Her jaw shifts in the reflection as you cap your lip-liner and exchange it for your lip gloss, and you send her a condescending smile, “You done?”

“You bitch—“ Her words are cut off by another person entering the bathroom, and as you swipe the gloss over your lips, you pause when you see it’s Gaeul.

She glances at Nayeon, but her main focus is on you as she says, “Ready to go?”

You hide your confusion at her question with a pretty smile, closing your gloss and stuffing it back into your bag before you walk to her, shoulder checking the audacious bitch on your way out, “Yep.”

Gaeul’s arm hooks at your elbow as you both exit the bathroom, and you sigh in relief at being out of that situation before you remember your prior confusion and she explains without you needing to ask, “Your ex is at our table antagonizing Riki, I figured if he’s here she would be too.”

Your brows furrow and you quickly pick up the pace of your stride with fury souring your mood once again. When you turn the corner, your gaze zeroes in on Riki, who’s leaning back in his seat seemingly unbothered by whatever it is that Eunseok is saying to him, and Nayeon hastens past you to join her boyfriend’s side.

Eunseok’s eyes land on you the moment his girlfriend puts herself on his arm, and they follow you as you approach Riki without even a glance his way until he speaks, “You move on fast.” He snorts, soft and bitter, “Didn’t expect you to open your legs so fast considering how long it took you to put out.”

You ignore him, though the anger in your gut is boiling hot as your gaze moves to Riki, who you find is already standing now, his jaw shifting yet no other sign in his body language that he’s as pissed as his narrowed eyes say he is. Jay, Heeseung, and Jake all watch, though from their body language you can tell they’re not exactly about to stand by if your ‘boyfriend’ decides to throw a well-deserved punch.

His gaze moves to yours the moment your hand finds his, softening as your fingers intertwine with his and you mutter, “Let’s go.”

He nods wordlessly, his willingness only pissing Eunseok off more as he laughs mockingly, and you feel Riki’s hand tighten around yours, “Already got him trained, huh? He like how mean you are?”

“I do, yeah.” Riki responds for you with a smug smirk, “She’s got a hell of a bite.”

The second meaning to his words isn’t lost on you, and you find the way Eunseok bristles at the comment amusing enough to not get mad at Riki for it later considering the two of you obviously hadn't done more than hold hands. (You hear Jake choke on his drink, too.)

“Bro, it’s your turn!” Calls a familiar male across the bowling alley, Sohee.

You take the moment of brief distraction to shoot a pointed look at Jake, who gets up from his seat to play peacemaker with Heeseung.

Jay seems to motion for Riki to leave while they’re distracted by the two, and you shoot Gaeul an apologetic glance that she receives with a shake of her head and a look that reads ‘don’t be sorry’ as Riki leads you out of the building.

The moment the frigid air hits you, you tug the sleeves of his jacket down your arms again and shiver slightly. “He’s such a dick.” You sigh softly, “I’m sorry.”

Riki shakes his head as the two of you stop just a few paces outside the entrance, “Don’t apologize.” His hands move to rub at your arms to help you warm up, and the sight of both of your breaths visible in the cold has you moving to take his jacket off to give to him, but his hands cover yours the moment they start pulling at the open zipper. “I’m okay.”

“Riki, it’s cold as shit.”

“All the more reason for you to keep the jacket.” He argues back with a soft smirk, “Really, I practice in the cold every day.”

“You’re active, then. Not standing around,” You fuss, and he tilts his head slightly in acknowledgement before a cheeky smirk grows on his face.

“‘You worried about me, pretty girl?”

“Oh, stop it.” You groan with a poorly concealed warm laugh, and he catches your hands as you weakly swat at his chest, pulling you closer. “Riki.”

Your soft mutter of his name has his eyes shutting and his head falling back with a soft groan escaping his lips, “You’re so mean, baby.”

“It isn’t fair to you.” He doesn’t seem pleased by your statement, shaking his head and leaning forward to press his forehead to yours.

“Just a kiss.” He pleas softly, his nose brushing yours and you inhale sharply, “Just one.”

His words flip your stomach inside out, and as you sigh his name again he leans in.

“Oh shit!” The sudden exclamation has you and Riki both startling away from each other, Jake grinning like a maniac at the doors with Heeseung, Jay, and Gaeul behind him. “Fuck, did I just ruin a moment?”

You groan, turning away from them to begin walking to Riki’s Jeep, arms crossed to protect yourself from the cold and your mind in utter shambles because—

What the fuck?

Jake gets a ride from Heeseung home according to Riki, who had unlocked his car for you to get in while he said goodbye to the others. A part of you regrets not saying goodbye to Gaeul, but the thought of spending another second under their gaze at that moment felt suffocating.

The silence in the car is loud. Not awkward loud, but loud enough that every glance out the window and every shift in your seat feels amplified. Riki’s hands stay firmly on the wheel, his fingers drumming against the edge of the leather cover as he fiddles with the turn signal.

“So,” he starts, his voice casual but slightly strained, “you’ve got a mean bowling game for someone who swore they’d lose.”

You glance at him, catching the way the passing streetlights make his jawline look sharper. “That’s because I hustle. Low expectations are a great strategy.”

He huffs a small laugh, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Guess I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

You lean back against the seat, trying to ignore the fact that your heart still hasn’t settled since that moment at the alley—the one where his face was too close, his breath too warm, and you almost forgot this whole thing was fake.

“So… next time?” you tease, arching a brow. “How much more mortifying teasing can you handle?”

“Depends,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road. “How long does it take to make your ex think he lost the best thing that ever happened to him?”

Your laugh comes out before you can stop it. “It’ll probably never happen, I just like to see him squirm.” The weight of his words sits in the air between you, heavier than it should be. You turn to look out the window, feigning interest in the row of darkened houses you pass by.

“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, “I don’t think they’re worth this much effort. Your ex and… her.”

You blink, surprised at his shift in tone. “Well, thanks for that motivational speech, Riki. Really helps my self-esteem.”

He shakes his head, glancing at you briefly. “That’s not what I meant. I just mean… if they couldn’t see how good they had it with you, that’s on them. You don’t need to prove anything.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. You open your mouth to reply, but the words don’t come. Instead, you study him in the dim light, wondering—not for the first time—why he agreed to this in the first place.

“Why are you doing this, Riki?” you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates, his fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. “I told you, I need you to help me pass Chem.”

You narrow your eyes, not convinced but also not ready to push. “You haven’t even asked for help past me giving you my old notes.”

He smirks again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “They’re just that helpful. Don’t overthink it.”

And maybe you don’t, because overthinking means dissecting the way he’s looking at you now in the faint glow of the dashboard, like he knows something you don’t.

The car slows to a stop in front of your house and you fiddle with the hem of your halter top, trying to figure out how to say what’s been sitting heavy in your chest since the bowling alley. “Riki,” you start, your voice softer than usual.

He hums in acknowledgment, already looking at you.

You take a steadying breath. “I don’t think… I’m ready for a real relationship.”

That gets his attention. His hands shift in his lap, his expression unreadable. “Okay,” he says after a beat, his tone cautious. “Where’s this coming from?”

You shift in your seat, suddenly finding the dashboard very interesting. “It’s just… you’ve been really good to me this past week, and I feel like it’s not fair to you. I mean, you’ve made it pretty clear how you feel, and I don’t want to lead you on or—”

“Hey.” His voice is calm, steady, and it makes you pause. “You’re not leading me on. I knew what I was getting into.”

“Yeah, but…” You trail off, frustration bubbling up because the words in your head won’t come out the way you want them to. “It’s not just about you. It’s about me, too. I don’t think I’m ready to deal with… all of this. Not after everything with him. It’s too much.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, which somehow makes it worse. The silence stretches, and you’re about to apologize—again—when he finally speaks.

“So, what do you want to do?”

“I think we should stop,” you say, hating how small your voice sounds. “The fake dating, I mean.”

He nods, almost imperceptibly. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s not—” You stop yourself, biting your lip as your eyes burn. “I just… I don’t want to hurt you. You deserve someone who’s all in, and I can’t be that right now.”

His lips twitch into a faint, almost sad smile. “You’re thinking too much about me again.”

You frown, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs lightly, his eyes moving away from you briefly before they settle back on yours. “It means you’re allowed to put yourself first, you know. I’m a big boy; I’ll survive.”

“But—”

“No buts.” He cuts you off gently, an easy smile still on his face. “If this is what you need, we’ll stop. No hard feelings.”

The simplicity of his response hits harder than you expected. It’s so Riki—quietly selfless, always willing to go along with what makes you happy.

You hate how much you suddenly want to reach across the console and kiss the life out of him. But you don’t. Instead, you swallow the lump in your throat and force a smile.

“Thanks, Riki.”

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Anytime.”

You watch him exit his car, circle around the front, and open your door for you while holding a chivalrous hand out just like before. A part of your heart aches with the knowledge he’s still doing this despite not technically having to, and you smile softly as you accept his help. His hand doesn’t linger in yours as it did before, though.

The walk to your front door is silent, and he halts just before the step onto your porch, his hands in his pockets, you pause before approaching your door, turning to him. With the few inches that the porch gives you, meeting his gaze is easier. “Tonight was really fun, ignoring the end of it,”

He chuckles softly, “Glad you had fun, pretty girl.”

If he didn’t mean to let the name slip he doesn’t show any signs of panic or regret, only meeting your nearly-level gaze with warmth.

There’s a moment before you turn your body only slightly towards the front door, “Goodnight.”

His hand catches your elbow gently as you begin to turn away from him, pulling you back yet giving you time to pull away if you so desire, and you don’t.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s softer than you imagined it’d be. His hand moves to your cheek yet pauses just before his skin touches yours, lips sweet and slow against yours.

It’s over before you can kiss back like you want to, his lips parting from yours with a soft smack that makes your stomach flip.

“Goodnight.” He bids in a low mumble, barely an inch from your lips when the words leave his and he takes a step back with a soft smile that makes your heart twist painfully, “See you Monday.”

You can only nod, forcing a slight smile and turning to punch in the door code with shaky hands and a heavy, aching heart.

part two.

©heedeungism : do not rewrite, copy, repost, or translate any of my works without my permission.

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sweet-pea-channie · 1 month ago

Text

In the silence, I found you

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: Azriel saves a mute fae woman left for dead after an ambush. Haunted by her silence, he finds himself drawn to her, not out of pity, but recognition. She reminds him of something he lost… and something he never thought he'd find again.

Warnings: Mentions of past abuse & torture (non-graphic but emotionally heavy), trauma responses including selective mutism, violence, aftermath of assault, PTSD, survivor's guilt, anxiety, grief and loss of family, slow emotional healing and intimate recovery scenes, soft angst + comfort

Word count: 12.6k

A/N: Hi! Thank you so much for reading 💛 English is my third language, so if you spot any grammar mistakes or odd phrasing, please be kind! I’m doing my best. Feedback is always welcome, especially if it's helpful and respectful. This fic is really close to my heart. It’s about healing, trust, and connection without words and I hope it speaks to you, even if it's quiet.

masterlist

Smoke still clung to the charred ruins of the village, curling through the early dusk air like ghostly fingers refusing to let go. The ground was slick with soot and blood, a patchwork of scorched cobblestones and scorched earth. The scent, acrid, raw, was more than just fire. It was despair, clinging to the bones of the place like a second skin.

Azriel stood beside Rhysand and Cassian at what had once been the village square, soldiers and warriors surrounding them. Now it was just rubble. A well had collapsed inward, blackened beams jutted from the earth like broken ribs, and half-burned furniture lay strewn about, a child’s wooden toy horse among them, snapped in half. It was quiet now, but not peaceful. Too quiet. The kind of silence that hummed with what had been done.

“They came through at night,” Rhysand informed everyone, his voice low and tightly leashed. “Wards were weak, barely held together. Half the villagers were Fae with lesser magic. Some couldn’t even defend themselves. The males who led the attack… they didn’t just want to kill.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed. His wings twitched, as if he couldn’t decide whether to fold them in or unfurl them in rage. “They weren’t just soldiers. They were predators.”

Azriel didn’t speak. His shadows slithered around his boots, darting in agitated wisps toward the edges of the square, as if still seeking out threats or witnesses. They found neither.

“The ones we caught,” Rhys continued, staring at the wreckage like it personally offended him, “are in chains. The rest… fled before we arrived. The survivors, the ones hiding, have been found. Healers are seeing to the injured. Children have been taken in by the temple elders from the northern hillside.”

Azriel’s shadows whispered again. A soft, mournful hum.

“It’s done,” Rhys said, scanning the hollowed shells of cottages and shattered windows. “Everything that can be done, has been. It’s over.”

But it didn’t feel over. Not to Azriel. Not with the metallic tang of blood still staining the air. Not with the look on that elderly female’s face when she had asked them, in a broken voice, “Why didn’t anyone come sooner?”

He hadn’t had an answer.

Rhysand glanced between Azriel and Cassian after the soldiers left, noting their silence. His own eyes, usually glowing with a spark of slyness, were dull. Exhausted. “You can rest now,” he said. “Or go home.”

Azriel looked past him, to the tree line beyond the village where the smoke thinned into mist. He caught a glimpse of a child sitting on a stone step, clutching a burned blanket, eyes hollow. The child didn’t cry. Just stared.

Rhys would return to Velaris. To Feyre. To warm arms and gentle laughter. To peace. But Azriel and Cassian… they had always found peace harder to carry. Harder to believe in.

“I’ll fly back in the morning,” Cassian said, rolling out his shoulders. “Want to make sure the families here have shelter. Food. Some of them don’t even have shoes.” He paused. “It still feels… raw.”

Azriel gave a quiet nod. “I'll stay here, too.”

Rhys hesitated, as if he wanted to protest, to pull rank. But then he just studied their faces and sighed.

“Fine. But rest, both of you. You're of no good use if you overstrain yourself,” he said softly. Then he was gone, winnowing in a shimmer of darkness and violet starlight.

The world felt heavier once he left.

Cassian turned toward a row of broken homes and muttered, “I’ll check the supply wagons again, make sure nothing’s gone missing.”

The village quieted further without him. Just the sound of crackling embers and murmuring healers in the distance. Cassian broke off to check the perimeter, but Azriel lingered by the outskirts, near the forest line.

The temporary camp had been set up just beyond the village outskirts, a collection of tents pitched beneath the shadow of the pines, where the smoke from the ruins thinned into something cleaner, but not quite peaceful. The sky had bled into twilight, bruised and streaked with orange. The smell of fire still lingered on the wind.

Azriel stepped into the tent he shared with Cassian, a canvas shelter thrown together more for function than comfort. His leathers creaked as he unbuckled his chest plate, his siphons clicking faintly as he set them down beside the low cot.

Cassian wasn’t there yet, probably still helping rebuild the central well, or lifting logs like they were made of kindling. Azriel rolled his shoulders and sat down heavily, stretching out his long legs and leaning back against the support pole. For a moment, he let the silence settle around him. He closed his eyes. Exhaled.

Then a shadow darted into the tent like a dagger. Fast. Sharp. Urgent.

Azriel’s eyes snapped open.

He didn’t need words. His shadows never spoke in them, not truly, but their intent thrummed through him like a pulse. There’s another. A survivor. Still out there. Still in pain.

He was already moving.

Armor forgotten, he strapped his siphons back on with swift, practiced movements and swept out of the tent without a word. No time to tell Cassian. No time to alert the others. His shadows were already leading the way, slithering ahead of him like smoke toward the trees.

The forest was dark, dense. Pines loomed like sentinels, and the path was barely a path at all, just loose soil and patches of moss tangled with roots. Azriel moved like a ghost, silent and fast, eyes trained ahead, shadows feeding him flashes of what they’d sensed.

Fae. Alive. Hurt. Alone.

He ran deeper, branches clawing at his shoulders and wings, the shadows growing sharper in their urgency. The quiet of the woods wasn’t peaceful, it was stifling. Suffocating. No animals moved. No birds cried.

Something clenched in his chest.

Then, a scent.

Blood. Faint, old. Human-like, but Fae.

His shadows curled tight around a cluster of trees, and Azriel slowed. Stepped carefully now. Each footfall deliberate. His siphons glowed faintly, casting a subtle blue hue against the undergrowth.

And then he saw her.

She was barely a shape in the gloom, slumped against the base of a thick pine, her body partially hidden by brush and shadow. A small Fae woman. Her wrists were bound cruelly above her head, tied to the tree with frayed rope that had cut deep into her skin. Her dress was torn, legs smeared with mud, face streaked with dried blood. One of her ankles looked swollen.

Her eyes were closed. Chest rising shallowly. Not asleep, not unconscious, just… still. Too still.

Azriel’s heart lurched. For a split second, he feared she was already gone.

He was beside her in a blink.

“Hey,” he said softly, dropping to one knee, his siphons dimming as he reached out. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

He hovered a hand near her cheek, not touching, not yet. “You’re safe now. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Slowly, slowly… her lashes fluttered.

She didn’t open her eyes, but her body tensed. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

Azriel felt it then, not just the physical damage, but the weight of something deeper. A silence that had settled into her bones. Not shock. Not in this moment. This silence was old. Familiar.

He reached for the ropes carefully, cutting through them with a dagger he pulled from his belt. The bindings snapped with a dry crack, and her arms slumped forward, too weak to catch herself. Azriel caught her gently, cradling her body with one arm as he sliced the rope from her wrists.

She didn’t try to pull away. But she didn’t relax either.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

She blinked again, just once, then lifted her hand weakly, her fingers twitching in the air.

Signing.

Clumsy. Slow. As if she hadn’t done it in years.

Azriel’s breath caught. He understood.

“Don’t hurt me.”

He remembered the signs from centuries ago. His throat worked around the knot forming there. He shook his head, voice a whisper. “Never.”

Another flicker of fingers.

“I couldn’t scream.”

She wasn’t just mute from pain. It was something older. Deeper. She hadn’t screamed because she couldn’t.

Azriel gently gathered her into his arms. She was light, too light. Starved and cold. Her fingers clutched weakly at the collar of his leathers as he stood.

“I’m taking you back,” he said, already moving through the trees. “You need to see a healer."

And though she didn’t speak, he felt it, a shiver in her body. Not of fear, but something near it. Not trust, not yet. But recognition. A thread, fraying and fragile, tying her to this moment.

To him.

His shadows twined around them both as he carried her toward the broken village, a silent promise echoing in the night: Never again. Never left behind.

Azriel moved quickly through the woods, his steps fast but careful as he cradled the small Fae female against his chest. Her weight was next to nothing. Too thin. Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder, but every now and then, he felt her tense-sharp flinches whenever his boots crunched too loud, or when a branch snapped somewhere nearby.

Trauma lived in every muscle of her body.

“You’re safe,” he murmured again, more for her than himself. “Just a little longer. The healers will take care of you.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t sign, didn’t lift her head, but he felt her heartbeat flutter like a bird’s wing, fast and erratic against his arm.

The treeline broke, and the village came back into view: still smoldering, still broken. Torches burned in a quiet perimeter around the camp. The night had deepened now, casting everything in a dull, aching gray.

Azriel descended the last rise toward the path leading to the camp when a familiar voice called out.

“Az?” Cassian emerged from around a pile of crates, brow furrowed. He froze mid-step as his eyes landed on the figure in Azriel’s arms. “What the hell?”

“She was in the woods,” Azriel said without slowing, his voice clipped but steady. “Tied to a tree. Alive. Barely.”

Cassian’s face darkened. “You’re serious?”

Azriel gave a sharp nod, eyes flicking down to the female in his arms. She kept her face turned inward, buried against his shoulder, as if the mere sight of another male might break her.

Cassian stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Where exactly did you find her?”

“Half a mile east of the perimeter,” Azriel said. “Tucked into a tree line past the ravine. They left her there.”

Cassian’s fists clenched. “Left her?”

Azriel didn’t miss the way her shoulders flinched again. He tightened his hold around her protectively.

Cassian’s expression softened just slightly as he crouched to her eye level. “Do you remember who did this to you?” he asked gently.

She stirred then. A hand moved hesitantly from Azriel’s chest, slow and trembling, as if even that effort cost her. Her fingers began to move, barely forming a sign before faltering.

“She can’t speak,” Azriel said quietly, his shadows curling around her like a shield. “She’s mute. I think she always has been.”

Cassian blinked, stunned. “Shit.”

“She couldn’t scream,” Azriel went on, his voice sharper now, more bitter. “That’s probably why they left her. Grew tired of her when she didn’t make enough noise while they—” He cut himself off, his jaw locking. “The marks on her body… they didn’t come from the ropes alone.”

Cassian swore under his breath, eyes flicking with a warrior’s rage and a male’s sorrow. “Monsters.”

Azriel looked down at her. “She needs a healer. Now.”

Cassian nodded immediately and moved aside, clearing the path ahead. “Go. I’ll make sure they know to expect you.”

Azriel strode past him, his steps swift as he made his way to the makeshift healer’s tent at the edge of the village. It was lit with soft blue faelight, quiet voices murmuring within. He ducked inside.

The healers, two older Fae females and a half-Illyrian male apprentice, looked up in surprise.

“She’s injured,” Azriel said. “Badly. Found her just now.”

One of the healers, a calm-eyed woman named Thera, stepped forward and motioned for him to lay the girl down on the cot. “Bring her here, carefully.”

Azriel hesitated only for a second. He turned to the girl in his arms, his voice soft. “You’re with healers now. No one will hurt you. I promise.”

She looked up at him, finally meeting his gaze.

There was nothing left in her eyes, no fight, no anger, not even fear. Just exhaustion. And behind it, buried deep, something older. A wound without a name.

He set her down gently. Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t pull away from his hand until the healer nudged him back.

“We’ll take it from here,” Thera said gently, already unfastening the remnants of the ropes from her wrists.

Azriel didn’t move far. He stayed just a few steps away, arms crossed, shadows flicking around him protectively like they were refusing to let go of her.

Cassian appeared in the tent’s entrance, arms crossed, watching her with the same quiet horror Azriel had swallowed down moments before.

“She’s lucky you found her,” Cassian said after a beat. “Another night out there and…”

Azriel didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on her face, on the way she winced at every touch, even the gentle ones. “It’s not luck.”

His voice was low. Absolute.

“She was meant to survive.”

────────────

Warmth.

That was the first thing she noticed.

Not the cloying, suffocating heat of ropes cutting into her skin or the rank, sticky breath of her captors. No. This warmth was soft. Dry. Almost… clean.

A blanket. Someone had tucked a blanket around her.

She blinked her eyes open. Faint blue light bathed the room, soft and shifting like water. The ceiling above her was canvas, not sky. She was lying on a cot. Her arms, for once, were free.

Her throat tightened.

I'm not tied up.

But her wrists still ached. Her whole body felt stiff, like her bones had forgotten how to lie still without pain. The pressure at her ankle pulsed in slow waves, wrapped now in linen and balm. She smelled herbs. Clean ones. And something else, leather, faint smoke, a scent like fresh wind after a storm.

She turned her head. He was there. The male who had found her. The quiet one. The one made of shadows.

He sat just beyond the edge of the cot, wings tucked in tight, shadows flicking softly around his shoulders like living smoke. His siphons gleamed blue in the faint light. But he was sitting like a sentry, not a predator.

He was watching her without staring, his expression unreadable. Not cold. Not cruel. Just... steady. A pillar in the storm.

She tried to move her hand. It shook.

The blanket slipped off her shoulder and panic rose like bile in her throat. She flinched, curling slightly, waiting for the blow, for the sneer, for the voice that would growl “Don’t waste my time again, mute girl.”

But nothing came. The shadows stirred. Not toward her, around her.

A gentle breeze kissed her temple. Not wind, not air, shadow. It felt like someone brushing hair from her face.

Her vision blurred. She blinked fast.

The last thing she remembered clearly was the sound of boots. Loud. Heavy. She'd kept her eyes closed as the footsteps approached the tree, too exhausted to move, too broken to care. She had thought, truly, deeply, this is the end. The males who left her had no interest in finishing the job. They just didn’t want to look at her anymore. She hadn’t made enough noise for them.

She'd learned early: screams fed monsters. Silence bored them.

So she stayed silent. Even when it hurt. Even when the ropes cut skin. Even when she bled. And they’d left her. Forgotten. Until him.

She turned her head again. Looked at him. His shadows stilled. Not gone, never gone, but quiet. Curious.

She lifted her hand. Slow. Trembling.

Signed: “Thank you.”

His head tilted slightly, and to her shock… he understood. He nodded once, low and firm, and murmured, “You don’t have to thank me.”

She stared at him.

Another sign: “You know?”

A pause. Then: “I do. A long time ago.” His voice was a whisper. Rough and soft at once. “I used to know someone like you.”

The words made her throat burn. Something inside her cracked open a little, not wide enough to be a wound, but enough to let air in. Enough to breathe again.

Her hand fell slowly back to her chest, the simple motion of signing already exhausting.

But he didn’t look away.

Azriel’s shadows curled faintly, retreating to his shoulders like they were giving her space. His wings shifted slightly, and then, with a quiet rustle, he moved closer. Not looming. Not hovering. Just near enough that his voice could stay low.

“Do you have a house here?” he asked, careful and quiet, like he was afraid to press too hard. “I could check. See if anything’s left.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, painfully, her fingers began to move again.

“I saw it burn.”

Azriel’s breath caught, but he didn’t interrupt.

“My sister was inside. I couldn’t—”

Her hands trembled too much to finish. The signs faltered and fell apart, and her throat clenched in frustration. Not being able to scream was one thing. But not being able to say it, even now, made the grief coil tighter around her chest.

Azriel didn’t ask for more. Didn’t demand she finish.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, his voice rough. He shifted again, closer but not touching, and added, “You’re sure you’re alone now?”

She nodded once. It was the hardest motion of all.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The healer’s faelight swirled around them, blue and soft. Outside, the quiet hum of the camp settled into the air — the distant sound of Cassian’s voice barking orders, wood being stacked, water poured.

And still Azriel sat with her.

Then he spoke again. “We’re going to rebuild the village. All of it. We’ll keep it safe. I promise you, this will never happen again.”

She looked at him, not with hope, not yet. But with a fragile thread of belief. Not because she trusted easily, or because his words were sweet. But because his eyes didn’t lie.

Because when he said we’ll rebuild, she knew he meant every stone, every broken family, every shattered soul, including hers.

And he wasn’t promising to fix her.

He was promising that she wouldn’t have to do it alone.

────────────

The war room in the House of Wind smelled of parchment, cedar, and the faintest trace of lavender, likely from something Feyre had left behind. Morning light streamed through the high windows, catching on the scattered maps and marked reports laid across the obsidian table.

Rhysand stood at the head, fingers steepled under his chin as his violet eyes swept over the latest reports.

“They’re calling it Emberon now,” he said at last, tapping a finger to the northern ridge of the map. “The villagers decided on it a few days ago. Said they wanted something that acknowledged the fire, but didn’t let it define them.”

“Emberon,” Cassian echoed, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “Has a ring to it.”

“Poetic,” Azriel added, though his voice was low, contemplative. His eyes lingered on the spot on the map, far beyond the borders of Velaris. The smoke and ash had long since cleared, but the memory remained vivid, especially one particular memory.

Rhys nodded. “Most of the homes are rebuilt. They’ve started clearing out the western fields for planting again. The last supply drop from Velaris got there two days ago. But I want to see it myself.”

“You’re going?” Cassian asked.

“I’ll only stay for the day. Feyre’s painting again, and Nyx has been using my leathers as a canvas. But I want to speak to the village leaders in person. Make sure they have what they need.”

“I’ll come,” Cassian said immediately. “I want to see the families again. The way they bounced back from that mess…” He trailed off, eyes hardening. “They deserve everything we can give.”

Rhysand turned to Azriel. “You?”

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His shadows curled thoughtfully across his shoulders, stirred by something quieter than words.

In truth, he’d been thinking about that village for days. Ever since the last courier had brought back news of a functioning market square and newly laid stone paths, a thread of thought kept pulling at him.

The girl.

The one he’d found bound to a tree, all bone and silence, eyes hollow from more pain than any person should endure. She hadn’t spoken, couldn’t speak, but her hands had told him enough.

He never got her name.

She’d stayed in the healer’s tent the last time he saw her, still too weak to walk. When he and Cassian had flown back to Velaris days after the attack, she hadn’t woken to say goodbye.

He hadn't expected her to. But he had thought about her far more than he admitted, wondered if she had a roof again, if she still flinched in her sleep. If she still signed “thank you” with trembling hands.

Azriel looked up. “I’ll come.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Didn’t think you’d say yes. Thought you were brooding too hard in your tower lately.”

Azriel gave him a flat look. “I’ll be brooding in the skies today.”

Cassian grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

Rhysand just offered a small nod. “Then we leave within the hour. Bring warm gear, it still gets cold up in those hills.”

As Rhys vanished to prepare, Cassian stood and stretched with a dramatic groan. Azriel remained seated, tracing his gaze over the inked lines of Emberon on the map. It wasn’t just a village anymore, it was a scar turned to a seed.

He wondered if she was still there, among the rebuilding. If she had a home now. If her silence still felt like a prison, or if it had started to feel like power.

He didn’t know what he hoped for.

But he knew this: when he set foot in Emberon again, the first person he would look for was her.

The wind was brisk over the hills when they crested the last ridge and Emberon came into view.

It looked nothing like the place they’d left behind.

Where there had once been scorched timbers and the ghostly remains of shattered cottages, now stood a patchwork of new roofs, whitewashed stone, and garden plots with sprigs of green clawing their way through the thawing earth. Smoke curled from chimneys — not the smoke of ruin, but of hearths. Cooking fires. Blacksmith forges. Life.

Children ran between homes, their laughter carried on the wind. Baskets of bread and vegetables sat outside doors. Bright scraps of fabric fluttered on clotheslines like prayer flags.

A rough wooden sign greeted them at the edge of the road: Welcome to Emberon Forged by Fire - Reborn by Choice

Azriel’s shadows stilled around him as they landed at the edge of the main square. He wasn’t the only one surprised.

Cassian let out a low whistle. “They’ve done a gods-damned miracle here.”

Rhysand didn’t respond immediately, his violet gaze scanning every face, every movement. Then he gave a quiet, satisfied nod. “This is what rebuilding should look like.”

The square was buzzing with activity. A group of Fae elders spoke quietly at a stone table under a tree in bloom. Two younger males carried buckets from a well. And off to the side, a tall healer was speaking with a few villagers, nodding in approval at someone’s bandaged arm.

But Azriel wasn’t focused on any of them.

His shadows had stirred again. Not warning, guiding.

They pulled softly at the edge of his coat, brushing his neck and nudging his gaze toward the far side of the square. Toward a small communal garden fenced with woven branches.

And there she was.

Kneeling in the soil, sleeves rolled past her elbows, dark earth streaking her hands and forearms. A loose braid of hair hung over one shoulder, strands escaping to catch the sun. Her face was turned toward the raised bed, her expression hidden, but there was something different about her now.

Not fragile.

Focused.

She moved carefully, planting tiny seedlings into the soil with practiced care. Around her, several others worked, older women, a pair of teenagers, but even in the crowd, Azriel saw her as clearly as if she stood in a spotlight.

He felt it again, that thread, that invisible pull in his chest. It didn’t ache like it had before. Not grief. Not guilt.

Just a quiet, steady certainty.

She was alive.

He hadn’t imagined her resilience, her presence. She wasn’t still in a healer’s cot, curled into herself. She was here. Rooted.

Cassian followed his gaze, and a small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Is that her?”

Azriel didn’t answer.

Because in that moment, she looked up.

Her eyes met his across the square, not startled, not afraid, just still.

Recognition flickered there, followed by something gentler. Like the first breeze of spring brushing across old wounds.

She stood slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. And though she didn’t smile, didn’t wave, didn’t move toward him… she didn’t turn away either.

Azriel’s shadows curled like smoke around his boots. “She’s stronger,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Cassian clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Looks like someone’s been taking care of her.”

Azriel nodded once. “Or maybe… she’s been taking care of herself.”

Across the square, she tilted her head, just slightly, and lifted one hand. The sign was small. Barely a motion.

Hello.

And for the first time in weeks, Azriel felt the corners of his mouth lift. Not a smile, exactly. But something close.

Hello, he signed back.

Azriel crossed the square with deliberate steps, not because he feared startling her, not anymore, but because he wasn’t sure how to approach her. Not because of any distance between them, but because he had grown used to watching her from a distance, giving her the space she needed to heal.

As he neared the low fence, she noticed him. She straightened, brushing her palms against her apron once again. There were faint traces of dirt on her cheeks, and her hair was loosely braided, a few strands escaping as she worked. She didn’t seem startled by his presence, but instead looked at him with quiet curiosity, the same way she had the first time he had found her in the woods.

When Azriel reached the edge of the garden, he stopped. He gave her the choice, as he always did, waiting to see what she would do next.

She tilted her head, just slightly, and then without a word, she stepped through the small gate, closing the space between them.

Azriel stood still for a moment, taking in the changes he could see in her. Her face had filled out with strength, the faint weariness in her eyes replaced by something more like calm determination. There was a quiet confidence in the way she held herself, the way she moved between the rows of plants, even as the shadow of her past still lingered in her gaze.

When she stood before him, she didn’t look away. There was no tension in her body, no unease, just an understanding that they were both in this moment together.

Her hands moved, slow but steady. “You came back.”

Azriel’s voice was soft, low. “I wanted to see the village. And see if you were still here.”

For a long moment, she didn’t respond. Then she signed again, more slowly this time, as though careful with her words. “I never left.”

Azriel’s chest tightened at her words. He didn’t know what he had expected, but there was something in her response that settled in him, a quiet kind of peace, maybe. That she had stayed. That she had found a way to stay.

She hesitated, fingers trembling ever so slightly before continuing. “You never asked for my name.”

Azriel felt a pang of realization. He hadn’t asked for her name, hadn’t thought to ask it before. The moment of crisis, of survival, had taken away the small things, the human things. He hadn’t asked, because there hadn’t been space to.

“I didn’t want to ask until you were ready,” he replied quietly.

She regarded him for a long moment, her eyes studying his face, then placed her hand gently over her chest.

“Y/N.”

Azriel repeated the name in his mind, letting it settle like a new melody in his thoughts. He nodded, though his voice was quiet when he spoke again. “Azriel.”

There was no smile, but her lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, a flicker of something there. Maybe it was acknowledgment. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was both.

She then turned slightly, gesturing to the garden around them. “Do you want to see?”

Azriel nodded and followed her through the rows of plants. She led him from one raised bed to the next, pointing out herbs, vegetables, and flowers, thyme, rosemary, young lettuce, and the beginnings of carrots and squash. With every motion, she signed the name of the plant, and Azriel followed her hands, his gaze not on the plants but on the rhythm of her movements. The way her hands danced through the air as if she had been doing this all her life.

At one point, Y/N handed him a small wooden trowel, her expression one of quiet challenge. Azriel accepted it, and with a slow, deliberate motion, crouched beside her, taking his time as he began to dig gently into the earth. Together, in silence, they planted a row of small sprouts.

There was no rush. No expectation. Just the quiet work of two souls who, for this moment, shared something that wasn’t spoken aloud but was understood.

After some time, Y/N stood and wiped her hands on her apron. She didn’t look at Azriel immediately but glanced down at the garden, a small flicker of something passing over her face. When she finally did look back at him, there was no sadness in her expression. No fear.

Just quiet contentment.

Azriel’s shadows, which had settled low around him, shifted lightly at his feet, as if aware of the change in the air between them. The space between them felt less like distance, less like hesitation, and more like a soft, growing connection.

For the first time since he’d found her in the woods, Azriel allowed himself to believe in the possibility of what could come next, in the small, steady steps forward, and in the quiet trust that was beginning to blossom between them.

The village of Emberon was slowly coming back to life. The faint hum of hammers and chisels filled the air as more homes were rebuilt, children played in the dirt streets, and the scent of fresh bread wafted from a small bakery on the corner. Azriel walked beside Y/N, his shadows swirling at his heels, as she led him toward the place she had called home since her recovery. It was a modest house, but to her, it was a sanctuary. The early evening sun bathed the streets in golden light as they made their way through the village, Azriel glancing at the quiet houses and newly constructed buildings.

"I can't believe it's finally coming together," Azriel murmured quietly, his tone soft as he looked around at the rebuilding.

Y/N gave him a smile, though it was subtle, and motioned toward the direction of her house with a small wave of her hand. She signed quickly, and Azriel nodded, catching the gist of her words. "I’m proud of it. Of what’s been built here."

They had been walking in silence, and Azriel found comfort in the stillness, the sense of normalcy beginning to return to the village. His mind drifted as they walked, but it was broken by the sound of raised voices from down the street. His sharp eyes cut through the crowd, and he spotted Cassian and Rhysand talking to a tall fae male, a general from another region, right outside one of the shops. The conversation seemed to be heated, and Cassian’s boisterous voice was hard to miss even from a distance.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then gestured for Azriel to follow her toward the group. She wanted to show him her new home, but there was no harm in saying hello. As they approached, Cassian turned and spotted them immediately, his grin widening at the sight of Y/N.

“Well, well, look who it is!” Cassian called, his voice booming across the street. He took a few steps forward, his eyes scanning her, noticing her calm but wary demeanor. “How are you?”

Azriel stood back a little, watching as Y/N stepped forward to respond. She raised her hands, signing rapidly, and Azriel moved closer to her side. His shadows drifted around her, a constant comfort, as he translated her words for Cassian.

“She says she’s doing better,” Azriel said softly. “She’s settling in.”

Cassian nodded, his expression softening. “That’s good to hear. You know, we’ve been working hard to help everyone here. You’ve got a good home now.”

Y/N signed again, this time more slowly, and Azriel watched as her hands moved fluidly. He translated for her again, the words flowing as she spoke.

“She’s thankful for everything that’s been done,” Azriel said, glancing back at Cassian. “But she still remembers everything. It’s hard to move past it all, even if she has a place of her own.”

Rhysand, who had been quiet up until now, stepped forward, his violet eyes locking with Y/N. The breeze shifted as the power of his Daemati abilities sparked in the air around him. Without a word, Rhysand reached out, connecting with her mind. Azriel’s brow furrowed as he watched, instinctively stepping back, sensing the power at play. He couldn’t hear their conversation, and neither could Cassian, but it was clear what was happening.

Y/N’s eyes softened as Rhysand’s voice entered her thoughts, and Azriel felt a strange mix of emotions as he watched her respond, her lips moving slightly, but not making a sound.

“You’ve helped so many here, Rhysand,” Y/N’s voice came, quiet but clear in Rhysand's mind. “Without you, and without Azriel and his shadows, I probably wouldn’t be here.”

Azriel felt the weight of their conversation in his chest, but he couldn’t hear what they said. He didn’t need to. The connection between the two of them, that subtle shift in her expression, told him everything he needed to know. There was a tenderness in the way Y/N held herself, a gratitude so deep that Azriel felt it resonate with his own heart.

Suddenly, Rhysand broke through the mental connection, his voice cutting through the air for all to hear, loud and firm.

“It’s our responsibility,” Rhysand said, his voice carrying over the conversation. “To protect, to help, and to make sure this never happens again. We will rebuild this place, just like we’ve rebuilt so many others.”

Azriel stood still, his eyes focused on Y/N’s reaction. She blinked, as though Rhysand’s words were just as powerful in her mind as they were in the air, and she gave a small nod. It was as though she had heard it all before, and yet, it still made a difference to her.

Y/N turned to face them, her hands moving again. She signed with slow, graceful gestures, her fingers weaving through the air as she asked Azriel to translate.

“She’s offering us food,” Azriel said with a small smile, his voice quieter now. “She wants us to come to her place. A quick meal.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “I’m not turning down a free meal,” he said, his voice teasing.

Azriel glanced at Y/N, who smiled at Cassian's words. Then, with a subtle nod, she turned toward her home, motioning for them to follow.

Rhysand’s eyes lingered on the village for a moment before he turned to follow them. “Lead the way, Y/N. We’ll be happy to join you.”

Azriel, trailing behind, allowed his shadows to flow around him like a cloak. He could feel the weight of the day lifting, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the meal or because Y/N had invited them into her world. They had done what they could for her, for the village, but it was clear that her journey was far from over. Still, there was a small flicker of hope in the air, a belief that maybe, just maybe, she could begin again.

The inside of Y/N's house was simple, yet welcoming. The small kitchen area had a hearth where a pot of stew simmered on the flames, filling the air with a savory aroma. The furniture was modest but carefully placed, and the warmth of her home was a stark contrast to the cold, barren village Azriel had found her in all those weeks ago. The stone walls were lined with fresh herbs, and small touches of color from woven fabrics gave it a sense of life.

Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel stood near the entrance, surveying the space. Cassian was running his hand along the rough wooden shelves, his eyes scanning the room for anything that stood out. He noticed a few things still left unfinished, some shelves that weren’t fully mounted, a small pile of firewood in the corner that needed to be stacked.

Rhysand’s eyes were softer than usual as he observed the place. The High Lord of the Night Court was always in command, always exuding a certain distance, but here, in the quiet of Y/N’s home, something in him softened. He turned his attention to her, and his voice was gentle as he reached out to her mind.

“Y/N,” Rhysand’s voice was like a whisper in her thoughts. “Would you like us to help finish anything here? We could take care of the shelves or the firewood, whatever you need.”

Y/N paused for a moment, considering the offer, but then signed in a quick, dismissive motion as she shook her head. She wanted to refuse, her hands moving gracefully in the air as she said to Azriel, who translated for the group.

“She says she couldn’t possibly ask for the High Lord of the Night Court to do something like that,” Azriel said with a chuckle, his voice warm as he glanced toward Rhysand. “She’s too proud.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, letting out a soft laugh. “Don’t worry, Y/N,” he said aloud, his voice echoing in the small space. “I won’t put my hands on anything. But Cassian over here”, he grinned slyly, “he’ll do all the work.”

Cassian’s eyes widened in mock horror. “What?” he grumbled. “I don’t even know how to-”

Before Cassian could protest further, Rhysand just waved a hand dismissively, clearly enjoying the banter. Azriel couldn’t help but grin a little as he watched the two of them, but his attention soon shifted as Y/N turned back to the stove, checking on the stew.

Azriel gave the room one last sweep and noticed that Y/N had already begun setting the table for the meal. He could see the care she’d put into everything, but there was still a certain sense of unfinished business, the house wasn’t quite complete, and the simple details spoke volumes about how much she had left to do.

He moved toward her, not wanting to stand idle. “I’ll help with the stew,” Azriel offered quietly, his voice low but steady.

Y/N glanced at him, a smile playing at the corner of her lips before she nodded. She handed him the ladle to stir the pot, and Azriel did so with ease, his attention on the bubbling stew. He caught the faint scent of vegetables and spices, his mouth watering slightly. The sounds of Cassian and Rhysand’s conversation in the background faded as he focused on the simple task of preparing the meal.

Once the stew was ready, Y/N began ladling it into bowls with precise, careful movements, her hands flowing through the motions as if she had done it a thousand times. Azriel stood by, ready to help, and as she placed the bowls on the counter, he moved to take them and set them on the table.

But just as he was about to move, one of his shadows seemed to get in his way. It darted out from behind him, swirling in front of his hands like an unruly piece of cloth. He tried to move past it, but it lingered, twining in front of him like it had a mind of its own. His focus was split for just a moment, and before he realized it, the stew spilled over the edge of the bowl, splashing onto his hands.

Azriel cursed under his breath, grimacing as the hot liquid seared his skin. He jumped back, quickly wiping his hands on the towel he had nearby. The sting of the burn made his jaw tighten, but it wasn’t unbearable. He muttered a curse to himself, knowing it was his own fault for not being more mindful.

“Damn shadows,” he told them, low and to himself, not realizing how loud his thoughts were as he cursed.

But then, just as he was preparing to move the bowl again, a cold, wet cloth pressed gently to his hand. Azriel froze, his brow furrowing in confusion as he looked up to see Y/N, who had come to his side without him even realizing. She was focused, her hands working quickly to press the towel to his injured skin.

Azriel blinked in surprise. “How did you-”

Y/N’s gaze met his, and she tilted her head, her brow furrowed in concern. She seemed to sense his confusion and signed back to him, her hands moving slowly and deliberately as she explained.

“I heard you,” she signed carefully. “I could hear you talking to yourself. I thought... I thought you were in pain.”

Azriel’s breath hitched. He had been speaking to himself, yes, but there was no way she could have heard him. Wasn’t it just his internal thoughts? She couldn't have—

“Wait,” he asked, his voice a little unsure, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You... you heard me?”

Y/N nodded, a flicker of confusion in her own eyes. She signed again.

“You were talking to your shadows. I heard it. Are you okay?”

Azriel’s mouth went dry, and his mind raced. He had been speaking to his shadows, sure, but the fact that she could hear him... that was something else entirely. He had never imagined that someone who couldn’t speak could somehow hear his thoughts. It was impossible... but then again, this was Y/N.

Azriel paused for a moment, staring at her, trying to process everything. “Can you hear... my thoughts? Like how Rhysand can?”

Y/N’s brow furrowed even more in confusion, and she signed again, this time slower, as if trying to make sense of it herself.

“I don’t know. I just... I could hear you. In my mind. Can you hear me, too?”

Azriel blinked, feeling the faintest ripple of something he couldn’t explain, something new between them. “I... I think I can.”

He wasn’t sure how it worked, or why it was happening, but as he stood there, with the cold cloth still pressed to his hand, a strange connection started to form. He could hear her in his head, her thoughts were as clear as if she had spoken aloud.

Azriel’s mouth went dry as he turned to her, unsure whether to be thrilled or confused. “This... this is new.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a small, unsure smile. She signed once more.

“Maybe it’s something we share now. I’m not sure.”

Azriel smiled faintly, looking down at his hand, which no longer burned from the hot stew. His shadows had settled, and his mind was still spinning. But in that moment, he felt something shift between them, something tangible and warm.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly, feeling more at ease than he had in weeks. “Together.”

Y/N nodded, and Azriel couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope rise in his chest. Maybe this was a new beginning, one where she didn’t have to remain silent anymore.

────────────

The sun had already dipped behind the hills, casting the village in soft lavender hues when Azriel knocked gently on Y/N’s door. A cool breeze stirred the leaves in the trees outside, rustling just loud enough to be noticed. Her home, tucked between two larger cottages near the outer edge of the rebuilt village, was bathed in the golden light of a few lanterns within.

Y/N opened the door before he could knock again, her expression neutral at first, but softening immediately at the sight of him. She stepped aside wordlessly, inviting him in.

Azriel stepped inside, the warmth of her home wrapping around him like a soft blanket. It smelled faintly of dried herbs, pinewood, and something sweet.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked him, speaking gently into his mind.

He nodded. “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”

A flicker of warmth crossed her face as she moved into the small kitchen area, setting a kettle on the iron stove. From a wooden drawer she pulled out a small tin and opened it, releasing the delicate fragrance of her favorite blend, peppermint, chamomile, and rose hip. The colors were beautiful in the low light: deep green leaves, pale yellow petals, rich crimson fruit. She dropped them into a small teapot and poured hot water over them.

Azriel watched her from a nearby chair, silent, but something about the domesticity of it, her careful movements, the quiet ritual of preparing something comforting, felt oddly intimate. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this kind of quiet.

When the tea had steeped, she poured two cups and handed him one. Their fingers brushed briefly. He muttered a soft “thank you,” and she nodded, taking her seat by the hearth, gesturing for him to join her.

They sipped in silence for a few minutes, letting the warmth of the drink settle into their bones. Then, she looked up at him, her gaze sharp but kind.

“You’re troubled,” she said into his mind, gently, without judgment.

Azriel leaned back, his fingers wrapped around the cup, wings slightly hunched behind him. “I’ve been thinking. About… this. You and me. Whatever this is.”

She didn’t interrupt. Just waited, eyes steady on his.

“It’s not a mating bond,” he said slowly. “At least, I don’t think it is. I’ve read everything I could find on the subject over the years. I thought… I hoped I’d recognize it instantly, if it ever happened. I would know. But this...” He paused. “It feels different.”

Y/N’s eyes didn’t leave his. Her mental voice was quiet, steady. “It’s not a mating bond.”

Azriel stiffened, then nodded once. “You’re sure?”

“I had one once,” she said. The words slid gently into his thoughts, but their weight landed heavily. “A true mating bond. I rejected it.”

His brows drew together. He set the cup down, leaning forward. “Why?”

“Because he was cruel. Manipulative. He wanted to break me, not cherish me.” Her hands remained folded in her lap, but her voice in his head was calm. “The bond was there, yes. But I would rather walk alone than be bound to someone like him.”

Azriel’s chest ached. He shifted to sit across from her now, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “And yet,” he said, “you and I… we have something.”

“We do.”

“I can speak to you without sound. You can answer. It’s not like what you have with Rhys, I can’t do that with anyone else. And you can’t do it with anyone else, either, can you?”

She shook her head. “Only you. And Rhys, because of what he is. But with you… it’s different. Easier. Natural.”

He studied her face, her stillness, the way her shadows always seemed to draw nearer when he was near her. “Maybe it’s the shadows,” she offered softly. “They understand me. I’ve always felt like they listened when no one else could. Maybe they… carry me to you.”

Azriel looked down. His own shadows curled at his ankles, one brushing the hem of her skirt. They didn’t pull away. If anything, they seemed... content. Restful.

“You might be right,” he admitted. “I’ve never known them to behave like this before. They whisper to me, warn me, guide me… but they’ve never connected me to someone like this.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Do you think they’re giving you something you didn’t know you needed?”

The question was quiet, but it dug in deep. Azriel looked up, met her eyes, and for a moment, it felt like she’d peeled back every layer he spent a lifetime guarding.

“Maybe,” he said finally, his voice low even in his own mind. “Maybe they are.”

Y/N’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, but something just as kind. She reached for the teapot, poured them both another cup.

And as they sat there, in the fading evening light with the scent of peppermint and rose hip between them, neither spoke aloud.

They didn’t need to.

The air between them shifted, thick with unspoken words. The warmth from their tea had settled into the bones of the small cottage, but Azriel couldn’t shake the feeling that something heavy lingered in the space between them. He’d always known Y/N was a survivor, that there was more to her silence than met the eye, but he hadn’t pushed, until now.

The shadows at his feet coiled tighter, drawn to the quiet stillness of the room. He could feel them, just as he could feel the weight of her presence. She was stronger than she realized, but there were cracks in her walls. Azriel’s mind lingered on those cracks, and the realization hit him hard: She has a story. And I need to hear it.

“Y/N,” Azriel began, his voice quiet but steady, “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to, but... I need to ask. Were you always mute?”

She paused, her fingers gently tracing the edge of her teacup. Her eyes fell to her lap, and for a moment, he feared she would close off completely, retreating into herself. But then, slowly, she looked up at him. The silent communication between them was a delicate thread now, one she grasped without hesitation. And for a brief second, Azriel saw the rawness behind her calm facade.

“No,” she said, her mental voice soft, laced with pain. “I wasn’t always like this.”

Azriel leaned forward, sensing that this was the moment where the walls would either crumble or solidify. He said nothing more, allowing her the space to share her story on her terms.

She inhaled deeply before speaking again, her voice now shaking, though still only audible to him. “I was born into a family that was... never safe. My parents were good people, I think. But the world around us was always breaking, always trying to tear us apart. I was just a little girl, caught in the chaos.” Her mind drifted for a moment, eyes looking past him, as if seeing something Azriel couldn’t.

“When I was young, our village was attacked, too. They came at night, burning homes, ripping families apart. My parents were taken from me, pulled from my arms while I was screaming, too loud, too helpless. They told me to be quiet. They told me that if I made a sound, I would die like them.”

Azriel’s heart twisted painfully at her words, at the way she spoke with such quiet certainty of loss. But what struck him the most was the calmness in her voice, as though she had long ago resigned herself to the horrors she had lived through.

Her mind continued, and the weight of her trauma filled every thought. “After they... they killed them, the others came for me and my sister. They said they’d cut out my tongue if I ever screamed. They said I was worthless if I didn’t learn to obey, to shut up. And they made sure I understood by threatening to do it right there.”

Y/N’s eyes squeezed shut, the pain almost palpable even though it was confined within her mind. Azriel could see the shadows at her feet, as if they, too, felt her anguish. He reached for his own, needing the connection, needing to hold something tangible as her memories bled through their shared silence.

“They locked us away. Kept us in a room, chained to a wall. And every time I tried to make a sound, anything, there were punishments. Whips. Swords. It didn’t matter. The message was clear: Don’t speak. Don’t make a sound. And after a while... I couldn’t anymore. I was so terrified. Every time I tried, it felt like my voice was gone.”

She paused, the heaviness of her confession suffocating the air between them. Azriel could feel it, could see it in her eyes. The tears that had never fallen, the silent scream she could never release.

She looked at him now, her eyes full of something else, resignation, but also a quiet, unyielding strength. “It’s like my voice was stolen. It’s not just fear anymore. It’s like my body just... refuses. Even now, if I try to speak, nothing comes out. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

The silence that followed was deep, and Azriel felt like the room itself had stopped breathing. His hands clenched into fists, the sharp ache of helplessness pulling through his chest. What she had been through, what she still carried, was unimaginable. And yet, she was still here. Alive. Still fighting.

Azriel didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there were words to make this right. Instead, he took a slow breath, pushing through the growing ache. “You don’t have to fix it, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice rougher than usual. “You don’t have to speak for me to understand you.”

Her eyes flickered with something like relief, but she didn’t respond. She just closed the space between them, a tentative touch to his arm, her hand resting there, silent but full of meaning.

“I just…” she thought, her mental voice hesitant, “I want to be heard. In my own way. To be understood.”

Azriel reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. He didn’t need to speak aloud. He didn’t need to fill the silence with words. Instead, he let her know, through the bond they shared — through the shadows and his steady presence — that she was heard.

Azriel sat in stillness for a moment longer, watching the way her fingers curled around her teacup as if grounding herself through the warmth. The weight of her story still hung in the room, but there was something new now, a vulnerability she hadn’t shown before, and the trust it took to reveal it.

He shifted slightly, resting his arms on his knees. His voice came quiet, thoughtful, each word etched with a heaviness he didn’t try to hide.

“Aren’t you afraid,” he asked gently, “that something like that might happen again?”

Her head lifted at that, her eyes meeting his, not startled, not offended. Just honest. He hesitated, then continued.

“It happened again, Y/N. Just a few weeks ago. That night I found you... bound, bleeding. Alone.”

The shadows at his back flickered restlessly, echoing the unease he barely contained.

She was quiet for a long time before her voice slipped into his mind, soft and sure. “Yes. I’m afraid.”

She didn’t try to hide it. And the admission, simple as it was, carved deeper into Azriel than any scream ever could.

“But I trust Rhysand,” she added. “This village matters to him. To you. I believe he’ll keep us safe.”

Azriel’s jaw flexed as he looked at her, at the softness of her features, the hard-earned strength beneath. The shadows whispered against his skin, tugging at him, as if echoing what he was about to say.

He took a breath, ran a hand through his hair, and then asked what had been weighing on him since the day he left the village: “Would you come to Velaris?”

Y/N blinked, taken aback, her fingers going still against her cup.

“It’s safer there,” Azriel said quickly, before she could answer. “The city is protected. Guarded. No one would touch you. I could take you there. You’d be safe.”

He didn’t say I’d sleep better knowing you’re behind those wards. He didn’t say I think about you more than I should. But it was all there, in the way his voice dipped, the way his shadows hovered near her like they were drawn to her pain, her quiet strength.

Y/N’s thoughts reached him after a moment, hesitant but clear. “I can’t abandon them.”

Azriel frowned slightly, but said nothing as she continued.

“These people… they stayed. They rebuilt this place together. With blood on the ground and ash in their mouths, they still stood. I can’t leave them behind.”

He nodded slowly. He understood, more than she could know. Still, he leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “But you can’t scream for help.”

He hated the sound of that truth aloud. “If something were to happen again-”

“Then maybe,” she cut in gently, “you could teach me how to stay safe.”

Azriel blinked. Her eyes met his, unwavering. There was no fear in them now, only quiet determination.

The shadows stilled.

“You want me to train you?” he asked, surprise flickering through his voice.

She nodded. “I don’t want to be helpless again. I don’t want to rely on someone hearing me. I want to be able to protect myself… and others too.”

Azriel’s mouth curved — not quite a smile, but something close. “Alright.” His voice was gravel and warmth. “Then tomorrow, we begin.”

And even though she said nothing aloud, he felt the quiet warmth ripple across their bond, gratitude, fierce and radiant, and beneath it, something new: Hope.

────────────

The sun had just begun to dip behind the Sidra, painting Velaris in shades of gold and lavender as Starfall’s first shimmering streaks whispered across the sky.

At the House of Wind, laughter and warmth swirled through the grand dining hall like old music. Lanterns floated gently above the long table, casting soft hues of blue and violet over wine glasses and golden plates. The Inner Circle was gathered, every one of them dressed in star-kissed silks or tailored leathers, the room buzzing with anticipation, except for one lingering question.

“Why aren’t we eating?” Nesta asked, arms folded, her patience thinning as she eyed the untouched food on the table. She looked radiant tonight, as always, in midnight blue, like she belonged among the stars themselves.

Rhysand, lounging at the head of the table with Feyre nestled beside him, smiled with that infuriating calm of his. “Because,” he said smoothly, “Azriel is picking someone up.”

Cassian, who had just downed a sip of wine, leaned back in his chair and smirked. “You mean Azriel and his girlfriend.”

Mor nearly choked on her drink, eyes sparkling. “Wait, seriously? Are they…?”

She left the question open, eyebrows raised toward Rhysand.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced toward the open balcony, where the night sky had begun to stir with faint threads of starlight. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, thoughtful. “I don’t know what to call it,” he said. “But I can feel it. Whatever is between them, it’s real. And different.”

Amren, perched near the end of the table, narrowed her silver eyes. “He shares something with her he doesn’t with any of us. That much is clear.”

Feyre nodded softly, brushing her fingers along the stem of her glass. “I’ve seen it, too. The way his shadows behave around her, like they’re part of her now.”

The conversation faded into a hush as a faint sound stirred from the hall, the rustle of boots on stone, the quiet press of wings folding behind them.

The door opened, and Azriel stepped inside, dressed in soft black, his Siphons gleaming like frozen stars on his hands and shoulders. At his side walked Y/N.

She wore deep forest green with a shimmer of silver woven into the fabric, nothing elaborate, but breathtaking in its simplicity. A small braid was pinned behind her ear, and her gaze moved over the Inner Circle with a calm steadiness that held no fear. Only curiosity. And quiet strength.

Azriel kept close beside her, a shadow brushing along her arm like it was anchoring her, or maybe the other way around.

Rhysand stood first, his smile genuine. “Welcome.”

Y/N bowed her head gently in greeting, and though she didn’t speak, she didn’t need to — the way her eyes met each of theirs, full of quiet warmth and gratitude, said enough.

“Thank you,” her voice echoed gently into Rhysand’s mind. “For letting me be here.”

Rhysand inclined his head with a smile, then turned toward the rest of the room. “Shall we eat now, Nesta?”

Nesta rolled her eyes, though a smirk played at her lips.

Cassian was already rising to his feet, nudging a chair out beside him. “Come sit, Az. And Y/N, we saved the good bread for you.”

Mor beamed as Y/N took a seat beside Azriel, the shadows around him curling like smoke in moonlight, peaceful for the first time in days.

And outside, the stars began to fall, like silver rain from the heavens, silent and endless.

Dinner was laughter, the clink of glasses, warm candlelight, and the shimmer of magic laced in the air.

Y/N sat quietly between Azriel and Feyre, a faint smile on her lips as she watched the easy rhythm of the Inner Circle, the way Cassian teased Mor with flicks of bread rolls, the way Amren rolled her eyes and muttered about “children,” even though the corners of her lips were quirked in amusement.

“Did Azriel tell you,” Cassian said mid-chew, gesturing toward Y/N with his fork, “that he threatened three construction workers last week for letting a hammer fall too close to your garden?”

Azriel, without looking up from his plate, said calmly, “I told them to be more careful.”

“You said,” Mor mimicked in a deadly-serious tone, “‘Drop that again and I’ll rip your arms off and bury them in the herb bed.’” She grinned at Y/N. “We were all there.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly in amusement, then her hands moved, quick, fluid gestures of her fingers.

Feyre laughed, translating instinctively, “She says the hammer didn’t even touch the ground.”

Azriel’s lip twitched.

“I told you,” Cassian said, pointing his fork again. “Absolutely whipped.”

Azriel didn’t argue. He just raised a brow and flicked a shadow toward Cassian’s wine, tipping the cup ever-so-slightly.

Y/N caught the movement and bit back a laugh, shaking her head as if to say boys.

The Inner Circle was basking in warmth, and Y/N felt the unfamiliar but comforting sensation of being part of something, even if she mostly listened. Still, she didn’t feel apart from them. Not tonight.

Azriel stayed close at her side, his shadows uncharacteristically calm. Every so often, he’d lean in, not out of necessity, but as if it was simply his instinct now.

When Cassian launched into another embellished story about Mor and a bakery brawl years ago, Y/N turned slightly toward Azriel and caught his eye.

“Are they always like this?” she asked in his mind, her tone dry, amused.

Azriel’s lips curved faintly. “This is tame. Wait until Cassian’s had three more glasses of wine and starts dancing.”

She laughed silently, a soft sparkle lighting her eyes.

“You’ve changed,” she added after a moment, more hesitantly now. “Since the night you found me. You seem… lighter.”

Azriel turned his head to her, searching her face in the flickering glow. “Maybe because you’re here. And safe. It’s easier to breathe when I know that.”

Across the table, a pair of sharp silver eyes were watching them closely.

Amren said nothing. She swirled the deep red wine in her goblet and observed the pair, the way they seemed to speak without a sound, how Azriel’s shoulders loosened when he was with Y/N, how Y/N’s expressions shifted as though full conversations were happening in silence.

There was something deeper there. Not a mating bond, she’d known enough of those to recognize it, but something… older. Stranger.

When dessert arrived, Amren stood without a word.

Feyre glanced over. “You’re not staying?”

“I have something to look into,” Amren replied, her tone clipped as always, though her eyes flicked once more to Azriel and Y/N before she turned. “Something I should’ve thought of sooner.”

And then she was gone, shadows slipping behind her as she vanished from the dining hall, no doubt heading toward the library’s oldest corners.

Back at the table, Y/N noticed Azriel watching Amren leave. She nudged his arm gently, tilting her head.

“Everything alright?”

He shook his head once. “With her, who knows.” But his eyes softened when he looked back at her. “You okay?”

Y/N nodded. “I’m more than okay. This is the first time in… years… that I feel like I’m not surviving. I’m just living.”

Azriel blinked slowly, something fierce and fragile sparking behind his eyes.

Then, almost without thinking, he reached under the table, just a brush of his pinky finger against hers, a quiet promise. She stilled, and then wrapped her fingers around his.

Later, when most of the Inner Circle had drifted to other corners of the House of Wind, some to sip wine by the fire, others to dance beneath the starlight, Azriel and Y/N slipped away to one of the balconies.

They said nothing for a while. They didn’t need to.

Y/N leaned against the stone railing, gazing up at the stars as they fell in slow, glowing streaks. The sky shimmered with ancient magic, vast and silver-blue and full of unspoken dreams. Her hair moved gently in the breeze, and Azriel, standing just behind her, watched as one of his shadows twined itself around her wrist like a ribbon, then flitted away as if shy.

She turned to him after a moment, her voice touching his mind in that soft, singular way.

“Is it always like this?”

Azriel shook his head. “Some years, the stars fall slower. Sometimes the wind carries them in spirals. This… this is rare.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes reflecting the light. “Then I’m glad I’m seeing it like this. With you.”

A pause.

He looked at her, really looked, as if this was the first time he could, uninterrupted by fear or pain or the weight of everything else they’d survived.

“I thought I knew what I was looking for,” Azriel murmured. “All these centuries. I thought I’d know the shape of it when it came.”

Her brows lifted, curious.

He stepped closer, slowly, giving her time, space, always.

“But this,” he said, voice lower now. “This wasn’t what I expected. It’s not a mating bond. It’s not fire. It’s… quiet. Like peace. Like my shadows finally have nothing to warn me about.”

She didn’t speak to his mind immediately. Instead, she reached out, just barely, and brushed her fingers against his.

Azriel’s eyes darkened as they held hers.

“Then maybe,” she said gently in his mind, “you weren’t looking for fire. Maybe you were always looking for quiet.”

The words landed like a balm across a scar.

Slowly, deliberately, Azriel lifted one hand and cupped her jaw. His thumb skimmed the curve of her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Her breath caught, eyes wide and shining.

When he leaned in, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t claimed. It was reverent.

Their lips met beneath the falling stars - soft, slow, warm.

Y/N exhaled into him, and Azriel breathed her in like he had waited a lifetime to do so.

Above them, a shooting star blazed past, brighter than the rest. And for a moment, time stilled.

When they parted, Y/N rested her forehead against his chest, her mind brushing his again with a whisper: “You make me feel safe.”

Azriel’s hands trembled just slightly where they held her.

“I will always keep you safe,” he murmured aloud. “No matter where you are.”

The stars were still falling when the soft click of the balcony door stirred them from their shared silence.

Azriel turned first, instinctively, his shadows twitching before settling as the figure stepped into view.

Amren.

She looked… different. Not in appearance, still timeless, still clothed in midnight silk and draped in something sharper than elegance, but there was an intensity in her silver eyes that hadn’t been there at dinner.

“I thought I’d find you two out here,” she said, folding her arms. “You’ve become rather inseparable.”

Y/N straightened slightly, unsure if she should step back from Azriel, but his hand remained gently over hers, grounding, not possessive. She didn’t move.

Amren strode to the balcony’s edge, glancing once at the sky, then at them again.

“I saw the way you were interacting tonight,” she said plainly. “The way you speak without sound, how your magic knows each other before you do. It reminded me of something I once read. A long, long time ago.”

Azriel narrowed his eyes. “You went to the library.”

Amren’s mouth twisted into something half-smirk, half-snarl. “Of course I did. I don’t like mysteries I can’t name. And what you two have-” she waved a hand vaguely between them, “-is not a mating bond.”

Y/N’s brows drew together. Amren turned her gaze to her.

“No, girl, it’s not a bond of body or desire. But it is powerful. And old.”

She paused, and for once, the silence was heavy.

“It’s called a thirren bond,” Amren said at last, voice quieter. “From a language lost before Velaris was even built. It only happens under very rare, specific circumstances. Two souls, both fractured, but not by fate, like mates. By experience. By grief. And sometimes, when the cracks align just so…”

Her gaze swept between them again, sharp and unreadable. “They fill each other.”

Azriel’s voice was low. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

Amren tilted her head. “It means you share more than thoughts. You share… knowing. Not just emotions or whispers. You don’t complete each other. You comprehend each other. There’s no hierarchy. No instinct to dominate or claim. It’s a conscious harmony. A chosen one.”

Y/N stared at her, mind gently spinning.

Azriel was quiet beside her, shadows curling slowly at his feet.

“But it’s rare,” Amren continued. “Rarer than any mating bond. Most fae don’t even believe in it anymore. Because it requires pain. It requires survival. And a willingness to connect that deeply without being compelled.”

She stepped back toward the door, her words falling like stones.

“So whatever this is between you,” she said, “don’t waste it trying to label it with something lesser.”

Then she turned and disappeared into the hallway, her scent fading with the soft click of the door.

Silence fell again.

Azriel looked over at Y/N.

Her eyes were distant, thoughtful.

“Do you believe her?” he asked gently, his mind brushing hers.

Y/N looked at him then, searching his face, the raw honesty in it, the care.

And she nodded once.

“I think we already knew. We just didn’t have a name for it.”

Azriel stepped closer, reaching for her hand again.

And this time, when their fingers laced together, it felt like confirmation. Not the beginning, not even the middle, but something ancient finally remembered.

The night air was cool, laced with starfall’s faint shimmer. They stood close, quiet in the wake of Amren’s revelation, both of them turning it over in their minds like a precious, fragile truth.

Y/N’s gaze lingered on the distant hills beyond Velaris, her expression thoughtful but unreadable. Then, finally, she turned to Azriel.

“What does this mean for us?” Her mental voice was soft, tentative. “This… thirren bond?”

Azriel looked at her for a long moment. His shadows were quiet now, as if they, too, were listening.

“I don’t know exactly,” he admitted, brushing his thumb gently across her knuckles. “But I know what it feels like.”

He searched her face, his voice a low murmur in her mind. “It feels like I’m not carrying the weight of the world alone anymore.”

A soft, trembling smile curved Y/N’s lips, and her eyes flicked down to their hands, still laced together.

“I feel that too,” she said. “But it’s not just the bond.”

Azriel’s head tilted, curiosity blooming in his features.

She looked up at him then, eyes lit with quiet fire.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” she said. “Not because of the connection. But because of you. Because of how gentle you are with me. How patient. How you see me without needing me to explain every broken piece.”

Azriel stilled, just for a breath, shadows curling gently at his shoulders, like they’d heard something sacred.

Then he stepped a fraction closer, his voice brushing against her mind with warmth.

“I’m falling too.”

Her breath caught as he reached up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“I’ve been trying not to rush,” he whispered aloud this time. “Trying to give you space, especially after you said you didn’t want to leave the village.”

Y/N gave a small, almost sheepish smile — the kind that crinkled the corner of her eyes and made something bloom in his chest.

“Maybe I changed my mind,” she teased softly. “Maybe I want to come to Velaris. To be closer to you.”

Azriel’s heart stumbled.

“You do?”

She nodded, her smile widening just a little.

Azriel let out a breath, more like a laugh, really, one of disbelief and gratitude mingled, before he cupped her cheek in one hand and leaned in.

This kiss was slower than the one beneath the stars earlier. Deeper. A quiet promise shared under falling starlight, between two people who had once lived in silence and shadow, and now found peace in each other’s presence.

When they parted, their foreheads resting together, Azriel whispered, “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

“I think I do,” Y/N whispered back into his mind, her fingers brushing his cheek.

They stayed like that a while longer, wrapped in each other, beneath the gentle rain of stars, knowing that whatever this bond was, it was theirs to define.

Together.

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wilwheaton · 1 year ago

Quote

In a long essay about the televised incident, Wheaton makes a lot of salient, emotionally vulnerable points about his reaction to David’s stunt, tying it in to memories of parental abuse he suffered as a kid—pointing out, among other things, that, within the agreed-upon fiction that we all adhere to pretty fervently around all things Muppet or Muppet-related, Elmo is a child. Writing, Wheaton notes that “Elmo is an avatar for children all over the world. Children who are too small to understand Elmo is a puppet will know that a man attacked someone they love for no reason, and that will frighten and confuse them.”

Wil Wheaton condemns Larry David for his Elmo-based violence

This story is a week old, and has blown up today. The right wing smoothbrains are out in force, doing their usual thing, until they get distracted by the existence of a successful woman somewhere in the world and have to go rage against that.

I don’t know why this is happening today. I don’t know why right wing clout chasing incels have decided to make this their Thing today. It’s all very confusing, especially a week after the fact.

But I want to put something here that I added to my post on Facebook, that those dudes (it’s always dudes whose entire personality is “MONSTER ENERGY DRINKS!”) need to hear but won’t understand:

A lot of us who had the same visceral reaction to a grown man putting his hands on a child (Elmo is 4 years old) in anger, without consent, and then laughing about it all share an experience that you should be grateful you don't share with us. And when you say your shitty little toxic and cruel thing, when you reduce the whole thing to a puppet and a joke, you're doing to us what the adults around us did when we were kids. And it hurts all over again. Are you really someone who wants to hurt another person simply because you can? Maybe take the impulse to be a jerk and redirect it into being grateful you have no idea why this is so upsetting to so many of us.

Larry David put his hands on another performer, without consent, in a segment he was not part of. That, alone, is not okay. It is not EVER okay. The fact that so many people don’t get that, or are deliberately choosing NOT to get that, is telling.

But as I said, Elmo is a child, and he is a friend to children, so all the kids whose parents were watching the Today Show with them, because Elmo was on to talk about sharing big feelings and caring for your mental health, got to watch this man storm into a set, and angrily attack Elmo.

That’s indefensible behavior, and calling me names doesn’t change that.

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thetriumphantpanda · 2 months ago

Text

take me to florida | joel miller

summary | turning up on his doorstep covered in blood was not was Joel had expected of you, and when you open your mouth, he expects it even less. There's a shitstorm in Texas you both have to escape from, but how long can it last?

pairing | Joel Miller x F!Reader

word count | 4,496

warnings | it's a lot. Descriptions of murder (stabbing), blood, violence, domestic violence and the death penalty (yeah idk either don't ask), basically reader does a bad thing to someone who did bad things to her. One singular slap (reader to Joel). Mentions of adultery and cheating. Explicit smut - grinding/dry-humping, fingering, rough sex, biting, squirting. No use of y/n. No outbreak AU.

authors note | *taps mic* is this thing on? Hi! It's been a whilst hasn't it?! I've been doing life, enjoying being offline and in love and all of that stuff, but the new series has my brain WHIRLING and I wanted to share this with you all. I wrote most of this back in the autumn last year and was inspired to finish it, so here you go. Let me know if I've still got it! As always if you enjoy this, please like, reblog, comment or scream in my ask box. I've missed you.

Divider by the wonderful @saradika-graphics

It’s viscous, dripping down the back of your hand, seeping through the webbing of your fingers. Crimson staining the floor as it drips from the tip of the knife, pooling around the body, slumped against the wall now. Your limbs are heavy, vice grip on the handle easing, arm dropping to your side as the knife clatters to the floor. Your chest is heaving, sucking in air, you steady yourself by putting your palms against your knees, bending over, trying not to throw up. There’s a pool of blood forming against the toe of your shoe, deep red staining white canvas. No-one ever mentions how messy it is, but then again, not many people stick a knife into their husband’s ten times. There are splatters across the wall, you can feel some of the warmth seeping down your forehead, you can taste it on your mouth when you lick your lips to wet them.

You let out an animalistic groan as you straighten up, the fucker deserved it, you think, picking the knife up from the ground, wiping both sides of the blade against the white of your tank top. Pushed you and pushed you until you broke. Put his hands on you one too many times with no remorse, no punishment. Called you a useless whore for the last time. There was some sick sense of satisfaction the bloomed when your mind replays the the look of shock on his face when you’d stabbed him the first time, like he couldn’t believe you had the guts. By the fifth time, there wasn’t anything behind those eyes of his, but you added five more just to be sure.

There’s a rage simmering underneath your skin still. Rage at the fact that no matter how many police reports you’d filed, how many hospital trips for split lips and black eyes, the law were going to come for you, and you’d go down, no doubt about it. That distinct feminine rage that a man could push you to the limit and back, and it’s still going to be your fucking fault when you stand in front of a jury and plead your case. The mad woman, the violent woman, the unhinged woman. It makes you want to scream, makes you want to thrash, maybe it makes you want to stick the knife into your own middle and twist it deep. You don’t though. You take the knife, run it under the tap until the water down the drain runs clear, wipe it dry with the towel and then shove it into your bag.

The mad woman indeed, you think, unhooking your car keys from the hook by the door. Well, if they wanted to fucking fry you, they were going to have to catch you first.

The darkness makes this easier. The hood pulled up over your head, covering your face just enough that the few passing cars don’t notice a thing on the drive there. There’s only one place you think to go, one person you know will understand, probably getting ready to go to bed on the other side of town, none-the-wiser that you’re on your way to him, covered in blood with a murder weapon sitting on the front seat of your car.

His home is unassuming. Two levels, two bedrooms, one for him - brown wood and dark - the other for his dead daughter - still pink with the sheets messed up, not made or changed for years as some sort of fucked up shrine. His truck, parked on the driveway, right next to yours. Most of the houses on the road have their lights turned out, families tucked up and sleeping for the night, but the light in his lounge is on - hard day at work, you think - as your fist knocks against the wood.

It takes him a minute, but then again, it always does, with his aching knees and his sore back, but he opens the door anyway, looking at you with confusion for a second, like he’s forgotten you’d arranged something, until you look up at him, let the light hit your face and show the blood spatters, drying and flaking, then his eyes are concerned, his big hand on your shoulder, dragging you inside.

“What did he do?” He’s asking, voice gruff.

He does this a lot, when you turn up in the middle of the night, bruises on your arms or lip split and sore, threatens to kill him, threatens to kill the cops who won’t do anything. Soothes your wounds, puts plasters on you, and then fucks you into his mattress and promises to run away with you. Well, jokes on you Joel Miller, you think as he leans you against the kitchen counter to look at you, I already fucking did kill him, and now you’re going to have to run away with me.

“What did he do to you, baby?” Voice still gruff, but tinged with concern this time, his hands cupping your face, turning it into the light to try and find the injury.

You cup his face too, congealed blood in the palm of your hand smearing across his skin, catching in the coarse whiskers of his beard, “He didn’t do anythin’ Joel.” You whisper, watching as the realisation hits his face and he takes a step back from you, dropping his hands like you’ve burned him.

“What did you do?”

You smile at him, the way he looks a little scared, “I killed him, Joel.”

He sucks in a breath, takes another step away from you, pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, “Why the fuck would you do that?”

You scoff, “Why the fuck do you think?” You snarl, “Had his hands around my neck,” You say, moving your head to show the red marks where his fingers had squeezed, “Told me I was a stupid whore and just squeezed harder.”

Joel’s eyes soften as he takes a step back towards you, “So I stabbed him,” It’s so matter of fact, “It was that or it was me Joel, do you understand?”

“Well then we go to the police,” He says, trying to reason with you, “One stab wound in self-defence and they’ll understand.”

“Ten.”

“What?”

“I said ten, ten stab wounds.”

He’s silent now. Those brown orbs staring directly into your soul. You can see the snarl of his top lip, the faint twitch in his left eye, “Fuckin’ hell, baby.”

And then it’s a whirlwind. You’re stood in his bathroom and he’s taking off your clothes, forcing you into the shower and scrubbing your skin raw like he doesn’t trust you to be thorough enough in doing it yourself. He shoves your blood-stained clothes into a bag, along with his own, worried that there’s enough blood on that shirt that they’ll come after him too. He dries at your skin, gives you the single set of clothes you keep at his house to change into, dressing himself frantically. Then he’s shoving more of his clothes into a duffle bag, avoiding your eye as he swipes the picture frame off his chest of drawers - the one of him and Sarah, soccer trophy in her hand - and shoves that in the bag too.

When he’s satisfied he has everything he needs, his palm grips the scruff of your neck and guides you down the stairs, like he’s scared you’re going to bolt, only letting go to put his boots on and pick up his keys. He makes sure to turn all the lights off, even the one on the porch, letting you go again to lock his door, then his hand is back on you, guiding you roughly to his truck, where he opens the door and waits for you to get in.

“Where are we going?” You ask.

“Just get in the fuckin’ truck baby.”

You’re two hours into the drive before he speaks, clearly trying to focus on getting as far away from the scene of your crime as he can. He’s silently fuming, having had to go back and put you back in your own car, have you drive behind him until he pulled onto the side of some deserted country road. He sat you back in the passenger seat of his truck, took the bag of bloodied clothes and put them in the boot of your car. You watched in the rear-view mirror as he doused it in petrol from a can and then set fire to it.

Neither of you looked back as you drove off.

“Are you okay?”

It makes you laugh, a full body-shaking laugh, the kind of laugh where you have to bite your lip to stop yourself. His hand is back on your shoulder, rough and tight, as it shakes you, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What the fuck do you think is wrong with me?” You spit, “I just killed my fuckin’ husband Joel, don’t ask stupid fuckin’ questions.”

He’s sailing down the highway, hand still gripping at your skin, “Do you have any idea what we’ve just done?” He asks, eyes forward, not looking at you, “You have any idea what they’ll do when they catch us?”

“Yeah, I got some notion.” You sigh, sinking back into the seat.

“What did you do with the body?”

You shrug, “I just left it there.”

“How long do you think we got?” He’s finally letting go of you, both hands back on the wheel.

“Couple of days,” You hum, “He ain’t due at work until Monday,” It was Friday now, “No-one’s gonna look for him until he doesn’t show.”

Joel nods, finally relaxing into his seat as much as he can, but he’s tense, you both are, and you’ve got to be careful. One wrong move and this is all going to unravel.

It’s silent then for another couple of miles until he speaks again, “I’m sorry,” He says quietly, “I’m sorry he did that to you and I’m sorry that you had to do that.”

“I’m not.”

It comes out at easy and breathing. Your asshole of a husband deserved it. Years of beating you around, of belittling you in front of your friends and family, all those nights of being curled up, forced to unravel and undress and lie there in the dark whilst he used you. You’re not sorry you had to do it at all.

You’re in a motel in Alabama when the news hits. It’s a shitty place, middle of nowhere vibes, with a receptionist who couldn’t have given less of a shit about the two of you when you arrived. Handed the keys to a room to Joel once she’d insisted on him paying cash for the three nights he wanted. Joel’s not long come back from the store down the road - a large bag of chips, two cans of soda and some candy shoved into a plastic bag, enough to stave off the hunger for the evening.

You’ve actively avoided the news until now, settling instead on trash tv for background noise, but it’s Monday, and you know that as soon as your shitty dead husband didn’t turn up for work, it would be a shitstorm back in Texas. There’s a woman, sitting behind a desk, looking incredibly morose over a dead man she doesn’t know. You listen intently to what she’s saying as Joel cracks open your can of soda and hands it to you.

It’s the basics right now, he’s been dead a few days, a brutal murder and the police are following all open lines of enquiry. They don’t mention you, they don’t mention Joel and there’s no appeal for witnesses. You sigh out some kind of breath of relief that you’re okay for now, but you know in the back of your mind you have to get moving. It’ll only be a matter of time before your photograph is pasted across the news channel, Joel’s too - you have to move on.

“Where are we going to go?” You ask quietly, sipping the sugary cold syrup from the can.

“Where do you want to go?” He replies just as quietly.

“Mexico?” You offer, it’s the only place you know that criminals go, crossing the border and down into South America to disappear into obscurity.

“Gone in the wrong direction for Mexico, baby,” He shrugs, “Maybe we head into Florida, lay low as much as we can, and then move on from there if the heat follows us?”

“Sounds good.”

There’s something about Florida that feels freeing. Sure, you’re in a dead end town, nowhere near a beach where you could enjoy the sun, but there’s something about the air here that feels different. Joel manages to find a small apartment for the two of you. Conscious that he doesn’t want anyone to know your faces when they start getting plastered across the news channels, he phones a number from a newspaper, asks for the keys to be dropped somewhere outside and three days ago you’d let yourselves in and settled down.

Joel had gone out and bought new clothes for the two of you, the old ones thrown in the bin, not sure any amount of laundry would have taken the smell away. He stocks up on simple groceries, and for the third night in a row, you sit down to spaghetti with tomato sauce from a jar. You’ve got the news on again, low on the volume, but just enough that you catch the news anchor speaking, “We have a development in the Austin murder case to bring you tonight.”

The spaghetti in your mouth turns to lead and what’s already in your stomach threatens to reappear when Joel turns around to find his face plastered across the TV screen.

“Austin local Joel Miller has been reported missing today by his brother,” The anchor continues, “And police have been open in explaining that they believe his disappearance is connected with the murder of an Austin man, found days ago in his home, stabbed to death.”

The camera cuts to a shot of Joel’s house, covered in police tape with an office stood outside his closed front door, and then to add insult to injury, the familiar face of Tommy Miller comes into view. He’d known about you, met you plenty of times, you think he liked you even, pulling cold beers out of the fridge for you and asking you how your day had been.

“I just wanna know where my brother is,” His Texan twang rings out, but you’re not watching him, you’re watching Joel, and the tick of his jaw as he grinds his teeth, “I don’t know where he is, but Joel, if you’re listenin’, come home brother, whatever has happened, just come home.”

Joel’s fist clenches the TV remote, turning it off, bathing the room in a dead silence that feels stifling. You don’t know what to do, except chew the spaghetti in your mouth for what feels like the hundredth time in an attempt to make you swallow it. He won’t look at you, instead he stares down into his bowl of unfinished food, jaw still twitching in the way it always does when he’s angry or stressed.

“Joel…” You trail off when he brings a hand up to signal you to stop talking.

“Don’t say anythin’.”

“They just think you’re missing,” You offer, trying to lessen the blow.

He snorts, shakes his head and looks up at you finally, his dark brown eyes blown almost black.

“Missin’, huh?” He scoffs, “And when Tommy airs this whole affair we’ve been havin’, tells the police everythin’ he knows about us, what then?”

You scoff right back, getting up from the table, chair scraping across the floor as you do, “So what, you wanna run on back to fucking Texas and leave me here?”

“I didn’t say that,” He sighs, standing up too, “I’m just sayin’ it ain’t gonna be long until they realise what really happened, and then what?”

“We move on, just like you said.”

“We don’t have that kinda luck baby,” He’s started to pace, “They’re gonna find us eventually, and I don’t know how you’re gonna talk yourself outta ten stab wounds.”

“Oh fuck you, Joel,” You spit, sanity hanging by a thread, “Yeah I stabbed him, maybe I even fucking enjoyed it, but you’re just as guilty in this as I am, you’re harbouring a criminal right now, even if they don’t know it yet.”

“I’m as guilty as you?” He pries, stepping closer to you, making you step back against the kitchen counter, “I didn’t stab him baby,” His voice is dripping in sarcasm, “That was all you,” He drags out, taking another step towards you, “They might arrest me baby, but when they catch you, they’re gonna give you the damn chair.”

It all happens in such a blur, his taunting tone and the way he’s caged you in against the kitchen counters. Before you even know what you’ve done, your hand has flown up and slapped him right across the cheek, following by a spitting “How fucking dare you.”

You’re both breathing heavily, the sound of sucking breath the only thing you can hear in the room. His eyes are darker than ever as he takes one more step, tangles his fist in the hair on the back of your head and tugs hard, before his mouth is hot and open against yours, tongue sliding against yours. It’s the first time he’s touched you like this since you left Texas, hot and full of want as he presses his entire body to yours, your lower back digging into the edge of the counter. You groan into his mouth, let your arms wrap around the broad expanse of his shoulders, and melt into the hand his puts on your lower back.

There’s a fumbling of limbs when he finally lets go of the grip he’s had on your hair, palms against the globes of your ass as he pulls you up, legs wrapping around his waist. He’s kissing you as he walks to the couch - it’s old, pattern faded, and when you sit on it you feel the springs pressing into you from below, but none of that matters when you’re legs are splayed wide across his thighs, straddling him as his hands rip open the blouse he bought not two days ago. It’s torn from your body, cups of your bra pulled down, nipple sucked into his mouth, his tongue swirling it into a stiff peak before he’s switching to the other one.

Your hand is on the back of his neck, gripping tightly to the unruly curls there, body leaning back in pleasure as your start to subtly grind your hips down into his.

“I fucking hate you,” You breathe, knowing you don’t really, not deep down, just for right now, “This is all your fault.”

“All my fault?” He asks, voice gruff as his teeth nip at the delicate skin on your breath, “I didn’t force you to stab him.”

He sucks your nipple back into his mouth, this time adding his teeth, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your cunt throb.

“You shouldn’t have spoken to me that night,” You moan out when he lets your nipple go with a pop, moving to the other one, “If I didn’t know you existed this never would’a happened.”

You hear him chuckle a little against your skin, as if it’s not a bare-faced lie. Whether he’d have been here or not, you’re sure that knife would have found it’s way into your husband one way or another. Joel just adds a complication, another person who doesn’t need to be caught up in this.

He doesn’t reply, all he does is grip harder to your ass through your jeans and drag you across the growing bulge in his own. You can feel him pushing up into you, the friction of the clothes between you making you sigh as you continue grinding yourself across his jean-covered cock.

It goes on like this for a while, kissing and biting at each other, until Joel has enough. His hands move from gripping painfully to your ass to effortlessly unbuttoning and unzipping your own jeans. You lift up just enough for him to pull them down over your ass, taking your underwear with them. There’s awkward fumbling whilst you try and manoeuvre them off your body whilst staying as close to him as possible, but eventually you get there.

Before you can settle back to rubbing your wet pussy along the bulge of his trousers, his hand cups you. The heat is stifling, almost unbearable, hot skin against hot skin, but when his fingers find you soaked, and he’s pressing two inside you, everything makes sense again.

Nothing outside of this room matters. Not for the next few hours. The police, the dead husband, the nightmares that have started to creep in at night. None of it matters anymore. Not when Joel curls his fingers just perfectly, making you cry out to the ceiling with your head tossed back. When it’s like this you remember why you did it, to be with him, and only him.

“Knew this would’a shut you up.” Joel murmurs into your skin, face pressed between your breasts as he nips marks into the skin there.

Your hips are working in time to the thrusts of his fingers inside you, shamelessly grinding yourself into his palm so it’s not just his fingers inside that are setting you alight, but the palm of his hand rubbing against your clit on every move forward you make.

You can feel yourself tightening around him, getting closer, and you know he can feel it too, his fingers getting harder inside you with each push.

“Come on baby,” He coos, “Let go for me.”

And it’s always been that simple. He only has to say it and you do. Soft screams filling the room as your cunt spasms around his fingers. Body shaking as he holds you to his own, working you through it.

There’s no real reprieve for you after. Joel shifts you so you’re lying face down on the couch, and through the haze you can hear his belt buckle being undone and the zipper of his jeans being pulled down.

His hand fishes underneath your body, pulling you up so you’re draped across the arm of the couch, ass splayed upwards and legs spread wide. His hand runs up and down your swollen cunt a few times, gathering your wetness which you know he’s using to pump his cock with, before you feel the head of him at your hole.

He’s unforgiving when he pushes in, giving you everything all at once as he surges forward inside of you. He’s touching the deepest parts of you and you swear you see stars. You hear him sucking in breath behind you, his two hands gripping your ass to pull you open you he can watch himself slide in and out of your cunt.

There are no words spoken between the two of you, the only sounds that can be heard are the sounds of his skin slapping against yours, the obscene squelch of you cunt when he pushes in, and the moans you both let out.

He’s rough, but you don’t mind. You want it to consume you, the pleasure and the tinge of pain every time his cock nudges at your cervix. It means you don’t think about anything else, just how good this feels, how good he makes you feel and how right it feels now that there isn’t someone else to think about. Joel has always felt right, like the person you were always meant to find, but it’s different now.

One of his hands comes up to grip your wrist on the arm of the couch, dragging it underneath you until you feel your cunt.

“Rub it for me baby,” He growls into your ear, “I wanna do this one together.”

So you do - you circle your clit with your middle finger, pressing harder and harder on every circle as he pounds into your cunt like it’s the last time he’ll have you like this. He’s gripping the back of your neck, pushing you further down into the material of the couch.

“Come on baby,” He groans above you, “You can do it.”

“Joel,” You squeak out, almost pathetically, “I think I’m gonna-”

“Go on then baby,” He says, “I’m right behind you.”

You let yourself go, feeling your cunt squeeze his cock as you gush around him. Your mouth is dropped open but there is no sound, only the hot spark that flushes across your body when he buries himself as deep inside of you as he can and stills, filling every inch of you with his cum.

His body falls onto yours, both of you struggling to catch breath as you recover. Joel eventually moves enough so that you can both lay down, pressed up against his body, almost uncomfortably so. His skin is hot to the touch and you can see small bruises on his neck and chest starting to rise where you’d bitten him - you suspect you must look the same.

There’s silence for a while, his hand tracing gently up and down your back, before you can think to ask anything.

“What are we gonna do, Joel?”

It takes him a while to respond, probably weighing up his options. There aren’t many. He goes home and has to explain everything to the police and goes to jail, or he stays here with you, keeps running and hope for the best.

He’s quiet when he says it, but you can tell when he does speak that whatever he’s feeling is genuine. He’s too far in now, there’s no going back, and you both know that.

“We keep runnin’ baby.”

946 notes · View notes

cheriecoke · 1 year ago

Text

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ SAFEGUARD — dazai, chuuya, akutagawa

summary . . . they save you after you've been injured and captured by an enemy.

contents . . . sfw, f!reader (chuuya & dazai) and gn!reader (akutagawa), violence / blood, threats, injuries, hurt/comfort, angst, established relationship, and it's pmboss!dazai bc i can't help myself — 3.5k total

notes . . . i got this request so long ago lol. not my best work, but i have been in the worst writing slump ever and just wanted to finish something. i've also never written for akutagawa before so pls be nice <3

𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 . . .

there are very few times that chuuya feels he’s been outsmarted. he knows he’s not the mastermind of the port mafia, but he certainly isn’t a fool. when it comes to you and your well-being, though, his mind short-circuits, half of his intelligence draining away while his emotions take hold.

your relationship isn’t a secret to anyone in the port mafia, which means that it isn’t a secret to your enemies either. and while most people know it’s hard to land a finger on chuuya directly, his pretty little girlfriend doesn’t have the power of a god nestled inside of her.

the rage sparks through him, growing fiercely into the blaze of a forest fire, until all he can think of is getting you home safely. he thinks of your sweet smile as he rips the door of the enemies’ base off the hinges, crushing it into a million pieces with the force of gravity.

the men are quick to react, but chuuya hurtles the crushed door towards them, knocking three of them to their feet. another group charges at him, but their guns do little against his skill. after years of fighting some of the strongest ability users, simple criminal organizations are as easy to step over like ants.

chuuya kills them all — except for one.

the man’s knees are wobbling, hand shaking around the gun as he realizes that these will be his final moments. there is fear in his eyes, brown ones that rest wide open, and chuuya almost hesitates. his remorse doesn’t last long, though, before he’s wrapping a hand around the man’s throat, thrusting him backwards.

“where is she?” chuuya asks, voice sharp and commanding.

he can feel the man swallowing.

chuuya knows that backup is probably on the way, but it won’t matter whether they show up or not. he’ll crush the rest of his enemies just as he’s crushed the last twenty men. the poor soul in his leather hold seems to know that as well.

“i-i’ll take you to her,” he rasps, dropping his gun to claw at chuuya’s hand.

he drops him, lets him take a few heaving breaths and coughs, before he’s kicking at him, forcing him back to his feet.

the young man takes him up the elevator, weaves him through a hallway as chuuya leaves a scattering of bodies in his wake, not hesitating to kill a single man that gets in his way. there is nothing that can keep him from you.

how fiercely and loyally he loves you — it drives him to near insanity.

finally, with blood coating his face and his clothes, the young man enters a room, locked with a code, revealing you.

chuuya’s rage is almost as blinding as his corruption, as he gazes at the sight of you. bloodied and bruised, tied up in a chair, so visibly harmed. his hands clench into fists. “get the fuck away from her,” he says to the man who seems to be monitoring you.

“what are you doing in here?” the men left in the room panic, but they don’t have time to react before chuuya throws them back at the wall, so quickly, with so much force, that their spines snap. they hit it with a sharp crack, skulls shattering against the plaster, the wall crushing beneath the weight of them.

limply, they fall to the floor.

chuuya rushes over to you.

the young man that led him here disappears, but chuuya isn’t worried about him. he’s a coward; he’ll likely flee from the country and never look back. the men that truly hurt you are already dead, and he’ll burn this building to the ground once he’s gotten you away from it.

“hey,” chuuya says, cradling your cheeks gently, trying to coax you back awake. he’s not sure if it’s exhaustion, blood loss, or the obvious head trauma that caused you to pass out in the first place. but you’re still breathing, so he counts that as a blessing.

“hey,” he whispers again, kissing your forehead, like it will heal all your ailments. “wake up, baby. we gotta get you out of here, okay?”

it takes you a few seconds to come to, eyes glazed over and shell-shocked as you blink at him. “chuuya?” you say; your voice is so hoarse it makes chuuya want to keel over and vomit. “is it really you?”

guilt gnaws at him, almost crushing, at the fact that thirty-six hours passed, and you’re delirious enough not to recognize him. you probably haven’t eaten, either.

he should’ve been there. no one should’ve ever had the chance to hurt you, yet…

“it’s me, i’m here,” he says, kissing your lips, your temple, brushing your hair away from your face. the strands are sticky with blood. “shit,” chuuya nearly shouts, pulling a knife from his pocket, sawing through the thick ropes around you as quickly as he can. “i’m so sorry, i’m so sorry.”

he can’t get you free fast enough, and you smile at him, drowsy, your eyes fluttering shut once more. “it’s okay, chuuya,” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder. “you’re here now.”

“you have to stay awake,” he says desperately, realizing your head is still bleeding. he doesn’t know how hurt you are. chuuya’s no expert when it comes to medicine, but he’s smart enough to know that internal injuries could be even worse than the external ones.

“stay awake for me, okay, honey? i’ll get you back to the boss and we’ll find you a doctor. you’ll be just fine.”

“okay, chuuya,” you hum, weakly gripping his back. seconds of silence pass before you mutter, “i just want to go home.”

"i know." his heart pulls, and he almost lets out a cracked sob. but he refrains, knowing that there is plenty of time to drown in his sorrows later.

finally, he gets the ropes under, lifting you from the chair. you’re so much lighter, weaker, and it makes him sick as he carries you. “let’s get you home.”

𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐖𝐀. . .

the call comes just as akutagawa is getting ready to head home for the evening, his tasks completed, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

normally, he doesn’t stick around to say any goodbyes, sneaking off into the darkness of the night like a shadow, blending right in. but, something about the evening, so gloomy and drizzly with spring rain, feels off.

with a heavy knot in his chest, so much different than an incoming fit of coughs, akutagawa heads back up to mori’s office, if perhaps to only ensure that everyone else’s jobs had been completed. he’s a lot of things, but he’s never been a slacker; and he’ll do what it takes to ensure that his position in the mafia is eternally secure.

though, he doesn’t have the opportunity to get all the way upstairs before he run into the boss, who is calm, but with an air of irritation clouding him.

he explains the current situation to akutagawa in a clipped tone, bored — an enemy group has kidnapped you, holding you hostage.

“how rude is it to bother a man, just as he is getting ready to go to sleep?” mori says, sighing histrionically.

but what is a minor inconvenience to mori sends an entire wave of dread through akutagawa, his entire body feeling as if it’s been dipped in ice. he can’t explain the horror that washes over him, not really, because he shouldn’t feel so panicked. it is rare for him to get worked up about the danger his subordinates find themselves in, save for his sister, of course.

but you… you’re different.

“can i trust you to diffuse the situation?” mori asks, impatiently glancing at his watch as if that will change anything. “i can call someone else, but they will not be so quick.”

akutagawa doesn’t even think before he accepts the job, hating the way he sounds pathetically desperate for more details. his hands flatten the edge of his cloak, as if his ability is going to take on a mind of its own.

he calls for a driver, calm but breathing so heavily that an aching cough rises up in him. his throat feels as if it may begin to bleed, but he swallows, glances away from the driver and gets himself under control.

there’s a ransom — bring them the money and they’ll return you, mori had told him. you’re only a lower ranking member of the mafia, and someone that makes for a pretty poor bargaining chip, so the motive is questionable.

mori probably would’ve let you die, akutagawa knows, his teeth gritting together, so much so that a splintering sound comes from it. but the boss, in his infinite, concerning wisdom, seems to also know that his loyal dog has an soft spot for you.

as regrettable as that may be.

akutagawa has no doubt that whoever the enemy is, they are no match for him. still, a twinge of anxiety settles in his stomach, fingers jittery as the driver, despite the decreased traffic of the hour, seems to drive impossibly slow.

“are we not in a rush?” akutagawa snaps, leaning forward.

“apologies,” the driver, says, not daring to even look at akutagawa from the mirror. but the car speeds up, enough for akutagawa to be able to notice, at least. it cools the simmer that has already begun deep in his chest.

even so, the car seems to go at a snails pace, minute upon minute flying by, with you in the clutches of an enemy.

akutagawa doesn’t care who they are. he doesn’t care why, or how they captured you. he wants them dead. he’ll rip them apart, easily, and he’ll make them suffer — they’ll be alive for all of it, for every second that he peels the skin from their bones, ripping the smaller ones out of their sockets.

what he feels for you… well, it’s too hard for him to admit to himself. he has no experience with what it means to care for another person, doesn’t even know if that’s his goal. he just knows he wants to protect you.

and he can’t do that if you’re dead.

finally, the car pulls up to an old warehouse, one at the very outskirts of the port, beyond the docks and the shipping carts. it’s tucked far back, an obvious lair for some villainous organization that doesn’t want to be found.

akutagawa gets there, but there is nothing. he hears nothing, feels no signs of life as he trudges through the puddles left behind from the earlier rain.

a small string of panic begins again, as he wondered if maybe the call that mori had told him was only a ruse. maybe this entire time had been a distraction, a way to lure him away. there are other skill-users in the mafia, but none quite as dangerous as him.

though, he hears it, then. a small little sound, muffled and hoarse, full of pain.

he ducks into another corner of a warehouse, and you’re there — bound with chains and a gag across your mouth, one of your eyes blackened with bruises, your nose bleeding.

his heart aches. never in his life has he so quickly made his way over, used the sharp edges of his ability to shear through the chains, falling to his knees as he unbinds the cloth from your lips.

“where are they?” he rasps, mouth opening and closing, hating the sound of his own voice. he recognizes his desperation, his anger, but the affectionate sound that clips at the end is unfamiliar, as he shakily pulls himself closer to you.

you glance up at him, eyes glossy and wide, and though you are scared, hurt, he’s so thankful you are alive. his heart flips once, as you grasp at his cloak, the material that has the blood of so many staining the threads.

“gone,” you say, throat chalky, words nothing more than a note against the wind. “they fled when they heard it was you coming.”

“and left you?” he asks, jaw clenching, as he hopes that the emotions aren’t as visible on his features as he thinks they are. “were you not a ransom?”

“no,” you swallow, hard, as if in pain. he notices bruises around your neck, the shape of fingerprints indented there. “i was bait.”

anger rises up in him like a wave, engulfing him, wholly and relentlessly. he is no stranger to that, like he is the kindness you show him, the way you look at him as if he is your protector, rather than a bringer of destruction. “i’ll go after them. where are they headed? they’ll pay, i’ll slaughter—”

“ryunosuke,” you say, reaching for him as he stands, expression pleading as he backs away. “stay.”

he has half a mind to ignore you — the enemy escaped, after all. but your voice. your eyes… you look so small sitting there, bloodied and bruised and broken.

“please,” you try again, near tears, and though he has never been good with obvious displays of emotion, something within him snaps at the desperation in the word.

he nods, slowing his pace as he returns to you, lets you wrap yourself in him, cling to him. his hands fall, naturally, to your waist, somehow knowing where they belong, even if akutagawa never has a clue what he’s doing with you.

“i’ll call hirotsu,” he says simply, before pulling out his phone, not bothering to untangle himself from you.

𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 . . .

dazai is not a forgiving man, and will never learn to be. forgiveness is not a luxury he is often able to indulge in in his line of work, and his heart has hardened enough that until the end of time, those that are branded his enemies will remain his enemies.

though, in his blackened heart, one soured over the course of time, you have carved out your own little space, lit it up with golden rays of light that are fiery enough to melt the stone casing of his chest.

his only love — his only weakness. but it is a weakness that his enemies know about as well.

dazai tries his best to keep you safe. he always has, and he knows that, sometimes, his grasp on you can be a little too tight. that the way he tries to keep you under his watchful eye can sometimes be stifling, frustrating.

but he can’t always be there to protect you. and it is in times like these, that he regrets letting you go without a bodyguard. he regrets that he listened to your insistence that you could keep yourself safe.

he should’ve at least told you to take a friend.

“boss,” his subordinate says, bowing his head, his voice pleading, desperate. “i’m so sorry. your wife—”

“if anything… anything happens to her, you will be the one responsible, do you understand?” dazai says, his eyes cold as he glowers down at the man, only a few inches shorter than him, but feeling so much smaller. “i will personally see that this act does not go unpunished.”

“of course, sir,” the man says, and he, at the very least, has the decency to sound resigned. to accept his fate and suffer the consequences, for allowing the boss’s wife to get herself into such a situation.

and dazai means it, every last word; if he finds you in a state closer to death, anyone who put you in harm’s way will be torn apart from the inside out. he isn’t able to think of anything but bringing you home safely, his hands shaking with rage as he sends more than enough people out on a search to find you.

with all the strings he’s able to pull as the mafia boss, it doesn’t take long to find you, for those that have bravely — or stupidly — used his wife as bait to come forward, and offer an attempt at some sort of negotiation.

there’s little of the conversation that dazai remembers on the phone, even less that he remembers after that. the anger bubbles up in him and grabs hold of his conscience, the emotion directing his movements with a mind of its own.

he’s already sent out every last one of his people into the field, ensuring that the organization that had the gall to threaten you is wiped off the face of the earth. deleted from every corner of the world, buildings flattened to the ground. by tomorrow, they won’t have ever existed.

today, he doesn’t care what happens as long as he finds you alive.

you’re held hostage by two men — so completely beaten that they’ve given up on any restraints. whatever they wanted from you, you seemed to refused to have given up, lip bleeding, eyes swelling so badly that you can’t even open them.

dazai doesn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger on the first man, then turning to the other, shooting the hand that holds the pistol. the man recoils, shouts, and drops the weapon completely, as dazai lands another bullet to his knee, causing him to fall.

slowly, dazai walks up, firing again to his other arm, a loud snap echoing throughout the room. the man winces, trying to crawl to the gun, one last desperate attempt to stay alive.

he kicks the gun away, watching, as, pathetically, the expression in the enemy’s face changes — any of his remaining hope vanishes.

“you told me she was unharmed,” dazai says, bending down, his coat flaring out behind him as he squats.

the man coughs, gasping for air as the blood seeps out of him. “we lied.” he smiles cruelly, and though he shares the same sort of darkness as those in the port mafia, there is something even more twisted in his smile.

dazai hums. “you the leader?”

the man doesn’t give an answer, but the slight twitch of surprise on his face is all dazai needs. he’s no one — just a grunt whose life was put on the line to guard you.

“didn’t think so.” dazai shoots him once, straight through the forehead, instantly killing him. but he is vindictive, angry, and the man he truly wants to destroy, the one who took you, is nowhere to be found. another bullet lands, tearing apart the flesh of his temple, then another, and one more, his skull beginning to cave in from the force of it all.

dazai heaves, letting the gun clatter to the ground as it runs out of bullets, and then he realizes, all this time, you’ve just been watching him. the ugliest side of him — the worst side of him.

you’re no stranger to it, of course. how can you be, when you’ve shared a life with him for years? but that doesn’t mean he wants you to see it, see how bloodthirsty he can become.

he stumbles over to you, where you’re still sitting on the ground, your wrist in your lap, bent at an angle that he knows isn’t right. bruises are littered across your skin, and your hair is matted from the blood that pools at your temple.

it takes every ounce of restraint he has to stay calm, a million feelings swirling under his skin. ones that he was never familiar with until he met you.

“i’m sorry,” he says, taking your face in his hands so, so softly, worried that he’ll hurt you even more. “i’m sorry, darling. i should’ve — i should’ve been there.” dazai notices his hands are shaking and he balls them up into fists, leaning back. “fuck. fuck — i’ll kill them all, just tell me who it was. anyone who laid a finger on you. i’ll cut them down one by one.”

“osamu,” you say, and your voice is raspy, cracking, as your unbroken arm reaches for him, squeezing his shaking hand. “i—”

you open your mouth to continue, but only tears come streaming down your cheeks, over your bloodied lips, saltiness soaking your jawline. no words don’t leave you, but a soft sob chokes itself up your throat.

“hey, hey, hey.” dazai’s voice softens, every muscle in his body relaxing as he draws you nearer to him, into his chest with a touch that’s barely there. “you’re safe. i’m here, okay? they’re not going to hurt you again, sweetheart.”

you sniffle, barely making a sound, but he can feel the tears drop onto his clothes, soaking the material.

“can you walk? are you hurt anywhere else?”

you hesitate for a moment before answering; he’s not sure if there’s a reason you only answer the first question. “i can walk.”

dazai nods, and though the rage is still bubbling there, underneath the surface, there is a coolant streaming through him at the vision of you alive. the men who did this will pay the price, but he still has you — and that’s all that matters.

thank you for reading !!! ❤︎

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aila0veyou2death · 2 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

𖹭 pairing: mohawk!mark grayson x male!punk!reader (A.K.A rage-fueled delinquent with piercings and unresolved mommy issues x grin-wearing misfit with a punk playlist and a history of bad ideas)

𖹭 TW: cheating, blood, violence, cursing, mommy issues, reader is slightly older than mark, depressing thoughts, strangers-to-friends with benefits trope?, slight angst, anger issues, substance use (alcohol/smoking implied), marking, unspoken feelings, unhealthy coping mechanism, overstimulation, 4nal s3x, handj0b, belly bulging, spit as lube, some gay shit, top!mark, bottom!reader, p0rn with a plot.

𖹭 author's note: there's seriously not enough mohawk!mark content out there, and even less mark grayson x male!reader fics—so i said, screw it, I'll just write one myself. This fic was inspired by @asaarii's mohawk!mark x punk!reader—definitely worth to check out ♡

Warning though: this fic is long, messy, and it's my first time writing a bl, so bear with me! Hope you enjoy :P

Mark's knuckles were still sore from yesterday.

He flexed his hand slowly under the cafeteria table, watching the faded bruises bloom purple under his skin like wilting flowers. The skin around his knuckles was split in places, rough and raw. He hadn't even noticed when it happened—he just kept swinging.

Some creature had ripped through a mall parking lot yesterday. Another ugly, screeching thing from god knows where. Mark showed up because it was what he was supposed to do—what Omni-Man's son was meant to do. Be the hero. Save the day. Do it all with a clean conscience and a smile for the cameras.

But he snapped.

He didn't just stop the monster—he beat it down until it stopped moving. Until it stopped breathing. Until it was just a twitching, pulpy mess under his fists. He remembered the sound more than the sight. The dull thuds, wet and meaty, echoing off concrete. He remembered the cameras catching every second of it. Some hero.

He didn't know if he regretted it. But he knew Debbie saw it.

The footage had aired on the news loop last night. Blood splattered across his uniform. His eyes, shadowed behind broken goggles, burned with fury. His jaw was clenched, teeth bared, looking less like a man and more like something barely human. Debbie hadn't said a word when he got home. She didn't yell. Didn't ask if he was okay.

She just turned off the TV.

This morning, she didn't speak to him at all.

She sat in silence, sipping her coffee with that same blank look on her face, like she couldn't even stand to look at him. Like having Mark in the house was a reminder of a mistake she never wanted to make in the first place. He felt like he was losing it. She just sighed, murmured something about being late for work, and walked past him like he was part of the furniture.

It always started the same: the tightness in his chest, the quietness in the house, the echo of his own footsteps. Mark hated that house. It was too clean. Too empty. Too haunted. His mom barely spoke to him anymore, and when she did, it was with that tired voice like she was talking to Nolan again.

He hated being the only damn thing left that tied him to the man he used to call his father.

And what he hated even more was that, day by day, he was turning into him.

Across from him now, Eve was still talking about yesterday's events, about what he did. Her words came soft and careful, like each one might be the one that finally set him off. She hadn't touched her food either, just picking at the corner of her napkin, glancing up every now and then like she was hoping he'd meet her halfway. But Mark was stone still, his silence was heavy and his eyes were distant. The only sign he was even present was the slow clench of his jaw and the flex of his bruised hand beneath the table.

She took a small breath. "You didn't have to kill it like that…"

Mark didn't look at her.

"You know, she called me..." Eve said after a moment. "Your mom. Last night."

That got his eyes on her.

"She didn't say much," Eve added quickly, like it would soften the blow. "Just that… when she saw you on the screen, all bloody like that—she said she could barely recognize you, Mark. And, um… she said it reminded her of your dad."

Mark's lips pressed into a hard line. "Of course it did."

"Every damn thing about me reminded her of that fucking bastard."

Eve shifted uncomfortably, biting her lip, her eyes scanning him, as if trying to read what was behind the hardness of his expression. She finally sighed, the tension between them were too thick for her to ignore any longer.

"Mark..." She began softly, her voice quieter than usual. "Are you... okay?"

He didn't answer right away, his eyes flickering to hers but quickly darting away again. Eve pressed on, her fingers tracing the edge of her cup, trying to keep her tone neutral, but there was a hint of concern in her voice. "You've been kinda ghosting me lately. I get that you've got stuff going on, but..."

He finally looked up at her and his expression was unreadable. There was something vulnerable in his eyes—just for a split second, but it was there.

"You don't have to worry about me." Mark muttered, his voice quieter now. "I'm fine."

Eve didn't buy it, and he knew she wouldn't. She knew him too well. Her eyes searched his face, her brow furrowed in concern. "Mark, don't shut me out. You can't just—" She stopped herself, the words hanging in the air.

"You don't know what it's like," he said suddenly, his voice strained, like he was holding something back. "To always be... that person. The one people expect to save the day. The one that always has to be strong. Or tough. Or... whatever."

Eve took a deep breath and reached out, placing a hand lightly on his. The warmth of her touch, so simple, was enough to break through some of the distance. "I get it, Mark," she said, her voice was soft but steady. "But that's not why I'm asking. I'm asking because I care about you... and I haven't heard from you in days. So... just let me in, okay? Don't push me away."

For a moment, Mark stayed silent, with his eyes searching for hers. There was a flicker of something behind his hardened exterior, something softer—vulnerable, even. But it quickly vanished as he pulled his hand away.

"I'm fine." he said again, the words sharper this time. "I don't need you looking out for me like I'm some damn kid, Eve. I don't need a babysitter—I need a girlfriend who actually gets that."

Eve let out a slow breath, her jaw tightening as she fought to keep her voice steady. The frustration bubbling inside her was getting harder to ignore, clawing its way up her throat like something alive. "I'm not trying to babysit you, Mark. I just… want to be there for you. Is that so bad?" Her voice cracked slightly at the end, a mix of hurt and exasperation slipping through.

KRING-KRING-KRING—

The shrill ring of the bell cut through the tension like a blade.

Mark immediately stood, the legs of his chair screeching against the cafeteria floor. He scooped up a handful of whatever was left on his tray and shoved it into his mouth like he hadn't just spent the entire lunch period brooding in silence.

Eve barely had time to say anything before he was already slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Mark—" she started, standing halfway from her seat.

"I'll see you around." he muttered through his teeth, not even sparing her a glance as he walked off, his shoulders tense, jaw clenched.

She watched him go, still holding the edge of her tray with her fingertips, like she was hoping he might turn around. But of course, he didn't.

He never did.

He went through the day with furrowed brows and a bored expression, dragging his feet from class to class like the world had personally offended him. Professors talked, assignments piled up, and conversations buzzed around him, but it all passed through him like static.

People gave him space—some out of respect, most out of discomfort. He didn't care. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to be asked if he was okay.

Not when his head was a mess and his patience was long gone.

By sixth period, Mark's mood was radioactive.

Every hallway felt too loud, too bright. The screech of lockers, the smell of cheap cafeteria food lingering in his hoodie, the way people walked around him like he was a puddle of something they didn't want to step in—it all fed the gnawing thing inside him.

His head was a static storm, and he didn't really heard anything anyone said all day.

So when William slid into the seat beside him, Mark didn't even glance his way. He just stared straight ahead, with his jaw locked and shadows under his eyes.

"Hey..." William started, his voice careful.

Mark's fingers twitched against the desk.

"You okay, man? You've been... different lately."

Silence.

"I mean—different in a bad way."

Mark's lips twitched into a humorless smirk, but he still didn’t look at him.

"You're not answering any of my texts. You skipped out on our group project yesterday. Eve's worried too. She said you've been ignoring her for days. And then the whole..." William trailed off, like he was debating whether to go there. And he did.

"Monster thing. I saw the news. The fight.”

Now Mark turned to look at him, slow and sharp.

"That creature you fought. You didn't just beat it—you ripped it apart. It looked like a horror movie, man."

"It was a monster." Mark said flatly.

"I know," William replied quickly. "I know it was. But still—you usually hold back. You used to at least try to keep it clean. This time, you just..."

"I finished the fight."

"You slaughtered it, Mark." William's voice dropped lower. "In front of everyone."

There was something in William's eyes that made Mark’s stomach twist. Not fear. Not disgust.

Worse.

Pity.

Why?

Mark's fists clenched under the table. The bruises on his knuckles burned.

"It was going to kill a kid..." he muttered.

William sighed and said, "I'm just saying you didn't look like yourself up there. You looked... angry. Almost like a madman."

"I was angry."

William hesitated. "Does this have something to do with your parents?"

Mark's eyes narrowed.

"She called me the other day..." William continued, oblivious or maybe just determined. "Your mom. You're acting out again. Said she didn't know what to do with you anymore."

"You talked to my mom?" Mark's voice was barely a whisper, tight with disbelief. "What is it with you people talking to my mom!?"

"Look, she's upset, man." his friend said, holding up his hands. "She even embarrassed herself, ranting to her kid's friend about everything. She said you've been acting more and more like your dad and—hell, I don't know—it's freaking her out. I didn't know what to say."

"How about you just stay out of other people's business."

"Hey! I'm just worried, okay? I'm your best friend, Mark. I know things are hard right now—with your dad and everything... I-I just... I miss the guy who wasn't trying to pick a fight with the world every time someone looked at him wrong."

Mark's chair scraped back violently.

He stood up, looming over William, with his eyes dark and his mouth drawn in a tight line.

"Mind your own damn business, Will. You don't get to talk about her or what's going on with my fucking family. And don't talk like you know a damn thing about what I'm feeling."

William stood up too, but not to fight—just to try to hold his ground. "I'm just trying to help."

Mark's vision blurred red.

"You wanna help?" he said through gritted teeth. "Then shut the hell up!"

One punch—straight to the jaw. A sickening crack echoed off the walls. William crashed backward into a desk, landing hard and clutching his face with a pained yell.

For a second, the room was still. It was silent.

Then came the chaos.

A few classmates gasped and shouted. One girl screamed. Another guy jumped up and shoved Mark back, yelling, "What the hell's wrong with you?!"

Mark's temper snapped like a whip.

He swung again, this time at the guy who'd shoved him. Fists collided, desks crashed, and chaos exploded around them like a fuse had been lit. Someone tried to pull him back, but Mark jerked away, teeth gritted and eyes blazing.

Bodies scrambled. Chairs screeched across the floor. A girl screamed. The room was warped into noise and panic.

A teacher finally burst in, breathless and red-faced, shouting his name like it was something vile.

"Mark Grayson!"

It was enough to snap everything to a halt.

Mark didn't fight it when they dragged him out of the classroom, leaving a mess of overturned desks, dropped notebooks, and stunned faces in his wake. William was still sitting on the floor, hand pressed to his jaw, staring at him like he didn't know who he was anymore.

Mark didn't apologize. Neither did he explain himself.

He kept his head high and his mouth sealed shut, walking out with his bruised, bloodied knuckles burning like a badge of everything he didn't want to say out loud.

The teacher behind him spat out words about disciplinary action, and how they were going to call his mother.

As if that meant anything to him.

As if she still gave a damn.

They threw out the word “detention” like it was a threat.

Fine.

He could rot in detention.

Better than rotting in a place full of people who thought they knew him. Who thought they had the right to poke at wounds they couldn't even begin to understand.

Let them talk. Let them whisper. Let them stare.

He hates them all equally.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

The fluorescent lights above buzzed like they were trying to get on Mark's nerves. He sat slumped at the back of the near-empty classroom, his cheek pressed against the cool surface of the desk. His eyes were half-lidded, locked on the painfully slow second hand of the wall clock as it ticked, ticked, ticked—like it was mocking him.

The room smelled like pencil shavings and old coffee. A single ceiling fan spun lazily above, doing nothing to move the stale air. The teacher assigned to babysit them hadn't even looked up from her book since he walked in. Mark figured she probably didn’t want to be here any more than he did.

His knuckles were still split from earlier, wrapped in a shitty paper towel he found in the nurse's office. The sting was dull now, just a reminder. A quiet throb that matched the one in his chest.

William didn't say anything when they dragged him out and just stared.

And his mom—yeah, she was probably ignoring the school's voicemail by now.

Whatever.

Mark didn't regret it.

He just wanted the day to end.

But then—

The door creaked open.

Mark lifted his head off the desk, just enough to glance at you when the door opened.

You stepped in like you owned the place—shoulders loose, boots scuffing against the tile, a lazy grin tugging at your lips like you were in on some joke the rest of the world missed.

Everything about you screamed defiance. From the bold blue and white lettering on your black Hellfire shirt to the layered chaos of your outfit, it looked like you belonged on a fashion runway and in a back-alley brawl all at once.

A red plaid wrap skirt hung over distressed cargo jeans, cinched tight at the waist with overlapping black leather belts that added a sharp edge. Chains clinked softly with every step, swinging from your belt and wrapped around your bag—the shape of it almost like a purse, covered in enough enamel pins to count as armor. A black guitar case rested against your back like a weapon, and a guitar pick swung from your neck, catching the light as you moved.

Mark slowly blinked. You looked like a warning label for every bad idea he was trying not to have lately.

The teacher didn't even lift her head from her desk. "Rules are the same..." she murmured, with her voice flat. "No phones, no talking, no food and try not to breathe too loud. You know how it is..."

You gave her a mocking salute.

Then—only then—you turned your head, catching Mark's eyes. Your grin softened just a little into something more like a smirk. You gave him a casual nod as you walked over to the desk beside him. It was cool and effortless. Like the two of you already knew each other in some parallel universe where the world made sense.

Mark stared at you. He didn't nod back. Just dropped his gaze and set his cheek against his palm like he hadn't just felt something shift in the air.

You slid into the seat next to him, like you were settling into your throne, and dropped your guitar case gently beside you. Then, without a word, you pulled out a sketchbook from your bag and a pencil from your pocket. You flipped to a blank page and started drawing—quiet, focused, like none of this mattered. Like the room wasn't full of tension and apathy and the kind of silence that cracked if you breathed too hard.

After a long stretch of silence, just the ticking clock and the occasional scratch of pencil on paper, Mark felt a light poke against his shoulder.

He barely moved, just flicked his eyes sideways in a slow, tired glance. You were staring at him with a casual expression, pencil still in hand.

"You got any sharpener there, buddy?" you asked, with your voice low but playful.

Mark sighed through his nose. "No, I don't..." he muttered, eyes flicking forward again, already annoyed.

But you didn't back off. "Hm, nah, I don’t think so," you mused, tapping your chin with the pencil. "You sure you don't have any?"

"I already told you I don't." he snapped, barely above a whisper, jaw tight. "Leave me alone."

"Too bad," you said with a shrug, tone breezy. "Looks like I won't be able to give you any hair."

Mark's eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. "What?"

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you turned your sketchbook around and held it out to him with both hands. A grin tugged at the corners of your mouth as you pointed at the half-finished drawing on the page.

It was him—the drawing was detailed, sharp, and it was unmistakably Mark. His scowl was perfectly captured, that permanent scorn etched between his brows like it belonged there. The angle of his jaw, which is tight and clenched. Even the slight hunch in his shoulders, like he was always bracing for something, was drawn with care. You'd even shaded the dark circles under his eyes with a soft smudge, capturing the weight he carried in silence.

The drawing was half-body—his arms were folded over his desk, head tilted slightly to the side, just like what he had been doing minutes ago. His hoodie was outlined with quick but deliberate strokes, the texture of it was sketched in with surprising detail.

But the top of his head?

It was completely smooth.

Bald as a boiled egg.

You had shaded it with the same level of dedication, even adding a little shine line on the crown of his skull for dramatic effect. Like you hadn't just forgotten to draw his hair—you had committed to erasing it from existence.

Mark stared at the drawing for a long second. Then at you.

You raised your brows and smirked.

"What the hell, man." Mark deadpanned, with a glare as his eyes flicked between your face and the drawing.

A chuckle slipped past your lips, low and amused as you leaned back a little, twirling your pencil between your fingers. "Don't worry, you'll get your hair back." you said, grinning. "I just couldn't see it right from the angle you were sitting at, so I figured getting your attention was the best way to get a good look at it."

Mark narrowed his eyes, clearly not buying the excuse—or maybe just not used to anyone talking to him like that without flinching.

"But now that I can see it…" You tilted your head, eyes scanning him slowly like you were taking mental notes. "That innocent haircut of yours? Doesn't suit you at all."

You didn't wait for a response, already turning back to your sketchbook. The pencil began to move again, fast and light, making faint scratching sounds as you added new lines. "A mohawk would do you more justice. Maybe throw in a couple of piercings. Eyebrow, nose, lip—hell, all three. Anything to give you a little edge."

Mark blinked, clearly taken aback. "Have you been observing me?"

"Obviously. How do you think I managed to draw you like that?"

His lips pressed into a line, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes now. Annoyance, sure. But also curiosity. No one had ever drawn him before—let alone imagined him bald, pierced, and wearing a mohawk.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, with your lips tugging into that same lazy smirk. "What are you in for, pretty boy?"

He looked away for a second, like he was debating whether he should answer or just let the silence stretch. His jaw clenched faintly, the muscle twitching under his bruised skin.

Then, finally, he muttered, "Got into a fight."

Your smirk widened, pencil still moving on the page. "Yeah, no shit. Let me guess…" You tapped the eraser against your chin theatrically. "You broke someone's nose just 'cause they were breathing too damn loud near you?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Jaw actually... He just wouldn't shut up."

"Ah," you murmured, eyes still on your sketchbook, pencil scratching softly. "Was he a friend of yours?"

Mark didn't answer right away. His expression tightened, the way it always did when something touched too close to raw. He stared ahead, jaw locked, hands curled into loose fists on the desk.

You didn't press, just let the silence breathe.

"He must've hit a nerve." you added lightly, still doodling.

His eyes flicked toward you for a split second, cautious. You weren't grinning like an asshole now—just watching him with that unreadable calm, like you were piecing him apart without asking permission.

"Used to be..." he finally muttered.

Mark looked away again, biting the inside of his cheek. "He kept asking what was wrong with me. Said he was worried. Like he didn't already know."

His voice was tight, edged with something bitter. "Acted like I needed help. Like he knew better. Just because we used to hang out, he thought that gave him some kind of right."

You hummed low under your breath, pencil still moving across the page. "So, you hit him."

"I warned him." Mark muttered coldly, "Told him to drop it."

You leaned back a little, smirk tugging lazily at your lips. "Yeah… that kinda makes sense."

Mark's eyes narrowed at you, like he couldn't figure out if you were agreeing with him or setting him up for a joke. Your tone was too smooth, too casual—like you were letting him fall into something and not warning him about the drop.

Then you spoke again, while still not looking at him. Your voice was calm and detached. Like you were just stating facts.

"It's the classic, you know? People act like they care, when they're really just digging around in your mess. They don't give a damn about your feelings or any shit...They just want to feel like they did something about it."

Mark stared at you, with his brows drawn low.

"And when you don't let them?" You shrugged. "Suddenly you're the asshole."

The way you said it—it wasn't pity. It wasn't even empathy. It was like you were just giving shape to the thoughts that had been bouncing in his head for weeks. Stuff he couldn't even name before. And now there it was, out in the open, like you'd peeled it off his ribs and held it up to the light.

It unsettled him.

He blinked, slowly, still watching you. He didn't know whether to feel called out or understood. Whether to be grateful or pissed off. Your voice hasn't changed, still easy and almost too chill for someone who just cracked his walls open like it was nothing.

Then you looked at him—really looked at him—and said, "Either way, you did what you had to do."

A beat passed.

"I mean, maybe you're not the bad guy. It’s not your fault that loser wasn't listening."

It landed harder than it should have. And Mark wasn't sure why.

"Why are you here, again?" Mark asked, brow furrowing like the question had been burning on his tongue for a while.

You chuckled, low and amused. "Gonna be honest with you, man… I'm not here for detention. Or any real reason, honestly." You leaned forward a bit, resting your elbows on the desk. "I just like coming here sometimes. Sketch people who look like they're going through it. Crisis faces are the most honest, y'know? Raw. If they're interesting enough, I kinda turn them into something else. Give 'em a new look. A better one."

Your gaze flickered down to your sketchbook. You picked it up, flipping it toward him with a small, lopsided smirk. "Look. It's you. Or, well—what I think you should look like right now."

Mark blinked, then tilted his head slightly to get a better look.

It was him—again. Same harsh lines, same intensity in the eyes. But this version had traded his shaggy, too-long hair for shaved sides and a fierce mohawk. You added piercings now too, bold and unapologetic—one pair through his eyebrow, two on either side of his nose, and another pair just beneath his lower lip. Like a version of him from some grungy, punk parallel universe type of shit.

You tapped the page lightly. "See? It works. Matches the storm in your head a lot better than that innocent 'boy-next-door' cut."

"You're weird as fuck," Mark muttered, glancing between the sketch and you, like he couldn’t decide which one was more bizarre.

"Thank you." you replied smoothly, bowing in your seat with an exaggerated flourish. One hand splayed dramatically across your chest like you were accepting an award. "I do try."

Mark snorted, shaking his head, but you caught the corner of his lip twitching—just barely.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Ever since that day, Mark started noticing you more around campus.

You're a chaos in eyeliner and plaid, a walking contradiction—half performance art, half delinquent gospel. Sometimes he'd see you surrounded by others who looked just as reckless and alive, lighting up the dead corners of school with laughter and graffiti. Other times, it was just you—hunched over your electric guitar in some shadowed stairwell or forgotten hallway, the strings humming something raw and distant, like an old song no one remembered how to sing.

And it was weird, how often your eyes would find him. Across the cafeteria, the courtyard, in-between classes. Always with that signature smirk like you already knew the punchline to a joke he hadn't even heard yet. And you'd nod at him—greet him with the kind of ease that felt like you weren't trying to be nice. You just saw him. Like you actually saw him.

And that messed with him.

Because most days, Mark felt invisible.

He walked through school like a shadow with a pulse. Noticed only when someone needed something—answers, help, a target. He didn't reach out anymore. Friends became people he used to talk to. People avoided him now, or they looked at him like something was off. And maybe they weren't so wrong.

After all, the more he saved the day, the worse he felt. Each time he flew off to stop some disaster, each time he pulled himself out of rubble or wiped blood off his hands—something inside him shifted. Got heavier. Angrier.

His mom barely looked at him anymore. Ever since his dad vanished—no, fled—after revealing himself as a monster who killed thousands, she'd been a ghost. Sitting in silence. Staring at nothing. It was like the light inside her died with her marriage. She checked out everything—motherhood included. And Mark had to carry it. Alone.

He couldn't even talk to her about it. He couldn't talk to anyone without angry.

And then there was you.

You, with your sketchbook and devil-may-care grin. You, showing him drawings of himself with mohawks and piercings, like you were trying to see the version of him that still haven't existed yet. You didn't ask him how he was. You didn't tell him what he should feel. You just said the things he was too scared to say out loud. About people pretending to care. About the weight of being misunderstood. About the anger.

It freaked him out—how much you got it.

Because Mark was angry. At the world. At the way it kept breaking, no matter how many times he tried to fix it. At his mom, for disappearing without ever leaving. At his dad, for showing him what strength really looked like and then shattering every part of that illusion. At himself—for still wanting something back. Some recognition. Some thanks. Something.

But all he ever got was more pain.

So yeah. He started thinking maybe you were right. Maybe he should have a mohawk. Maybe he should look the way he feels—like he's been through war and no one clapped when he made it back. Maybe the world didn't deserve the version of him that kept trying to do the right thing.

And every time your sketchbook came out—every time you greeted him with that smug, lazy grin like you saw right through the cracks—he couldn't help but wonder...

Were you mocking him?

Or were you the only one who actually got it?

It was their third detention together that month—when you kinda asked him out.

You were perched on top of a rusted metal desk by the window, one leg swinging lazily, munching on a fried chicken sandwich you'd somehow sneaked in without anyone knowing. The afternoon sun made everything feel hotter than it needed to be, dust swirling through cracked window panes. Mark sat slouched in the chair beside you, arms crossed, hood up, eyes glazed in that tired, dead-inside kind of way. He looked like he hadn't slept in days—and maybe he hadn't.

You were in detention for real this time, after one of the faculty finally pieced together who'd been behind the graffiti in the east stairwell and the mysteriously exploding vending machine. Mark was in for, reportedly, beating the shit out of some assholes at lunch. Again.

"You know..." you started, words muffled around your bite of sandwich, "Me and the gang are playing tonight. Not at the club—the city kicked us outta there for good. So we're taking it somewhere more… public."

He glanced at you, brows low. "Public?"

You licked your fingers, brushing crumbs onto your already-ruined jeans. "Yeah. Rooftop by the train station. Abandoned building. Broken elevators, busted windows, rats everywhere. Total dump. But the view? Killer."

Mark looked back at the floor.

You grinned. "Cops don't care about that place anymore. Probably forgot it even exists. And rooftops just feel kinda apocalyptic these days, don't they? Like the perfect place to scream into the void."

His jaw ticked. Lately, it felt like everything annoyed him—people, noise, silence. Himself most of all.

You leaned back on your arms and said, casually, "Bring your little girlfriend if you want."

Mark stiffened, but didn't look up.

"…We're not exactly on good terms."

You raised a brow, feigning a gasp. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Fuck off." he muttered, barely audible, and scoffed bitterly under his breath.

You clicked your tongue. "That sucks. But hey, maybe some loud music and social unrest will fix your dying love life."

He finally turned, shooting you a flat look. "Shut up. You're so annoying."

"And you're so grumpy." You smiled like it was a secret joke only you got. "We balance."

You hopped down from the desk, rummaging through your backpack until you pulled out a worn, creased flyer, edges curled and ink smudged. You handed it over. "Here. It's not official—obviously. Government types don't like it when kids hand out papers anymore. Might catch rebellion or something."

He took it and unfolded it slowly. The hand-drawn logo of The Demonheads screamed off the page: a snarling skull, cracked halo glowing above its head, wings made of rusted barbed wire. Below it was written it's time and place, in a messy scrawl—"NO COPS. NO HEROES. JUST NOISE."

Mark blinked. "The Demonheads?"

"Yup." you said, leaning close enough to see the crease in his brow. "The one and only."

"Ever heard of us?"

He shook his head.

You pressed a hand to your chest with a mock offense. "Ouch. I'm wounded."

He snorted, and for the first time all day, it wasn't sarcastic. Not really.

"The city hates us," you said. "Says we're bad influence. Loud. Unstable. Dangerous. They call us anarchists like it's an insult." You shrugged. "Maybe we are. Maybe we're just angry. But someone's gotta be."

You watched him trace the ink on the paper, his thumb brushing over the crooked halo.

"This whole place—" you added, quieter, "—the world, I mean. It's a joke. Rich assholes sit comfy while the rest of us rot. Government's just another gang in suits. Heroes pick and choose who's worth saving. And people pretend everything's fine 'cause they're scared of what happens if they admit it's not."

Mark didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Because you saw it. That flicker. The shift. Like your words hit something in him that had been vibrating under the surface for a long time.

"Sounds like a riot," he muttered.

You grinned wide, sharp. "Only if we're lucky."

He kept the flyer.

Didn't say he'd go. Didn't say he wouldn't. But something in his expression changed—just a little. A crack in the mask. Curiosity, maybe. Or that quiet desperation to belong somewhere that didn't feel like a goddamn prison.

You just smiled and looked away.

You never asked if he was coming.

You already knew he would.

It was after detention when you met her.

Eve.

She was waiting for Mark outside the school gates, arms crossed tight over her chest, back straight like she was holding up some invisible weight. Her strawberry orange hair caught the dying afternoon light, golden and soft in contrast to the scowl she wore. You spotted her right away—she had that "angry girlfriend about to beat her boyfriend's ass" energy written all over her. And judging by the way her eyes immediately flicked to you, she'd been watching the building for a while.

You shoved your hands into your pockets, the chains on your ripped jeans jingling with every step as you and Mark walked out together. You still had smudges of sharpie ink on your fingers from the flyer you gave him earlier, your boots heavy against the concrete.

Mark slowed the second he saw her.

"…Great." he mumbled under his breath.

You raised an eyebrow. "That her?"

He nodded, already tense.

"Cute," you said with a smirk. "She looks like she could make the toughest guy piss himself just by looking at him."

Eve's gaze sharpened the closer you got. Her eyes trailed over your black spiked vest, the band patches stitched to your sleeves, the silver piercings on your face, the faded eyeliner smudged around your eyes. She didn't bother hiding the way she sized you up. Judging. Reading. Assuming.

You were used to it.

Mark stopped a few feet from her, but you kept walking—slow, unrushed, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make it awkward.

"Hey," Eve said, but it wasn't to you. It was for Mark. Cold and flat. Her eyes didn't leave you. “Who's this?”

"I'm his detention buddy." You replied, grinning like the devil.

Mark sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"He's a senior." he muttered. "Name's [Y/N]. He's… cool."

"Cool?" She echoed, unimpressed.

You could feel it—her judgment thick in the air like perfume. Like she thought she had you all figured out just from the scuffed boots and chipped nail polish.

You leaned forward slightly, flashing a crooked smirk. "Don't worry, I haven't sacrificed him to Satan or anything. Yet."

Eve didn't laugh.

She just looked at Mark, eyes narrowing like she'd stepped in something foul. "Mark, I thought we were supposed to have dinner at your place tonight. I told you I was gonna grab groceries and everything, and instead, you're busy sitting through detention with...him?" Her eyes slid to you, unimpressed. "Are you serious right now?"

Mark frowned. "I'm sorry, okay? I forgot." he muttered, clearly not in the mood for a fight. "It's just detention."

Eve crossed her arms tightly over her chest, jaw tense. "Is he the reason you're like this?" she asked, casting a sharp glance at you like you were some kind of bad omen. "Skipping things. Picking fights. Getting into detention for throwing punches? What the hell is going on with you, Mark?"

You didn't say anything.

You just stood there, hands tucked into your pockets, quietly chewing the inside of your cheek as your eyes flicked between the two. You could feel the heat of her judgment crawling up your neck like smoke—like she’d already made her mind up about you the second she laid eyes on your boots and torn-up jacket.

Mark exhaled hard, looking away. "It's not like that."

"It looks like that."

Eve's voice wasn't loud, but the weight of it hit harder than if she'd screamed. Her gaze lingered on Mark for a long moment—hurt and disappointed—before she shook her head and stepped back.

"You've changed," she said flatly. "And not in a good way."

Then she turned around and walked off, disappearing into the late afternoon traffic of students still lingering on campus.

For a second, there was silence.

You shifted your weight and finally spoke, voice quieter than usual. "You should go after her."

Mark didn't move.

You gave him a look, more thoughtful than mocking this time. Then you turned, adjusting your guitar case over your shoulder, already halfway down the steps.

"See you around, pretty boy." you added without looking back.

The dinner at Mark's house was quiet—tense in that way where even the clinking of silverware felt too loud. Debbie sat at the head of the table, posture straight, polite smile etched onto her face like a mask she'd forgotten how to take off. The roast in front of them was overcooked, and the potatoes were dry. Not that anyone seemed to notice.

Eve tried. She really did. She made light comments here and there, complimented the food, and asked Debbie about her work. Debbie answered everything with short, courteous replies. She was there, physically, but something about her always felt far away. Like she was operating behind glass, reaching for a life she no longer recognized.

Mark didn't say much. He stabbed his food. Ate in silence. Eve's gaze kept drifting toward him, subtle but insistent—the way she looked at him that said say something, try, she's your mother, but he never returned her looks. Just kept his head down and his jaw tight.

Debbie poured herself a glass of wine halfway through. No one commented.

The air thickened with each passing minute, like the house itself was suffocating under the weight of everything left unsaid. Eve's smile started to falter. Her back straightened. Frustration flared in her eyes.

"So, uh..." Eve started again, clinging to conversation like a life raft, "Mark said he might check out Upstate University soon. They're expanding their programs—might be a good fit."

Mark didn't even glance up when he said, "I'm not going."

Eve blinked, caught off guard. "But… you were thinking about it. You said—"

"I changed my mind." His voice was flat and final.

Debbie didn't look up from her plate, but her grip on her fork visibly stiffened. The sound of her swallowing her wine was the only reply.

Eve frowned, lips pressed tight. She leaned back in her chair, her voice a touch sharper. "You could at least try, you know. Talk to her."

Mark's eyes flicked up at her, the kind of look that could freeze a bone.

"Why?" he said coldly. "So she can pretend everything's okay?"

Debbie still didn't say anything. But her breathing shifted. Just slightly.

Mark pushed his plate away. The screech of ceramic on wood made Eve flinch. "I'm done."

He stood, not waiting for permission or even an acknowledgment.

"Mark—" Eve tried, but he was already gone, disappearing down the hall with heavy steps that sounded like every bottled emotion crashing out of him at once.

Debbie sat still for a moment. Then quietly picked up his untouched plate and began to scrape the food into the trash.

She didn't cry. She just cleaned. Like always.

Eve didn't say another word. She only watched her, and for the first time, maybe started to understand why Mark was slipping further and further away.

Mark locked himself in his room, not bothering to say goodbye when Eve left. The slam of the front door barely made him blink. He laid on his bed, hoodie still on, boots half-kicked off, staring blankly at the ceiling before letting his phone fill the silence.

The screen glowed against his face in the dim room, flickering through news articles, memes, garbage content—and then, a post. A grainy black-and-white clip of a post-punk band mid-performance. It was loud and raw. Screaming into the mic like the world wronged them. The crowd moved like a single beast, thrashing and alive.

It reminded him of you.

That casual chaos in the way you existed. The worn-out jeans, the eyeliner smudged from who-knows-what, the bite in your sarcasm that made him want to respond even when he didn’t feel like talking.

"We balance." You said, with that crooked grin on your face in detention, like the two of you are friends.

Mark stared at the video a bit longer, then typed the band name "The Demonheads" into the search bar.

Then, there it was.

Clips. Posts. Grainy concert footage. Shaky camera angles. Protest posters. A video of a rooftop set, you at the front, guitar slung low, shirt ripped at the shoulder, eyes wild. You screamed into the mic like it owed you money, like the city needed to hear you or it'd die trying not to.

There's another clip—someone caught you between songs, sweaty and laughing, flicking off the camera with a middle finger and a wink.

Mark didn't smile, but something in his chest shifted. Tightened.

He kept scrolling. Watching.

It wasn't just music. It was something else. Something angry and loud and weirdly honest. Like every part of you was up there bleeding out into speakers and cracked pavement.

He watched until his phone screen dimmed from inactivity, only then realizing how long he'd been scrolling. With a quiet sigh, he locked it and let it drop onto the bed beside him. Then, from his hoodie pocket, he pulled out the flyer you'd given him—creased, half-crumpled, but still intact.

He stared at it for a long moment, sitting up with his elbows on his knees, fingers brushing over the sharpie-scrawled ink like he was trying to feel whatever it was burning under your skin when you handed it to him.

Mark's eyes narrowed, then looked up across the room. On his desk, the glow of the digital clock blinked: 8:10 PM.

The concert wouldn't start until nine.

He stood slowly, like something was pulling him up from the weight that had been pressing him down all night. He walked out of his room and into the dimly lit hallway, made his way to the bathroom, and flicked the switch. The mirror greeted him with his own reflection—with his messy, overgrown hair, and his hoodie that had stretched and worn from too many restless nights, and eyes that carried more exhaustion than they should.

He opened the drawer under the sink and reached for the electric clippers. They were still there. Nolan's, probably. The same kind his dad used to trim up his clean, perfect image. That alone made him want to throw it against the wall.

Instead, he turned it on. The sharp, vibrating buzz filled the bathroom, and Mark stared down at it.

Then, slowly, he raised his head to the mirror.

He remembered the drawing you showed him weeks ago—chuckling, half-teasing, as you claimed, "A mohawk would do you more justice." It had been you who sketched him with a jagged mohawk and a jacket scrawled with band patches and flame motifs. He'd rolled his eyes then, said you were weird. But now… he saw it. Felt it. The version of himself in that sketch felt closer to who he wanted to be than the stranger in the mirror now.

He lifted the clippers to the side of his head.

Hair began to fall. Tufts slid down his neck, scattered over the white sink like shedding something that didn't belong to him anymore. The buzz filled the silence, grounding him in each reckless stroke. He wasn't a pro—his hands shook slightly, and it wasn't perfect. The lines were messy, the angle a little too sharp on one side—but he kept going. He didn't stop until both sides were shaved down and the middle was left tall, raw, and real.

He turned off the clippers. Silence then returned.

His reflection didn't look like that innocent Mark anymore. The boy who used to just nod along, keep his head down, try to be what everyone expected him to be. What stared back at him now was someone new—sharper, rougher around the edges, but somehow more honest.

Still buzzing with something raw, he stepped into the shower, letting the water rinse away the fallen hair and whatever else he didn't need anymore. The steam curled around him, clouding the mirror, hiding what he used to be. He stayed under the stream longer than necessary, fingers running through the damp ridge of his new mohawk. It still felt unreal. Bold. Stupid. But right.

When he stepped back into his room, towel around his neck and waist, water still dripping from his collarbones, he crossed to the closet. For once, he didn't reach for the usual hoodie or school-washed jeans. He dug deeper. Past the clothes Debbie bought. Past the ones Nolan once folded for him like it meant something.

He pulled out an old black denim vest that has rips on its shoulders—the one he barely remembered owning. Then a dark long-sleeve to wear under it. He tugged on some beat-up jeans with a few chain loops and grabbed his boots from under the bed, knocking off its dust as he shoved his feet into them.

It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't supposed to be.

He glanced at the time: 8:48 PM.

He still had enough time to show up.

To see you.

That thought alone made his chest tighten—some strange mix of nerves and something warmer, something stupid and bold.

So he shoved the flyer back into his pocket, cracked the window open, and slipped out into the night.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

When he arrived at the rooftop, he touched down without a sound, unnoticed by the swarm of bodies and buzzing energy from afar. The music hadn't started yet, but the place was already alive. Neon lights flickered across the open space, casting strange colors onto swaying silhouettes. He stayed in the shadows, taking it all in. You were right—the view was killer. The skyline burned in the distance, and the wind tugged softly at his mohawk, carrying the chill of the night across his skin.

Then, it began.

A girl with wild green hair, dressed in a electric blue and black outfit that flashed under the lights, stepped onto the stage with a mic and a manic grin. She shouted something that was lost to the rising cheers, and just like that, the rooftop exploded into sound.

Lights flared, speakers boomed, and a red handheld flare shot up from the crowd, bathing the chaos in blood-colored smoke. People screamed, jumped, and danced, their shadows stuttering with each flash of the strobes.

But Mark didn't hear any of that. Not really.

Because the second your voice echoed through the rooftop—raw, loud, and commanding—the lights stuttered and then snapped to you. And there you were.

You stood at front in the center like you owned the world, shirtless, the pale light catching the sharp lines of your body. You wore only leather—black and heavy, strapped with rows of silver-studded belts that ran from your wrists, across your pants, down to your boots. Each step you took looked like it was weighed down by chaos itself, and yet, you moved like it was nothing.

You looked like a piece of art, underneath those lights.

And something twisted in Mark's chest.

His breath caught, just for a second. He didn't understand why. It wasn't like he hadn't seen you before—but it had never been like this. There was something about seeing you up there, in your element, drenched in sound and fury, screaming into the mic like you were born to tear the world apart with your voice.

He blinked. And swallowed.

He stood there frozen, with his heart pounding in a way he couldn't quite name.

Was this admiration?

Was it awe?

Was it—?

No. Whatever it was, he didn't have a word for it.

So he stayed hidden, staring. And listening.

He watched as you strummed your electric guitar—each note sharp, cutting through the heavy night air. With every motion of your hand, the lights seemed to respond, pulsing and dancing along, casting glimmers over the metal buckles and silver spikes of your belted pants. You glowed in movement, alive and uncontained.

You sang with that mischievous grin of yours, reckless and free, tossing your voice into the sky like it didn't owe anyone anything. You laughed between lines, bumping shoulders with your bandmates, playing like the world was yours and you knew it. The crowd roared and sang with you, hypnotized, addicted.

But then—something shifted.

In the middle of the chaos, as the next verse rolled in and the bass dropped, your eyes scanned the crowd… and paused.

Mark felt it again. That exact moment.

The exact second your gaze locked with his.

It was brief. Just a flicker.

But it hit him like a fist to the chest.

Time didn't stop—it just warped. The music kept going, the lights kept flashing, but Mark couldn't hear any of it anymore. Not when your eyes found him in the crowd, even from behind the smoke and bodies and noise. Not when you tilted your head the slightest bit, lips curling like you knew something he didn't.

And for some reason… his heart clenched. Hard. Like it was trying to fight its way out of his ribs.

He didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Just watched you.

And wondered what the hell that feeling was.

He watched you throughout the whole show—mesmerized, almost dazed.

Whether you were stepping forward to sing a solo or slipping back to let the other vocalists take the spotlight, your presence never dimmed. You carried the stage even when silent, even when your fingers were the only ones speaking, dragging thunder out of your guitar like it was a living thing. You didn't just play—you breathed life into every chord, every beat. You made the music move.

And god, it was fire.

He had never seen you like this.

Sure, you always looked like trouble—sharp around the edges, untouchable, wild—but now? You looked like chaos. Beautiful, roaring chaos. Unapologetic and magnetic.

Your band's songs burned through the speakers—shouting rebellion, bleeding freedom, aching with love and loss and rage and euphoria. They weren't just songs. They were war cries. Anthems. Screams from the inside. And you were at the center of it all, feeding the storm like it was your religion.

Mark stood still on the rooftop, hidden in shadow, yet feeling more exposed than ever. Something in his chest was clawing its way up, confused and fast and hot. He didn't even realize how tightly he was gripping the edge of the railing until his knuckles ached.

He should look away. He should snap out of it.

But instead, he kept watching you like a man who just realized he'd been starving.

It was midnight—closer to 1 AM—when the noise finally began to die down. The music faded, the lights dimmed, and the crowd slowly unraveled into the night, laughing and buzzing with adrenaline. People were saying their goodbyes, shouting thanks for the killer performance. You and your band took turns giving small speeches of gratitude, rough and sincere, before the rooftop slowly began to clear out.

The energy was still buzzing in the air as you helped gather cables and carry down amps, sweat clinging to your skin, your voice a little hoarse from the night.

That's when you saw him.

Mark.

He stepped forward from the shadows, quiet but not exactly trying to hide. The second your eyes landed on him, you froze mid-movement, then a grin curled at the corners of your lips.

"Holy shit..." you breathed, wiping your hands on your pants and stepping toward him, eyes wide with disbelief. "You actually came!"

You gave a soft laugh, walking closer. "I thought I was just high when I saw you in the crowd, man." You looked him over with a playful smirk, gaze flicking up to his mohawk. "God, you definitely look the part tonight."

He didn't say anything right away—his throat tightened up, words jammed behind it like a traffic pile-up. Up close, with the flickering rooftop lights hitting your skin, you looked even more unreal. The metal on your pants glinted like stars, and the lingering heat from your performance clung to you like a halo.

He swallowed and finally muttered, "You were… insane out there."

Your smile didn't falter. "That's kind of the goal." You said, before your tone shifted into something softer, "I'm really glad you came, Mark."

You didn't let the moment linger too long.

Instead, you grabbed Mark by the wrist, tugging him gently as you said, "C'mon, I gotta introduce you to the gang."

One by one, you brought him around to meet your bandmates—each with a unique look, a different edge, but all warm and welcoming in their own rough way. They exchanged greetings, a few handshakes, nods of respect, and some smirking gratitude for him showing up. One of them even clapped him on the back and said, "Didn't think you were real, man. We were starting to think they made you up."

You laughed, throwing an arm over Mark's shoulder like you'd known him forever. "Well, I told you he's real. Real enough to help us pack up, right?"

Mark blinked. "Wait—"

Too late. You were already tossing him a bundle of cables and pointing to a nearby case. "Come on, rockstar. Earn your afterparty."

He didn't argue. Not really. What else did he have to do? Go home? Sit in that cold, quiet house with nothing but his own thoughts gnawing at him?

Nah.

He helped carry down amps, coiled wires, and stacked boxes with the rest of you, his movements eventually syncing up with the rhythm of your crew. The whole thing was messy and loud and filled with exhausted laughter and the occasional burst of music from someone who just couldn't stop playing.

And when you slung your jacket over your shoulder and looked at him with that wild glint in your eyes, asking, "You down to go celebrate somewhere? For the show, and for, y'know... not getting arrested, tonight." Mark didn’t even hesitate.

"…Yeah." he said, wiping his hands on his pants. "Yeah, I'm down."

And just like that, the night wasn't over.

The underground club was like another world—dim neon lights glowing against graffiti-splattered walls, bass-heavy music pulsing like a second heartbeat. It smelled like sweat, beer, smoke, and something else—something electric. Your band blended right in, sliding into cracked leather booths, ordering drinks with familiar smirks, lighting up like they owned the place.

Mark kept close to you at first, still a little stiff, wide-eyed at the chaos—but you handed him a drink, your fingers brushing his, and just like that, the edge dulled.

The alcohol hit him fast. Maybe it was his first real time drinking. Maybe it was the music. Or the fact that you looked like some kind of devil in human skin tonight—jacket unzip, sweaty from the show, with a cigarette hanging loose between your lips as you leaned back with a half-lazy grin, shadows and red light dancing across your face.

God, you looked good.

Mark didn't say anything at first—just sat beside you, his drink nearly slipping from his hand as his limbs got heavier and his laugh got louder. The band was wild, one of them screaming out a chaotic love song into the karaoke mic, their voice cracking beautifully over the synths. Everyone was high. High on smoke, high on adrenaline, high on surviving another night.

You elbowed Mark gently. "Hey, pretty boy..." you grinned, "you alright?"

He looked at you, really looked at you. You had your boots kicked up on the edge of the table, smoke curling from your lips, and the glint in your eye made something twist deep in his gut. He blinked slowly, cheeks flushed, eyes glossed over from drink and something else. His mouth opened like he had something to say—but nothing came out.

You just laughed, low and soft, and nudged your drink toward him.

"Don't pass out yet, you're just getting started."

And Mark… smiled.

A real one. Loose. Crooked. Almost smug.

Something was shifting. Something dangerous, something exciting.

He leaned back, head tilting as he studied you through the blur and haze of the club's lights and sound. His lips parted again, just slightly, and even though his thoughts were swimming, one thing stood out—loud and clear through the fuzz:

You were beautiful. And maybe the kind of trouble he was starting to want.

The night blurred in colors and noise, everything spinning in rhythm with the music—your bandmates were laughing at something stupid, throwing arms around each other, play-fighting, dancing like the world might end tomorrow. Mark couldn't remember the last time he laughed this hard. Maybe never. The weight that had pressed on him for weeks, months—it lifted. Just for a while, he was nobody's son, nobody's weapon, nobody's disappointment.

He was just… Mark.

And you? You were everywhere. Teasing him with that smirk, knocking back drinks like they were water, shouting out lyrics into the mic beside him with fire in your throat. He didn't know when it started—this pull toward you—but it felt like gravity now.

You leaned into him, chest nearly brushing his as your laugh turned into a shout when the chorus hit, your voices tangled together in that dumb love song. His heart was pounding, alcohol surging through him, his skin was buzzing.

He took another drink—something bitter and burning—and then he looked up.

And there you were.

Suddenly straddling his lap, body close, breath warm, eyes half-lidded but sharp. His hands landed on your waist instinctively, like it was natural, like this had always been building up to this moment.

Then your lips were on his.

And everything else faded.

The music. The crowd. Even the ache he'd been carrying deep inside—it all disappeared as you kissed him like you meant it. Not sloppy or drunk. Intentional. Confident. And Mark? He didn't even hesitate. He kissed you back like his life depended on it, fingers tightening on your waist, mouth parting under yours, breath catching somewhere between surprise and need.

He didn't know what this meant.

But he didn't care. Not tonight.

Tonight, he was yours.

You pulled away with that same cocky smirk curving your lips, your pierced tongue flicking out, a thin strand of spit still connecting you both for a heartbeat before it broke. Your eyes glittered under the club's dim, pulsing lights, and Mark felt like he was falling into something he wasn't sure he wanted to escape from.

From somewhere in the chaos, one of your bandmates let out a loud, slurred cheer.

"Yooo! Let's gooo!"

Another one threw a crumpled napkin in your direction.

"Tongue action! We saw that, man!"

Laughter erupted all around.

Mark let out a breathy, flushed laugh, still a little dazed, still high on the kiss.

"That's gay, bro." he said through his chuckle, voice rough from drinking and from whatever the hell this feeling was.

You just grinned wider, sitting comfortably on his lap like you belonged there.

"Yeah? And? you said, tilting your head, cocky and so damn cool with a cigarette lazily held between your fingers. "You complaining?"

Mark met your eyes, lips still curled into something between a smile and disbelief. He looked away for a second, heat rising to his ears.

"...No" he mumbled, biting the inside of his cheek. "Didn't say that."

You let out a low laugh, taking a slow, casual puff from your cigarette, the tip glowing red before you exhaled a stream of smoke right past Mark's flushed face. Then you leaned in again, stealing another heated kiss from his lips—tasting of alcohol, ash, and chaos. The music blared on, people kept dancing and yelling in a haze of neon lights and smoke, but Mark… he was just there. With you sitting on his lap, drunk, kissed breathless, and falling.

It was electric. It was dangerous. It was fun.

But like all things that burned too hot—it had to end.

Eventually, people started trickling out. A few were dragged off by lovers or friends. Others staggered into the night, still singing off-key lyrics or laughing like idiots. Someone shouted their love for everyone. Someone puked behind the bar. The night was winding down, but Mark looked like he didn't want it to.

He leaned against you, heavy and out of it, eyes barely staying open.

"…I don't wanna go home." he muttered.

You didn't even need to ask. You just nodded once and slipped your arm around his waist, hoisting him up and getting both of you back through the city night like it was nothing.

Your place was dark, barely lit by the orange glow of a streetlight filtering through the blinds. You dropped him on your couch with a grunt—he landed with a soft, drunken laugh, sprawling out like he belonged there.

You peeled off your layers lazily, kicking off your boots and stripping down until you were just in your black boxers, the cold beer hissing as you popped it open. You sat on the edge of the couch beside him, beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, head leaned back as you exhaled into the silence.

Mark turned his head slightly to look at you—dazed, maybe half-awake, with his pupils blown wide.

"You did great out there, buddy." you said, voice low and a little hoarse from all the shouting, singing, and smoke. There was a lazy smile tugging at your lips as you took another swig of your beer, glancing over at him from where you sat, the glow from your cigarette tip briefly lighting your face in the dim room.

Mark shifted on the couch, the leather creaking beneath him as he blinked slowly, looking up at you like he couldn't decide if this was real or a really vivid dream. His mohawk was a little messy now, his cheeks flushed, eyes still glazed.

You raised your brows. "Need anything? Water? Beer?"

He blinked again, then mumbled, "You."

The moment stretched.

Your cigarette paused mid-air.

Then you let out a small chuckle, tongue pressing against the inside of your cheek, amused and maybe just a little caught off guard. "Damn," you muttered, taking another drink. "Were my kisses really that good?"

Mark groaned and dragged a hand over his face. "Don't—don't make fun of me."

"I'm not." You leaned back, smoke curling out from between your lips. "It's kinda cute."

He groaned again, face buried in a throw pillow now.

You grinned, biting back a laugh. "Beer it is, then."

You disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, and returned with another cold can of beer in your hand. Mark was where you left him—half-slouched, flushed, eyes tracking your every move like a predator trying not to pounce too soon.

You plopped down next to him, handed the can over with that lazy smirk of yours. "Here. Might sober you up a little."

But instead of taking it, his fingers curled around your wrist. Firm and steady.

You blinked, confused for a split second—then he yanked you closer, crashing his lips against yours.

Your eyes widened briefly, your heart skipped, but your body responded before your brain could catch up. You kissed him back with equal heat, until the taste of beer and smoke and something raw took over your mouth.

Then you gasped.

Because the next thing you knew, he pushed you down against the couch, the beer can slipping from your grasp and thudding to the floor with a dull clink!

Mark was on top of you, hovering and pressing you down, with his hands gripping your wrists and holding you there like he was afraid you'd vanish. The weight of him. The heat. The surprising strength in the way he pinned you down—it made your breath hitch.

His kiss grew hungrier. Deeper. His mohawk brushed against your face when he tilted his head. One of his knees pushed between your thighs. His body told you everything his mouth hadn't yet.

And for once… you weren't the one in control.

"You're stronger than you look." you breathed between kisses.

He smirked, lips brushing against your jaw. "You're hotter than you act."

Mark's lips then attack your neck, kissing, nipping, sucking—each one more desperate than the last. You felt his breath against your skin, warm and uneven, and then the sharp pull of his mouth leaving marks where no one else had dared before.

Your fingers gripped the couch cushions, pulse racing. The pressure of his body on yours, the tension in his movements—it was all hitting you at once.

Each nip and suck sends electric jolts straight to your core, your body arching into his touch instinctively. One hand released your wrist to grip the waistband of your boxers, yanking them downwards with a rough tug. The cool air hit your newly exposed flesh, your hardened cock springing free and slapping against your stomach.

"Fuck, you're so hot." Mark murmured and pulls away just enough to tug his own pants and briefs down, freeing his impressive cock. It's larger than you expected, thick and hard, probably around 7.5 to 8 inches long. The head is flushed deep, angry red, leaking pre-cum that he uses to slick the way as he begins to stroke your cocks together, the hot, velvety flesh sliding against your own in a way that makes your toes curl.

He leans in to growl in your ear, his breath hot against your skin as his hand continues to wrap around both of you, stroking and grinding the heat between you two.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, voice low and ragged. "Look at us… you're just as hard for me as I am for you."

A shaky breath leaves him, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Shit—you're driving me crazy."

Mark's stroking grew faster, more insistent, his grip tightening around both your throbbing cocks as he chased his own release. The obscene sound of skin moving against skin filled the room, mingling with your ragged breaths and desperate moans. His eyes burned with desire, remained locked onto where our cocks were slick and sticky with pre-cum, watching the show with a hungry, almost feral intensity.

Suddenly, your body tensed, back arching off the couch as a shockwave of pleasure ripped through you. You let out a soft gasp as both of your cocks pulsed and throbbed, painting both of our stomachs with streaks of sticky white cum.

Both of you were breathing hard, chests rising and falling as the haze of release clung to your skin. Your body was slack against the couch, a satisfied grin tugging at your lips as you looked down at the mess painting your stomach. You giggled—soft, breathless, a little fucked-out.

Your fingers trailed through the sticky white on your skin, lazy and dazed, until Mark's hand caught yours. He smirked, leaning over your disheveled form, and without a word, he brought your fingers to his mouth—his tongue warm and slick as he slowly licked them clean.

You stared at him with wide eyes, lips parting—until you let out another small, stunned laugh.

"That's so gay, bro."

Mark laughed low, the sound rolling deep from his chest as he leaned in closer, his hand already trailing down your thigh.

"I think it's hot as fuck," he muttered, voice husky and eyes dark.

Before you could respond, he pushed your legs apart with a firm grip, eyes locked on you like you were something he was starving for.

You watch with your heart pounding, as Mark brings his hand to his mouth. He makes a show of spitting into his palm, working the saliva between his fingers until they glisten obscenely in the low light. Your own mouth goes dry at the sight, anticipation coiling tight in your gut.

Without preamble, Mark reaches down and circles your entrance with a slick finger, teasing the sensitive flesh until it's dripping with his spit. Then, slowly, he pushes inside, his finger sinking into your tight heat and making your back arch off the couch.

"Oh fuck..." you gasp, the stretch unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Mark's finger pumps in and out, curling and scissoring to open you up, to prepare you for what's to come.

"Relax for me, baby… Gonna ruin you just right." Mark murmured, voice thick and dark with desire. He works a second finger in alongside the first, then a third, stretching you wider, pushing you open until you're panting and writhing beneath him.

Mark captured your lips again, the kiss rough and messy, tongues tangling like neither of you could get enough. When he finally pulled away, a strand of spit still connected you both. His fingers slipped from your hole, leaving you empty and aching for more, and his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them apart, holding you wide open beneath him.

"Tell me what you want." he said, voice low and raspy, his dark eyes roaming hungrily over your flushed body. "I wanna hear you say it."

You bit your lip, your breath shaky as your eyes met his — half-lidded, burning with lust, a cocky smirk curling at the corner of your mouth.

"Shut up and fuck me, Mark." you whispered, your voice hoarse with need. "I'm done waiting."

He smiled and grips your hips tighter, fingers sinking into the flesh of your ass, as he lines himself up. The swollen head of his cock prods against your slick hole.

Then, with a single, powerful thrust, Mark buries himself inside you, his thick length splitting you open and stretching you wider than you've ever been before. You cry out, back arching off the couch as you're suddenly, brutally filled. Mark doesn't give you any time to adjust, setting a hard, fast pace as he starts to fuck into you with deep, claiming thrusts.

"Shit—you're tight!" Mark grunts, his hips slapping against your ass with each powerful drive forward. "Gonna ruin this fucking ass. Gonna make it mine."

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails digging into the firm skin and muscle as you try to anchor yourself against the relentless force of his thrusts. The room is filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin and your desperate, wanton moans as Mark takes you with a fervor that steals your breath.

"Fuck, yes! Just like that," you cry out, your voice breaking on a particularly deep thrust that makes your eyes roll back in your head. "Harder, Mark! Fuck me harder!"

Mark snarls in response, gripping your hips even tighter as he complies with your demand. His thrusts become more forceful, more demanding, the tip of his cock kissing your prostate dead-on with every plunge forward. The pleasure is intense, bordering on pain, and you can feel your own cock throbbing and leaking against your belly, aching for his touch.

The brutal pace of Mark's thrusts rocks your entire body, each powerful drive forward making the couch creak and shake beneath you. Your stomach bulges slightly with every impact, his heavy cock pushing into your core and stirring up the contents of your belly. It's a lewd, filthy sight and you can't look away, intoxicated by the raw, animalistic way he's claiming you.

"Oh fuck, oh god!"

You threw your head back in ecstasy as Mark pounds into you. The pleasure is overwhelming, drowning out any semblance of coherent thought. Your hands scrabble at his back, trying to find purchase, to ground yourself against the tidal wave of sensation crashing over you.

You can feel every ridge, every vein of his thick cock dragging along your sensitive walls as he splits you open. It's too much, too intense, and you know you won't last much longer.

"Aah! Gonna... fuck, I can't... I'm gonna... Aah!" you stammered, your voice high and thin with impending release. Your cock throbs urgently against your belly, the head was angry red and leaking steadily.

Mark feels it too, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. "Fuck, me too!" he snarls, his grip on your hips tightening to the point of bruising. "Gonna fucking flood this ass. Pump you so full of my cum, you'll be fucking dripping for days."

His words push you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You moaned loudly, your back arching as your cock pulses and jerks, painting your chest and belly with streaks of pearly white. Your ass clenches down around Mark's cock, gripping him like a velvet vice as you ride out the intense pleasure.

Mark lets out a guttural roar, slamming into you one last time as his own release takes him, flooding your insides with his hot, thick cum. You can feel each, heavy spurt of his semen painting your inner walls, marking you, claiming you as his. It's an intense, overwhelming sensation that makes your spent cock twitch weakly against your belly.

"Fuuuuck!" Mark groans, his hips giving a few more shallow thrusts as he works himself through the aftershocks of his release. "So fucking good, baby... Took my cock so well."

He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the cushions of the couch. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, his ragged breaths mingling with your own as you both struggle to catch your breath. Mark's mohawk is damp with sweat, a few strands plastered to his forehead as he pants softly against your neck.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you both bask in the afterglow. Your body feels deliciously sore, aching in the best possible way, a testament to the thorough fucking you just received. Mark's softening cock is still nestled inside you, plugging you up, making you feel full and claimed.

"Mmmm... that was... intense." you murmured, nuzzling into the crook of Mark's neck. You can taste the salt on his skin, smell the musky scent of sex that clings to him.

Mark chuckles, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "Gotta be the best sex I ever had." He said, tilting his head to capture your lips in a slow, deep kiss. It's different from the hungry, dominating kisses before - this one is softer, almost tender. "You're fucking incredible..." he murmurs against your mouth.

He rolls his hips slightly, making you both groan at the sensation. "And we're not even close to done." he smirked darkly, a wicked glint in his eye. "I'm still horny, [Y/N]... Still so fucking hard for you. I need more—need to fuck you again."

You shiver at the implication, already feeling your spent cock twitch with renewed interest. You know you should be exhausted, but the thought of more, of endless rounds of this intense, filthy pleasure, makes your heart race with anticipation

"Can't wait…" you say, voice low and breathless, lips quirking into a smirk. "Y'know? I think I need someone to break the bed with me tonight."

You pause, just for a second, softer now. "Stay with me?"

Mark didn't answer right away. Instead, he leans in, his eyes dark with heat, mouth curling into a slow, knowing smirk. Then he crashes his lips against yours again—hungry, claiming, and promising.

And just like that, the night starts all over again.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Everything changed after that night.

You and Mark weren't just two guys orbiting the same messed-up world anymore. Something shifted. Something hot and reckless, magnetic and impossible to ignore.

Mark couldn't stay away from you after that. You'd catch him watching you across the hallway, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, full of unspoken need. He started skipping classes more, just to be near you. Smoking with you behind the school. Slipping into detention even when he didn't have to, just to sit in the same room as you, leg pressed against yours under the desk like it was some secret he wanted someone to discover.

He even showed up at your band's practice, sprawled on the old couch in your little hideout like he belonged there. Head tilted back, mouthing along to the lyrics while his eyes stayed glued to your fingers that were moving across your guitar. Sometimes after those sessions, you'd barely make it to your place before he was on you—pushing you down onto some mattress, kissing you like he was starving, tearing off clothes with shaking, desperate hands.

Sometimes, he didn't wait at all.

The boys' bathroom, after the third period—he'd lock the door and shove you up against the cold tiles, hands already down your pants. Or behind the gym, underneath the afternoon sun, with your back against the bricks, with his breath hot against your skin while he fucked you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

It wasn't just sex.

It was desperation.

It was an escape.

It was an addiction neither of you wanted to shake.

And Eve?

You never talked about her. You didn't have to.

She was still there—still his girlfriend, still part of the picture—but when you were around, she barely existed. Mark would ignore her texts while he was with you, glance past her in the halls like she was a stranger.

She didn't exist in those stolen moments when you were on your knees for him, lips wrapped around his cock while he groaned your name and tugged your hair like he'd lose his mind if he let go. She didn't exist when he whispered filth into your ear while you were bent over the school's bathroom sink, struggling to stay quiet. She didn't exist in the heat between your bodies when he panted against your neck, saying how tight, and how perfect you were.

And the scariest part?

You loved it.

Mark had changed. And people noticed.

He was sharper now. Wilder. That brooding, broken shell he once carried cracked wide open, revealing someone louder, cockier, violent—someone who didn't take shit from anyone. If someone even looked at you too long, Mark was already in their faces, eyes sharp and voice dripping venom—ready to throw punches. Like he was ready to burn everything down for you.

And then there were the piercings.

The ones you'd draw in your sketchbook couple of months ago.

And fuck—he looked even hotter than you imagined.

He wore it for you.

He was yours.

And in his own twisted, violent way…

you were his too.

With you, he wasn't numb. He was alive. You brought something out in him no one else could. He smiled more. Laughed harder. Got more reckless, more dangerous, but honest. He stopped hiding. He'd kiss you in the stairwell like he didn't care about hiding anymore. He'd shove a guy for looking at you wrong in the cafeteria. He'd lock eyes with you in a crowd like it didn't matter who was watching—because you were the only thing that mattered.

Mark never said much, not out loud. He didn't talk about how he felt or what any of this meant. He didn't put names to things, didn't label you, didn't explain the way his eyes always found you in a room like you were gravity and he was just trying not to fall apart.

But the way he looked at you?

It said everything.

It was in the heat behind his stare, the way his jaw would clench when someone stood too close to you, the way his hand always found yours when no one was watching. You could feel it in the way he kissed you—rough, deep, like he was trying to crawl inside your skin and stay there. Like he didn't know how to be gentle with something he wanted this much.

You had him. Fully, completely, undeniably.

And he had you, just as wrecked.

He was still angry. Still dragging chains from the past he never talked about. Still haunted by things you could only guess at when you caught glimpses of that hollow look in his eyes after sex, like he'd been somewhere else for a second and had to claw his way back.

But with you, something changed.

He let his guard down, if only in stolen moments. You saw the softness beneath the sharp edges—the boy who wanted to be touched, wanted to be seen, but didn’t know how to ask for it.

With you, he wasn't just surviving.

He was living.

And yeah, maybe the whole thing was messy. Maybe it was twisted and wrong and so far past the line of what should've been. But you didn't care.

Because in the end, no matter how fucked up it all was…

you wouldn't trade him for anything.

Not the calm, clean version of love people wrote songs about.

Not the easy kind of boy who smiled politely and stayed in the lines.

You wanted him.

Just like this.

Wild. Possessive. A little broken.

And entirely yours.

"I'm gonna kill you, Mark." you wheezed, body aching as you lay tangled in your sheets—sweaty, sore, absolutely wrecked. "I told you me and the gang were rioting tonight."

You turned your head, glaring at him with zero energy behind it. "Now I can't even stand without my knees shaking, dumbass."

Mark was laid out next to you, with a cocky grin on his lips, eyes still heavy-lidded from the high of it all. He had a cigarette hanging from his mouth, bruises blooming along his neck, piercings glinting in the low light. He looked like sin personified—sweaty, smug, and so damn pleased with himself.

He let out a short laugh, deep and careless, before blowing smoke toward the ceiling like he didn't just rearrange your guts.

"That's on you for moaning like that." he said, voice rough and dripping arrogance. "You think I was gonna stop when you kept saying my name like a damn prayer?"

“You're an asshole." you muttered, dragging a pillow over your face.

He just grinned wider, sitting up slightly to watch you suffer with a predator's calm. "You love it."

You peeked out from the pillow, watching as he tilted his head back and ran a hand through his mohawk, those wild curls still clinging to his forehead. His body was littered with old scars and fresh scratches—your scratches. He looked like a goddamn menace, and he knew it.

"Gotta admit." he said, eyes drifting over your naked, sore body like he hadn't already wrecked you twice, "You limping into that riot later? Kinda hot."

Mark chuckled, leaning in to press a lazy kiss to your jaw, then tracing the angry red mark he’d left on your neck with far too much pride. "You know…" he drawled, lips brushing against your skin, "If you're going out... maybe I should tag along."

You turned to squint at him. "For what? To start more chaos?"

His grin sharpened. "No, babe. I was thinking I could fuck you behind a dumpster while Molotovs fly in the background."

You blinked. "You're kidding."

He didn't even hesitate. "I'm not. That'd be so hot. Firelight on your face, sirens in the distance, you begging for me to go harder while the city burns a little."

"God, you're deranged."

"And yet," he smirked, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip, "you're still gonna let me come."

You snorted, tossing a pillow at his chest. "You're freaky as hell, man."

He caught it with ease, tossing it aside before climbing over you again, voice low and rough by your ear. "Say the word, and I'll make sure you really can't walk straight into that riot."

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊˚⊹ ᰔ

𖹭 please don't repost, publish, or translate this shit anywhere. You don't have the right to do that. Thank you for understanding.

Divider made by @cafekitsune ୨ৎ

author's note: listening to Hamilton while writing this is insane :0

#𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒕🐈‍⬛𖹭.ᐟ #mohawk mark #mohawk invincible #mohawk mark x reader #invincible variants #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson smut #invincible fanfic #invincible #invincible x reader #invincible x male reader #invincible smut #this took so damn long to finish #my phone is burning

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mercvry-glow · 2 months ago

Text

a girls guide to shopping

parings. michael robinavitch x bratty!reader

summary. a shopping trip goes sideways after a teenager clocks your shit at a panty sale. thankfully your hot doctor boyfriend knows what's best.

warnings. age gap (robby early 50s, reader late 20s early 30s), reader gets punched, and passes out, hospital setting, robby is a little stressed and sassy but so is reader, pretty light overall, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. I love them your honor! sorry for not posting for a few days while i figured out these stories/dynamics. always feel free to request dynamics like these, I love them more than anything else! as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 1900+

Coming into the ER while you were supposed to be shopping was a total fucking downer. Once, the mall had been a magical place—a glittery, pretzel scented wonderland where you could lose hours drifting between candle shops and designer racks, sipping iced lattes and swatching lip gloss on the back of your hand like a civilized woman.

Now? Now it was the place where you got decked in the face by some teenage gremlin in low-rise jeans over a pair of lace panties.

And because you were a grown adult, you couldn’t even swing back.

Tragic.

You didn't even remember hitting the floor. Just the sharp, burning pop in your nose, the stars behind your eyes, and then—darkness. The paramedics told you you were out cold for maybe ninety seconds, but it was long enough to wake up under fluorescent lights, head pounding and crop top slightly askew.

“We got a female, LOC for approx one minute,” one of the EMTs was saying now as they wheeled your stretcher through the ER. “Vitals stable, GCS fifteen, alert and oriented, just... uh... kinda pissed.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” you muttered, clutching the melting bag of ice someone had tossed at your face like it could fix your whole life.

“Can you tell us your name again?” asked the other paramedic—young, blonde, and way too chipper for your taste.

“Yeah. It’s ‘I want a lawyer.’”

He snorted. “Okay, feisty’s good. You remember what happened?”

“I got my shit rocked by a seventeen-year-old with acrylics and rage issues over a five-dollar thong. And I swear to God, if I have to get my nose redone, someone’s getting sued. Possibly everyone!”

The paramedic just chuckled again and turned to the nurse approaching the stretcher. “We got a real diva on our hands.”

“Do not diminish me,” you snapped, even as you adjusted your messy bun and adjusted your once cute, now bloodied, jacket. “I am a victim of retail violence.”

The nurse—a tan-skinned, shorter woman with dark hair, and a clearly unbothered attitude—just gave you a once-over. “Put her in Bay 3. Maybe Dr. Robby can talk her down.”

You blinked. “Wait. Did you just say Robby?”

The paramedic raised an eyebrow. “You know him?”

Oh, you knew him.

You dated him.

Michael Robinovitch: broody, brilliant, perpetually annoyed trauma doc. Your boyfriend. Also, the last person on earth you wanted to see you laid out in a hospital bed with smeared lip gloss and a possible concussion.

You shot upright slightly—then immediately winced and laid back down.

“Please don’t tell him it’s me,” you whispered like it was a state secret. “Lie. Say I died. Switch my name with someone else’s. Say I’m contagious.”

The nurse smirked. “Yeah, he’s gonna love this.”

That was the moment you knew you were screwed.

The curtains around North-3 weren't soundproof, but you were trying to pretend they werer. You laid there with an ice pack balanced across your nose and a mild headache blooming behind your eyes. The ER smelled like bleach and overworked nurses, and you were pretty sure one of your press-on nails had popped off in the ambulance.

The nurse—Princess, according to her badge—was updating something on the computer, tapping the keys like she’d done this a thousand times. She had a chill vibe, low braid, cute scrubs. Honestly, you respected her.

“So, just to confirm,” she said without looking up, “you fainted in Victoria’s Secret?”

You sighed. “Technically, I passed out next to a panty display. Slightly more dignified.”

Princess grinned. “Right.”

“I had a head injury,” you added defensively. “And that girl came flying at me like I personally wronged her.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t get trampled.”

“Thank you for your concern,” you said, deadpan. “I didn’t get to buy my stuff either.”

Princess chuckled. “I’ll put that in your chart.”

You slumped back onto the gurney, closing your eyes. This was officially the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to you. Which was saying something, considering you once accidentally sexted your building manager.

The sound of hurried footsteps pulled your attention to the hallway.

“Where is she?” came a familiar voice. Calm, but rushed. Less annoyed than… worried.

Your stomach dipped.

Princess didn’t even glance over. “There it is.”

You opened your eyes, sitting up slowly. “He’s here?”

“Yup.”

“Do you know if he’s like—mad?”

Princess finally looked up at you. “He looked… like he needed to know you were okay.”

You bit your lip. “Ugh. That’s worse.”

The curtain pulled open gently—no dramatic whip, no scolding.

There he was.

Dr. Michael Robby Robinovitch. Brown hair slightly messy, like he’d run his hands through it on the way down, stethoscope hanging around his neck, scrubs just a little rumpled. His eyes landed on you immediately, softening the second he saw your face.

“You fainted over a pair of underwear?”

Your smile dropped. “Excuse me, I was attacked over a pair of underwear.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but he didn’t laugh. He stepped inside quietly, pulling the curtain mostly shut behind him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice low.

“I mean, my face hurts and my dignity’s practically, but otherwise? Sure.”

He moved closer, reaching out carefully to lift the ice pack away. “Let me see.”

You let him, even though the swelling around your nose made you feel anything but cute. He studied you for a second, then met your eyes.

“Doesn’t look broken. We’ll scan just to be safe.”

You tried to joke. “If I need a nose job, I’m getting a cute one.”

His mouth twitched. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, resting his hand gently on your knee.

“I got paged when they brought you in,” he said quietly. “Didn’t know it was you until I heard the report and someone described you as all ‘crop top’ and ‘attitude.’”

You laughed, even though your head throbbed a little when you did. “Hell yeah.”

“I was worried,” he admitted, thumb brushing lightly over your knee. “You don’t just faint. That’s not you.”

“I didn’t mean to be dramatic,” you said softly. “I just… kind of blinked and hit the floor.”

“You don’t have to explain. You’re here. That’s what matters.”

You exhaled, letting yourself relax for the first time since the mall.

He looked at you again, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?”

You smirked. “You really can’t, look what I get up too.”

Robby didn’t move right away. His hand rested on your knee, thumb tracing quiet, reassuring circles through the thin hospital blanket. You shifted slightly, trying not to wince at the dull ache spreading from the bridge of your nose up into your forehead.

“Do I look terrible?” you asked, your voice lower now.

He glanced up from your chart, his soft brown eyes sweeping across your face—not with judgment, but with quiet focus. “You look like someone who took a hit and handled it.”

“So... still cute?” you teased lightly.

Michael’s lips curved, just barely. “Always.”

You smiled, then sighed. “This might be the most embarrassing day of my life.”

“Worse than the time you locked yourself out of the house in your underwear?”

“Low blow Mikey, low blow… and that was different. That was private shame. This is public, in my baby tee, with paramedics and nosy mall goers.”

He hummed softly, stepping back just as Princess peeked back in through the curtain, a clipboard in hand.

“Radiology’s ready,” she said with a kind smile. “You want a wheelchair or are you feeling steady?”

You started to sit up. “I’m fine. I can walk.”

Michael gave you a look—calm but pointed. “Let me help you.”

“I can do it.”

“I know,” he said, already offering a hand. “But let me anyway.”

You hesitated, then reached for him. His hand was warm and steady, and the way he hovered—not overbearing, just present—made you feel safe, even if your pride was still limping along behind you.

The walk down the hallway was quiet. The CT tech moved efficiently, guiding you through the scan with minimal small talk, and before you knew it, you were back in your bay, settling onto the stretcher again with a little more care than before.

Robby was waiting, flipping through a printout from radiology.

“Well?” you asked.

He glanced at you. “No fracture. No concussion. You’re just bruised, a little rattled too, but otherwise okay.”

You exhaled. “Good.”

He softened as he looked at you again, that quiet relief flickering behind his usual calm. “You scared me.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

Yet another nurse returned just then, handing over a water bottle and a stack of discharge instructions. “You’re free to go. Ice for the swelling, rest tonight, and take it easy for a couple days.”

Michael took the papers from your hands before you could even skim them. “I’ll go over these with her.”

You gave him a look but didn’t argue. It was kind of nice, having him take over. Quietly protective. Familiar.

They gave you a small smile. “Try to stay out of trouble, okay?”

You nodded. “No more shopping trips. Lesson learned.”

Michael helped you off the bed with a gentleness that didn’t surprise you. As you reached for your bag, you felt his hand at the small of your back, guiding you without a word toward the exit.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, glancing up at him as the first doors opened.

He looked down at you, a soft smile tugging at his mouth. “Always.”

As the next set automatic doors hissed, the cool mid-day air brushed against your skin. The hospital parking lot glowed in the flickering daylight, and for the first time all day, things felt quiet. Still.

Michael walked beside you, not rushing, just staying close. You didn’t say much—didn’t really need to.

At your rideshare pickup spot, since you clearly hadn’t taken your car here. You stopped and turned toward him. He still had the discharge paperwork tucked under one arm, the other hand resting casually on the small of your back.

“You sure you’re okay to go?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded. “Yeah. A little sore. A lot tired. But I’ll be fine, hopefully.”

His eyes searched yours for a moment, not quite convinced.

“You passed out,” he said gently. “That’s not nothing.”

“I know.”

“If anything feels off tonight—headache that gets worse, nausea, anything weird—call me.”

You nodded again, a little slower this time. “I will.”

He studied you for another beat, then stepped forward, brushing a stray piece of hair from your cheek. His hand lingered there, warm against your skin.

“I mean it,” he said. “Even if it’s just a gut feeling. Call me.”

You smiled softly. “Okay.”

Then, without any rush, he leaned in and kissed you—just a quick, careful kiss to your forehead, right above the bruise forming at your hairline. Tender and light. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence that didn’t need words.

“Rest,” he murmured. “I’ll check in later.”

You watched him for a second before stepping back toward the car that had just pulled up.

And even though your face still ached and your head felt like cotton, you suddenly felt a little better than you had all day.

mercvry-glow 2025

#the pitt #the pitt max #the pitt hbo #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch x you #dr. michael robinavitch #dr. michael robinavitch x reader #dr. michael robinavitch x you #noah wyle #❥ - Michael Robinavitch

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dilatorywriting · 8 months ago

Text

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 5]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 6.8k

Summary: 'Rule 27: It’s a poor choice to help a hare at high noon, but it will certainly appreciate you if you do.'

WARNING for some descriptions of violence

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

You’d first set foot on The Rose Queen when you were the tender age of eleven. Or, well, something close to that. It wasn’t like most peasant orphans were taught numbers, let alone how to interpret calendars well enough to mark the passing of years.

It was the first ship you’d ever seen up close—sleek, and salt-stained, and creaking beneath your toes. The Boy King at its helm had turned his nose up at you in his too big coat, with his too big boots and tricorn hat that kept slipping down over his eyes. It was a ragtag crew that you’d wandered into, made of nothing but runaways and street rats. The ship itself was just as unusual and fresh-faced. It was built in a very impractical sort of way, with hallways that led to nowhere and portholes that opened up into endless seas of shadow where you could tumble down, down, down for hours and never see an end (or so you’d been warned). There were paintings on the walls, all off-centered and hanging on crooked nails that wobbled with every dip in the waves. The masts and rails were stained a deep, bloody red, in honor of its title. And no matter how the raging winds and waves battered at those petals, your Captain would have you out there the next morning to paint them anew. The Rose Queen was the finest pirate ship in all the ocean, and you only half-said that out of personal bias.

The vessel of the Silver Songbirds was… not like that.

It was grand, certainly. But there was a barren cleanliness to it that didn’t feel lived in. Sure, Riddle’d had you literally scrubbing stains out of the deck with a toothbrush and pot of turpentine, but this was different. Sterile, rather than squeaky. The wood planks didn’t whine with a weary, seaworthy groan beneath your feet that you could feel through the heel of your boots—as if to reassure you it was there. The air smelled of salt, sure, and you could see a group of gulls circling overhead, but the whole of it felt… empty. Lonely.

The black haired man led you to a small, private room in the ship’s hull. That alone was strange. You’d been sharing quarters for the whole of your seafaring career. This new little suite of yours had a bed, and white paint on the walls, and a porthole for a window. He gently coaxed you into sitting at the foot of the mattress and readjusted the coat resting along your shoulders. His smile was soft, kind. The sort of warm, pretty expression that you could read about in a love poem.

You remembered your Siren’s vicious, pointed smirk—red, and haughty, and sharp enough to cut glass—and fought a pang of something you absolutely refused to put a name to.

When you blinked back into focus, his lips were moving in a slow, steady flow and you focused your best on the shape of them. It was hard, with how placid his expression was—with how little there was to make out of anything he was attempting to get across. And whether it be your furrowed brow or a sudden memory that oh right, you’d told him your ears worked as well as a three-legged horse pulling a one-wheeled cart, he startled into silence. His face twisted up with chagrin, and he offered you an apologetic smile with round, pink cheeks.

He fumbled around in his pockets for a piece of paper and scribbled out a hasty note to press into your palms.

‘My name is Neige Leblanche, and I’ll be taking care of you for this journey.’

You paused, fingers worrying at the sides of the neat, square bit of parchment. It felt right to offer your own name in return. That would be the polite thing, surely. But you paused, throat tight with uncertainty and a prickling, unpleasant sort of heat. Because you’d never even told your Siren your name, had you? Not even once.

And beneath that sudden, sour gut punch was something else.

‘Rule 116, your name is not a number, but it is your value. Do not offer it to any whose own interests are undue.’

The first time Ace had found himself with a wanted poster (‘Ugly,’ he’d complained, bitter. ‘How am I supposed to hook any tail with this? I look like a mutant potato. This stupid portrait is worse than prison.’), Riddle had taken your handwritten Book of Rules and underlined that one thrice over. You hadn’t thought much of it until you’d had to cut a hangman’s noose from around your idiot, foxy friend’s throat—the handiwork of the tavern folk he’d been boasting to only an afternoon before. And then it had made sense. Ace had survived (with a new, grand tale of woe that he liked to repeat ad nauseum until you wished you’d left him strung up), but the lesson had remained.

Carefully you swallowed the words resting on your tongue and offered a polite-ish nod in their place.

“Nice to meet you, sir. Thank you. For saving me.”

Neige shook his head in a panicked sort of rush, hands waving back and forth with a clear ‘none of that! None of that!’ before reaching back into his pockets to search for another note.

‘It was my honor,’ he wrote, words jumbled and sloppy in his haste. ‘It’s the duty of all officers to help those in need.’

Your brow pinched. Officer? Officer of what?

Your Siren had called these Songbirds dangerous. ‘Not safe’ written into the sand over and over again with his curled claws. You didn’t know much of mainland politics and other such nonsense, but maybe there was some sort of… Siren Hunting Order? Soldiers of the King sent out to scour the seas and keep them safe for a host of weary, would-be-merman-meals? That would make sense. It would make a lot of sense, actually.

Another note was pressed into your hands.

‘How did you end up stranded on that island?’

Islet, you wanted to correct petulantly. Riddle would have. Your Siren would have.

You opened your mouth and hesitated. Telling Nigel, or Nergal, or whatever his name was that your ship had been besieged by a pod of ravenous mers (and one fair-faced asshole who you already missed far, far too—) was as good as serving them up on a silver platter, wasn’t it? Siren hunters probably traded information like how pirates traded maps or merchants traded gold. And you’d be damned if your loose tongue was what led to your friend companion co-strandee’s family being hunted for sport just after he’d finally managed to make his way home again.

So you stiffened your upper lip and turned to look your savior in the eye.

“I fell overboard,” you said, firm. “Because I’m an idiot.”

He blinked, startled, and you could recognize the spluttered ‘…oh’ shaping his lips.

He handed you another scribbled bit of parchment, gaze averted and awkward.

‘I’m sorry.’

“Never apologize to the half-wit for whatever fallacy of their own led to them falling into the pit,” you recited naturally, and Nigel startled. His doe eyes went round with confusion and he tilted his head at you like a curious hound. Nothing intimidating, more like some kind of fluffy cocker spaniel or primped up lapdog staring up at you with too-long-lashes and too-few-thoughts.

You shrugged.

“Just a rule I was supposed to follow,” you shrugged off. You offered a slanted grin. “Though when you’re the idiot in question, it can be pretty hard to avoid.”

Neville smiled at you with a soft sort of laugh that you swore you could feel dancing along your skin.

Another note.

‘I’ll be back in a bit. Please enjoy the amenities here and get some rest. If you need anything, let us know and I’ll get it sorted personally.’

You dipped your chin in thanks and collapsed back against the small, flat mattress in the corner. It was soft, sturdy, probably good for your back and all that nonsense. The sheets were crisp and white, and they rubbed blandly at your weary hide. You could smell the lingering, sharp fragrance of some kind of tacky soap in the cotton. Totally not unpleasant at all. Theoretically, it should have actually been the best bed you’d ever slept in. But a part of you missed swaying back and forth in a net hammock, and an even bigger part missed plopping down in the sand with the heat of a crackling fire at your front and the even steadier warmth of the long, curling, press of gemstone scales at your back.

You flopped over onto your side and stared at the empty, carefully manicured surface of the desk opposite you and wished more than anything that you’d brought your shell.

The room was cold when you next woke, and you shivered into the jacket Neige had draped along your shoulders (because it was ‘Neige.’ It had been signed on the bottom of the note he’d left you that morning alongside your breakfast. Which was stupid. The dumbest name you’d ever heard). The starched fabric of it all wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than shivering through the chilly ocean mists that were seeping in through the porthole.

You burrowed into the swathe of white and blue wool like a rabbit in a hole, and then winced in irritation when another of those stupid, gaudy pins dug into your cheek.

You plucked the first from its place—the duo of silver songbirds. It really was quite pretty, despite the ominous undertones and all. Two, graceful, delicate sets of feathered wings arching up into the sky—forever frozen in a dance to the clouds. You dropped it into the little, dark crevice between your bed and the wall. Good riddance.

Next came a crest that was familiar in a distant sort of way—a memory that tickled that back of your brain from days long past. You hadn’t noticed it before, what with the echoes of ‘not safe, not safe, not safe’ blaring in your head like an alarm, but it was just as neatly polished as the birds pinned above. It was diamond shaped, the edges embossed in twining lines like the cut of a rope. At its head sat a strange sort of crown, with the arches and more familiar pointed designs replaced by the billowing arcs of sails. All of that gallantry surrounded a pair of rearing stallions—hooves crossed along a golden edged sword and circled with blue ivy.

You twisted it between your fingers, watching the metal glint in the low light. You hadn’t set foot in proper society since Riddle had let your young, dumb self abscond into the ocean all those years ago. You could hardly remember the flag of our home country, let alone the specifics.

You frowned and the edges of the badge pricked at your fingers.

You dropped this one behind the bed too, with a petulant flick of your wrist to make sure it really stuck.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around more often, there’s some business I’ve been having to take care of.’

You handed the note back with a shrug.

“It’s no bother.”

Neige offered an apologetic grimace nonetheless and another of those smiles that looked a bit too sweet to be real.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

You bristled before you could help it, thoughts spiraling away to harpoons, and nets, and hunting parties. And then you settled your shoulders into a polite, easy line and offered one of your own too-put-together smiles in return.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, you saved me after all.”

Neige smiled again, easy and comfortable, and pressed another slip of parchment into your palms.

‘Where were you headed? When you fell overboard?’

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck you with a barbed cactus branch dipped in—

Ahem.

You cleared your throat in a way that was surely a Very Normal Person Thing To Do, and tried to ignore the fact that he was so brazenly attempting to map out his plan of attack—to pinpoint the route that the sirens had been chasing and run after it like hounds tracking a fresh scent. Which, to be fair, sirens were a scourge on the seas. Hundreds upon hundreds of good men and women had been lost to their crooning songs and wickedly sharp teeth. They were vicious, often cruel, and so much stronger than any mortal sailor that of course the world above would fear them. You’d been very much of the same opinion until only quite recently, and now—now you just couldn’t.

“I don’t know where we were going,” you lied, and Neige’s brow pinched in a dour, rejected kind of way. “But,” you tried, sprinkling in a touch of truth to make the lie go down easier, “I know we were coming from Port o'Bliss.”

He nodded, that uncongenial expression slipping off his face as easily as it’d settled there.

He rattled off something quick and bubbly, and you pointedly arched a brow. The brunette blushed bright pink and hastily scrabbled for another bit of paper.

‘Thank you for being so helpful. I know it can’t be easy.’

Your neutral expression froze on your face and when you smiled it felt more like a polite bearing of teeth. Did he know? Could he see right through you? Or worse, was he getting all the answers he wanted from you either way, no matter how you tried to coat it in a veneer of misdirection.

“Sure thing.”

He handed you another note, this time for his pocket. Crumpled and soft, the ink a bit smeared along the curling letters.

‘It’s a poor choice to help a heron at high noon,’ it said, ‘but it will certainly appreciate you if you do. So my thanks to you.’

Something settled in your gut at the familiarity, something deceptively warm and homey.

“It’s a hare,” you said, without much thought. “Not a heron.”

Neige nodded with a polite, smiling mumble that looked like another apology, and then left you to your own devices.

That night, a veritable feast was delivered to your tiny, white-walled cabin. A grand spread of food fit for a king. There was roasted fowl, pools of thick, spiced gravies, mountains of vegetables that you’d never even seen before. And tarts. So many colorful, fruity tarts that were so sweet they almost made your tongue curl.

“What’s the occasion?” you asked as Neige took a seat at your desk to nibble at the meal alongside you—a cloth napkin folded neatly across his nap and a clear glass flute for wine placed a bit precariously by his elbow.

He smiled, honey warm, and offered you another note.

‘For helping the hare.’

Neige didn’t come to visit you the next morning, and his absence had the hair at the nape of your neck standing on end.

You paced and paced around your cube of a barrack. It was maybe four steps from one end to the next, but the constant bumping your toes against the wall was better than just sitting there doing nothing. The worst part was the silence. Not the one in your head. Yes, yes, you were more than used to that. On and on, yada yada. But the silence of the ship. The Rose Queen had always felt like a living thing, a great, wooden beast with a pulse you could feel thrumming beneath your toes, your palms. All you had to do was lay a hand against its side and you could feel the rumble of the tide beyond, the rushing footsteps of sailors sprinting about to meet one of Riddle’s orders or other, the thump of heavy, wet mop heads smacking the deck overhead. It was quiet, but it wasn’t quiet. This ship? No matter how you laid against the boards or pressed flat to the walls, there was nothing. And it made you feel like you were trapped aboard a vessel full of ghosts.

The sun had long begun to set by the time Neige returned, and by then you were nothing but a livewire of nerves.

Had they found him? Your Siren? Was he there somewhere, just a few floors above—strung up like a fish in a net? Caught and displayed like a fine trophy? Or had they killed him outright? Had they found his pod? Had he put up a fight? Had he—

A piece of rolled parchment was held out for you to take, a satin blue ribbon tied along its belly. Neige’s soft, brown gaze was glued to the floor and you snatched the paper from his hands like a rabid cat and tore it open. You could barely keep your eyes steady to read it all—fine, pointed print done up in a neat hand.

‘—danger to those who venture—'

‘—for the safety of the people—’

‘—therefore, the decision has been made—'

‘—with the greatest consideration—’

‘—with immediate effect—'

‘—we have declared the extermination of—'

“You can’t!” you wailed, and Neige’s doe eyes darted up to yours and immediately away once more in guilt. “He’s—he’s not bad. I swear! I know how things look—and—and I know he’s not—that’s he’s a—but you can’t—”

Neige’s wavering stared jumped back to you in open surprise, and you saw his lips twitch on one word—delicate brows pinching in question.

‘He?’

You frowned and fought the urge to stomp your feet. Because, okay, fine. Sure, you were arguing tooth and nail for someone whose name you maybe didn’t even know. Someone who had swum away from your stupidly sentimental ass with all the power and grace of a beast fit to rule the depths of the oceans while you could barely flounder at its surface. And sure, sirens killed people and ate them. But this one was—he was special, and you’d be damned if you let some primped up fishermen try to reel him in on a hook just because he’d maybe eaten a few people. And—

There was a hand on your shoulder, and Neige was staring down at you with an expression not dissimilar to that of a parent about to tell their child that the cat had got out and met a terrible, squishy end beneath the wheels of your neighbor’s carriage. He sighed, dark lashes brushing along his cheeks, and then reached out with his other hand to tap a finger between your collar bones.

“What?” you snapped, and he tapped again. “Me? What about me?”

He paused, gaze meeting yours with a pointed sort of melancholy.

Oh.

You remembered the pins you’d dropped behind your bed, one by one. You remembered the strange coat of arms crowned with golden sails and bearing a great, shining sword. Something regal, something imperial that a commoner like you would have only caught fleeting glimpses of in parades, and marches, and war calls.

Something like, say, Pyroxene’s Royal Naval Fleet.

You glanced down at the parchment again, crumpled between your fists, and smoothed it out into something legible beneath your fingers. You reread the text with careful focus.

‘For the Crime of Piracy’ it said. Right at the tippity top. In red ink.

“…ah,” you blinked. “That makes a lot more sense.”

You were to walk the plank on the ‘morrow.

Which honestly, you hadn’t even thought was really a Thing—walking the plank, argh. Fiddly dee and a yo-ho-ho. That sort of storybook nonsense. The parables that parents passed onto their children to try and scare them away from a life of villainy. Real pirates were put to the rack, or hanged in the town squares to scare the adults away from doing the same.

But you supposed it was practical, at least. Blood was hard to scrub out of wooden decks, so beheading would have been a bit of a mess. Bullets were best to be conserved out on the high seas where stocks were already low, and honestly, your body would just have to be thrown overboard anyways before it stunk up the barracks. So, like, doing it all in one would be quite efficient. You could appreciate that.

Your hands would be bound at your back and you’d be given three breaths, three steps, and then you’d be tumbling down into the waves below. Claimed by the waters that you’d patrolled for so many years now. Fitting, honestly. Riddle would be proud (beneath the raging, spitting indignation of you being caught at all, but that was another matter). At least you wouldn’t be going out from food poisoning or something mundane like that, so that was a win. And who knew. Maybe your Siren would find you again when you were nestled to rest in some seabed not too far from here, and he could finally make a meal of your dumb ass yet. Happy endings abound.

You wondered idly at the dual branches of fate you’d wandered along in these past weeks, and if it would have been better to hide away when you’d first seen those sails on the horizon. To keep to the little, crescent island you’d found yourself on and slowly starved to death. Alone, abandoned, and sitting in a forever stillness worse than any silence you’d known before. Forever staring out over the horizon for a glance of amethyst fins that you knew you’d never see again.

If given the choice between the two, you’d take the plank.

Neige brought you another feast that night, and you gorged on it merrily.

When he nervously kept piling your plate with choice cuts after choice cuts, gaze diverted to the floor and looking like a kicked puppy dog with its tail between its legs, you rolled your eyes and swatted at his fingers.

“Unclench yourself,” you huffed, and he puffed up stuttery and pink in horror. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re just doing your job, right? If we’d met under different circumstances I bet I would have shot you first. So, really. All’s fair.”

He worried his lower lip between his teeth, guilt still swimming heavy and warm in those doe eyes of his.

He said something under his breath, something that you’d bet even if your ears were working at full capacity you wouldn’t have been able to parse out. He leaned forward to scrawl a note on the napkin beside your plate.

‘You’re happier now? After all this? I don’t get it.’

You reached out to pat him merrily on the shoulder, more a smack smack smack then anything really pleasant. He could see him fighting a wince with all the trembling sort of bravery of a field mouse. Poor dear. What was the Royal Navy thinking? Hiring on someone who looked like they belonged on an advert for rouge and sweets. This was the last face a pirate was expected to jeer into? This one? Really? It was a wonder this little, squirrely man hadn’t keeled over the first time someone spat on his boots.

“It’s a poor choice to help the fish at high noon,” you said around a mouthful of crumbs. “But it’s my choice. And I’m happy to do it.”

“Fish?” you saw him mouth, brow pinched, and you batted at his shoulder again before reaching for another of those too-sweet tarts.

There was a whole procession for your execution. With speeches. Which even with the slowly encroaching panic worming into your guts, you couldn’t help but think was at least a little funny.

The whole crew was lined up in solemn formation, listening stalwartly to some judge, or high ranking officer, or whatever rattle off who even knew what. Your crimes? A homily? The lunch menu? Fuck if you had any clue. And you were the one being fed to the sharks. There had to be some joke hidden in here, right? The scoundrel pirate who could never be tried, simply because they couldn’t hear their own sentencing. You wouldn’t even know when to stand up and shout ‘I object!’ It would probably be pretty funny, right? If you just did that out of nowhere. And what was the worst that could happen? Oh, no. A fine. Please, sir. Add it to the list of debts I owe from beyond my watery grave. Amen.

A hand at your lower back gave you a gentle nudge forward and you shifted against the ropes binding your wrists. They were nicer than your own stores aboard the Rose Queen. Not nearly as itchy, the fibers neat and clearly expensive. Neige stepped up beside you and offered you a look that was likely meant to be kind, but your growing nerves had started to eat through your willingness to play friendly. You could feel the weight of the crew around you, even if you couldn’t hear them. The creak of the deck beneath your toes as they shifted about, the way their bulk must have been shielding you from the worst of the wind. Unlike with your own mismatched family of castaways, their presence wasn’t reassuring. And you kept your eyes locked forward and away from the field of sharp gazes eating into your hide.

The plank was narrow, and immediately you were fighting the urge to sway on your toes. Having your hands bound at your rear only made it worse. It threw off the whole of your center of gravity and had you feeling dizzy and seasick.

You took one breath, stuttery, and one step. The wood whined beneath your heels in a vibration you could feel all the way up to your knees.

Another breath, another step. You could feel the salt soaked board starting to bend now. Clearly it wasn’t meant to support much of anything, let alone a whole person. And for some reason the idea of it breaking beneath you was so much worse than taking that last step all on your own. A sudden plunge that was out of your control. It had your heart hammering in your throat and cold nausea bubbling in your belly.

You looked down. You didn’t want to, but it was like your gaze was a weighted, magnetic thing. Pulled down into the salty depths below. The water looked rougher than it had a moment ago, or maybe you were just really starting to panic. You could see the white froth of the wake breaking against the ship’s hull. It churned like the start of a storm, which was really, terribly inconvenient. Seeing as it’d been so still and calm just a few minutes before. And, y’know, the fact that you had to fall into that mess of sharp peaks and rocking waves. You swore you could see dark shapes flitting about just beneath the surface, a flash of grey, or maybe green. It was hard to tell, with the brightness of the early morning sun in your eyes.

No one was poking at your back, urging you forward, which you thought was quite odd. You’d been taking your sweet ol’ time sauntering to your demise. You’d assumed they’d have less patience for a pirate with cold feet. Instead, the world around you was just silent and still. Shifting with the raging waves below, but empty and quiet as a tomb for all you knew otherwise.

You took your last breath, your last step.

And then the ship lurched and you were plummeting towards the water. The dissonance between having something beneath your feet—no matter how frail—and then nothing was jarring, and it had you gasping on impulse. Hair whipping at your cheeks and lungs squeezing tight as the air screamed past your throat. It felt like you were drowning before you even hit the water.

When you did finally crash into the waves, it hurt. You’d always been a fairly proficient swimmer, but whether it be the mind numbing panic or the ropes binding you tight, tight, tight, you just started to sink. The salt stung like an open wound, and the water was cold. Frigid. Like being tossed into the jagged side of a glacier. You at least had the sense not to gulp down a mouthful of water out of reflex, but that didn’t make things much better.

You screwed your eyes shut, bubbles frothing at your nose, and tried to find that peace that you’d clung to all night long. A life for a life, one catch for another. No one was going to miss you anyways. And if you had to meet the reaper some way, then of all the ends the universe could have spun for you, at least this one had some meaning to it.

You sighed into the darkness, soft, but when your lips parted next around what should have been a mouthful of icy saltwater, all you could taste was air.

Your eyes shot open in the gloom to a mess of familiar golds and purples that you’d thought you’d never see again.

Your Siren pulled back, bubbles curling from the edge of his lips into a soft stream of warmth between the two of you. Nestling as deep as a full breath all the way in the tightest corners of your lungs. You could feel the dip of his claws as he settled his hands at your shoulders—keeping you in place. And immediately you shrieked and flailed in your bindings.

“You—!”

You promptly choked on another mouthful of sea water and your Siren wailed—all that molten fondness in those lovely amethyst eyes of his sharpening into familiar, pissy exasperation from one second to the next. He dragged your face back to his, slotting his mouth against yours and pushing more air into your lungs. You leaned into it before you could help yourself. Half for the whole oxygen thing, and half, because, well—

When he pulled away this time he smacked a hand over your mouth with a sneer, his thumb and index finger hooked upward to pinch at your nose. He jabbed a claw in your face with a clear ‘stay put’ and immediately went to work cutting through the bindings twined along your arms. The ropes fell away beneath his talons like butter to a hot blade, and he fretfully ran his palms up and down your limbs—looking for any stray bits of netting like a compulsion. Once he seemed certain that you’d been properly freed from your ties, he hauled you up against his chest in a grip that had you losing all the air in your lungs all over again. You could feel the cool jut of the sea glass around his neck pressing into your collar, and he buried his head down into your throat until you didn’t know where he ended and you began. The frills of his tail fluttered in the water, and the bulk of those twining strands curled up and around your legs like a barnacle.

He was warm. Warmer than you’d been expecting, for a creature who spent his life patrolling the darkest depths of the ocean. It wasn’t the same sort of heat that would beat off a human’s hide, but it was more comforting than any you’d ever known. You burrowed down against his shoulder, nose scrunching against the side of his neck and the fins at his ears brushing your temple. You could feel his claws flexing at your sides, feel the shift of his scales against your skin. And just as your lungs were starting to burn, he ducked forward to pull you into another kiss—filling your chest with wonderful, wonderful oxygen all over again.

You blinked blearily past the sting of salt in your eyes and he scrubbed a thumb against your cheek.

Now that those high, wonderful, heart bursting emotions were settling back into something manageable beneath your ribs, you took a moment to look at him. Really look at him. Because you’d sent him on his way, hadn’t you? Waved him off with well wishes and a hope for his happiness. And all that aside, how had he even managed to find you—

Bubbles streamed from your nose as that newest shared breath began to run dry, and your Siren hooked an arm around your waist to propel you upwards.

You crested the surface with a gasp, paddling instinctively against the churning wake. When all that did was leave you smack, smack, smacking at your Siren’s chest like a flailing toddler, he hissed—a spitting, pissy thing you could feel on the breeze—and hauled you back up against him. Just like he had all those times you’d swum together in your cove. You forced yourself to settle, bobbing gently against the tide as he kept you both aloft.

Once your body had managed to catch up with your brain to realize that it was, in fact, not drowning, all of the adrenaline rushed out of you like a broken spicket. You slumped against the Siren’s chest, fuzzy headed and dizzy. Because he’d saved you. Which made no sense in the least. But you’d almost died, and he’d saved you—

Your gaze drifted back up to the ship from which you’d only so recently taken your Cannonball of Doom and startled.

There was blood everywhere.

Staining the railings, splashed along the low flying flags, dripping along the deck. A macabre mess of gore and claw marks gutting the once grand vessel like a beached whale. Some of the crew still seemed to be hanging onto the life rafts, others were taking running leaps into the water like they were under compulsion—eyes glazed over and distant. There was a prickling all along your skin, something twisting familiar and strange in your gut, and oh. Oh.

One of the grander looking officers (the one who had been giving your pre-execution speech, perhaps? He looked similar enough) was shouting something from his place at the bow of one of the life rafts—arm extended in a grand show of valor and sword glinting into the light of the morning. And then a great, emerald siren was rearing over the side of that tiny vessel with a sharp grin on his face and sharper talons on display. The officer was dragged overboard, and the siren’s tail came down on the guardrails with a force that had the wood splintering and the already haphazard little boat rock, rock, rocking until it caught on a high wave and capsized.

You could see the flash of colorful scales and the tips of even brighter fins all around. Cresting above the water just long enough to grab hold of another wailing victim and drag them down to the depths. There was enough blood in the water that you could smell it. Acrid and copper against the ocean’s already sharp, salty musk. And sure, you were a pirate. You’d been in raids, you’d seen death. Plenty of it. But this. Well. It was unfamiliar. In a strange, detached sort of way. These assholes had chucked you overboard, after all. So you only really had a teensy, tiny pinch of sympathy for the fact that being eaten alive probably hurt like a sonofabitch.

It was more strange, you supposed, to be at the center of a sirens’ hunt and not be the one facing down the angry, bitey end.

You kicked in the water, nose scrunching when the red tide lapped against your chin.

“This isn’t going to attract sharks, is it?”

Because if you were saved from drowning at the hands of a royal militia only to wind up as a fish’s dinner, you would be terribly annoyed.

Your Siren rolled his eyes at you, like you were just the most ridiculous and stupid creature in all of creation. And then he made a languid swipe of his large, fully-healed tail and began to swim away from the literal bloodbath he and his pod had wrought. With you and all your silly, fragile humanness in tow.

It was far too relaxing, being pulled along against his side. The gentle rocking of his tail beneath you as he swam at the surface—always ensuring to keep your head above the water as he did so. You could feel your eyes starting to dip, feel a yawn cracking along your lips. Maybe it was just the adrenaline crash hitting, or maybe it was the relief that you hadn’t even wanted to address. He’d come back. For you.

The earless pirate who never seemed to do much but stumble into one conundrum after another. Who had only annoyed him at best and shorn his fins to shredded, useless bits at worst. Who had thrown shells at his head and only nicked him a little when you cut the ropes from his hide.

Who had made him human foods with fire and taught him your language in a messy scrawl of sand and snark. Who swam with him in the bay and twined a necklace of shining, purple sea glass around his neck. Who braided his hair, and laughed at his pouting, and—

There was a rough roll of surf that splashed in your face and you spluttered against the white froth.

The Siren paused and beat his tail against the deeper waters, propping you upright as you hacked and fretfully patting at your back. You could see his mouth moving as he mumbled something, brow pinched, and stared back at him with your own wobbly frown—confused.

“Why did you come back?” you asked, and the Siren’s brows jumped up into his hairline. He looked startled, genuinely. And that only had you even more befuddled. “And how did you even find me?”

This time when he huffed, there was a subtle sort of irritation there that you’d learn to recognize well.

He was pouting.

Something brushed against your fingers in the water, soft and fleeting. You glanced down just in time to catch a blur of lavender flitting nervously below the choppy waves, never dipping close enough again to touch, but looking hesitant to keep much further either.

The Siren followed your gaze only to narrow his eyes, pointed teeth bared as he swatted at the poor, round, little octopus with his tail. A clear shoo, shoo if you’d ever seen one. The octopus squeaked, sending bubbles spiraling in all directions, and frantically looped out of the way of the mer’s petulant tantrum. You whacked him right back, indignant on your teeny friend’s behalf. Because—!

“You followed me,” you burbled, and the little octopus spun in a fretful circle. If you didn’t know better, you’d say the poor, little dear was wringing its hands. Your Siren bared his teeth and smacked out again. “Hey! Don’t be an ass! He saved me,” you argued, and your bitch of a merman just snapped his fangs in your face like a feral cat.

You gawked.

“No way. You can’t be annoyed that you were beat out by a baby, purple octopus the size of an orange.”

He huffed and turned up his nose, and you burst out into laughter for the first time since you’d watched him swim out of your cove all those days ago.

You laughed and laughed until tears were beading at the corners of your eyes, and your Siren was grumbling in complaint and pinching your sides with his curved claws. There wasn’t real malevolence in that stern glare of his, though—just more of the prickly, teasing sort of snide side eye he’d given you in your latter weeks together. Fondness, you realized. That’s what was softening it all. The same sort of warmth you held for him.

Your favorite, pissy, preening, self-righteous goldfish.

You snorted into his shoulder, still shaking on giggles, and you could feel his sigh against your temple. You burrowed down against his side, feeling his fins brush along your hips as he kept the both of you afloat.

“Thanks,” you said, soft. “For coming back.”

You were expecting another melodramatic sigh, another plaintive roll of the eyes. Instead, his fingers came up to twine with yours and tugged your hand to rest against the pendant at his throat. You blinked, confused, and he just curled your palm around that little, sand-smoothed piece of glass.

You arched a brow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

This time he did roll his eyes at you, and when he spoke he mouthed the word dramatic and wide so he was sure that you could see it.

‘Moron.’

You whined in complaint and smacked his fingers away. “But I’m your moron.”

Another huff, soft against the nape of your neck. And you could see the barest twitch of a smile on his red lips as he turned back into the tide and continued his trek home.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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#twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #Vil Schoenheit x Reader #Vil x Reader #vil schoenheit #Monster Mayhem #My Writing #vil shoenheit #Siren!Vil #Mermaid!Vil #Fantasy AU #Monster Mayhem Vil Part 5

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hllywdwhre · 1 year ago

Text

Revenge - Tommy Shelby

Summary: Reader takes personal offense over Sabini’s attack on Tommy

Warnings: arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, reader leaves a message written in blood, smut, creampie, light degrading, oral smut (f receiving), overstim, p in v, let me know if I missed any

Notes: I made this text post about protective reader and decided to write it lmfao. I want Tommy with a feral woman. Thank you to @slut4thebroken for proof reading, encouragement, and suggestions💖

MDNI, 18+ only

You weren’t quite sure how it had happened.

Scratch that.

You knew exactly how it had happened.

Your father and Tommy had worked out a deal when Sabini had first started trying to intimidate your father. A bride in exchange for protection and both of them walked away with extra allies when the inevitable war against Sabini broke out. You’d protested the marriage at first, screaming that you were more than just a political pawn for your father to sell when he needed help, but it went through anyway.

You had to admit, it wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened. Sure, Tommy was distant and seemed obsessed with work, but you knew you could’ve ended up in a much worse situation. He treated you with respect, never let you open a door on your own if he was around, always had a protective hand rested in the small of your back, and… the sex was great.

Perhaps the thing you appreciated the most, was that he didn’t expect you to become the housewife you had feared you would be reduced to. You were your father’s only child, meaning when he died, you would become leader of his gang. You were a gangster the same way Tommy was and he seemed to realize that and respect it. You helped out with the daily runnings of the Peaky Blinders and helped with the daily runnings of your father’s gang at the same time. They both recognized your potential and weren’t afraid to use it.

It wasn’t until you were sitting in a family meeting about a year after your marriage that you realized you had grown to feel more than just okay with the marriage.

Tommy was a closed off individual and through the entire year you had been married, you felt like you were just starting to finally get to know the real him. You never pried because he never pried in your life. If you had general questions, neither of you were afraid to ask them, but anything more was left up for the person to tell. You had more questions than answers still, specifically about the matching scars on his cheeks, but you didn’t dare ask. He hadn’t asked about the scar that ran from your right shoulder blade down to your spine, so you didn’t ask about his scars.

It was a common occurrence for Esme, Ada, and Polly to sit with you at one of the desks in the betting shop, whispering things to you during family meetings to fill in any gaps and answer any questions you may have had.

“Alfie has informed me that the Sicilians are being provided aid by Sabini, in the form of cars and housing,” Tommy started, causing Arthur to let out a loud groan of frustration.

Before you could get dragged into hearing any more of it, you turned your head to Esme who was sitting next to you.

“Sabini’s a prick, I know that, but what has he done to us?” You asked quietly, your eyes still flickering back-and-forth between Tommy and the rest of his family as they spoke about what to do next.

Esme began explaining exactly what Sabini had done. How he and five other men came after Tommy in the dark of night, how he’d ripped out a tooth, sliced his cheeks, and beat him to an inch of his life.

The rage that settled inside of you was your first hint that you had grown to genuinely care for Tommy as more than just a friend and (amazing) fuck buddy. Your jaw remained clenched and set for the rest of the meeting, but as soon as the meeting was called to end, you wiped the look from your face and forced a calm expression to take over.

You stood up and walked over to Tommy, forcing a small smile to your lips,

“I’m not really feeling all that well. You go with your brothers for a drink, I’m just going to head back home, okay?” You said, meeting his eyes so he wouldn’t have a reason to not believe you.

Tommy’s eyebrows furrowed together as he tried to look for any sign you were lying. You had been fine that morning and fine two hours prior when you sat down for the meeting, but he had no reason to believe you were lying so he simply nodded, placed a hand on the small of your back to pull you closer to him, and kissed your forehead.

“I won’t be out long. Ask Frances for anything you need, okay, love?”

You nodded and the forced smile turned to a genuine one,

“I will, promise,” you told him before stepping away from him and waving goodbye to the rest of the family.

Yes. You had truly gotten lucky when it came to who you had been forced to marry.

The entire ride back to the Arrow House, you were silent and going over your plan in your head. You knew you’d have to earn Tommy’s trust back after this, but you didn’t particularly care. You were a force of nature on your best day. You were lethal when you were angry.

Once you arrived back, you immediately headed upstairs to yours and Tommy’s shared room. The marriage may have started off with the two of you in separate rooms, “I’m called the devil, but that doesn’t mean I’m some sort of monster. You can sleep in your own room until you’re comfortable sharing a bed,” but it didn’t take more than a couple weeks for you to eventually join him in bed.

Damn those blue eyes, full lips, and that jawline.

You grabbed a small bag and threw the first set of clothes you laid hands on into it, then, much more carefully, a dress. You grabbed everything else you needed and headed to Tommy’s office next.

I’ll be back soon. I’m sorry for lying, but I’ll be back.

You signed the note and left it in the center of his desk where you knew he would see it, held down by his ashtray.

As quickly as you had entered the house, you left it, getting right back into the car with the driver Tommy had employed for you. You told him the name of a hotel in London that you knew was just outside of anyone’s territory.

The drive seemed to pass by too quickly and soon you were saying goodbye to the driver and sending him home for the night. It was barely 7 in the evening when you got up to your room.

“If there is a God, please let me get through this. I’ll make it up to you… somehow,” you said quietly.

The beading on the dress swayed loudly around your body as you pulled the dress on. The pins in your hair seemed to be extra noticeable against your scalp. The straps on your shoes pressed into your skin more than usual. The blade held against your thigh and hidden by your dress seemed to refuse to warm up. Your left hand felt entirely too light with your ring missing.

You knew it was only your mind playing tricks on you. You’d worn this outfit before and it had always turned heads, which is exactly what you wanted.

You needed Sabini to notice you.

You greeted the cab driver politely as you stepped in and ignored the way his eyes seemed to follow you a bit too closely.

The doors of the club were held open for you and you made your way to the bar and took a seat, knowing you were just playing a waiting game now.

You could feel eyes on you. The wife of Thomas Shelby in Sabini’s club, hours away from Birmingham, far out of Peaky Blinders territory or her father’s territory. You stuck out like a sore thumb, even if you would have blended in during any other scenario.

It felt like an eternity passed before you finally saw the man that made your blood boil, but one glance at the clock above the bar told you it hadn’t even been an hour.

“You seem lost. I thought we had made it clear that your kind weren’t welcomed here,” Sabini said once he was in front of you.

A charming smile graced your lips and you looked up at him,

“My kind?” You questioned, playing innocent.

“Yes. Your kind. You’re the wife of Thomas Shelby and I don’t appreciate him ignoring the last warning I gave him and sending you-“

“I wasn’t sent here,” you stopped him, lifting your left hand and pushing a piece of hair that hadn’t fallen back behind your ear, “and I’m not really a Shelby or a Blinder, am I?”

His eyes were drawn to your hand and noticed the lack of a ring you wore and he quirked an eyebrow at you.

“Is that so? I was under the impression the two of you were lovebirds.”

You pulled your bottom lip between your lips and looked away, trying to come off as shy. When you looked back up to him, you hoped the look on his face meant he was intrigued and believing you.

“Perhaps we could talk about it somewhere else… somewhere private?” You asked him, batting your eyelashes as you did so.

Gods help you. The smirk he gave you made your stomach twist and you wanted nothing more than to wipe it off his face, but patience was something you’d adopted a lot of.

“Allow me to show you to my office then,” he said, offering you a hand which you forced yourself to take.

He guided you through the club and towards the back. Some amount of luck seemed to be on your side as his office was behind the stage and provided some cover for any noise you might make. Even more so as you noticed a window just large enough for you to be able to crawl out of.

Once the door was shut behind you, he sat down behind his desk and motioned for you to take a seat in one of the chairs on the opposite side.

“Trouble in paradise, I take it,” Sabini said as he poured you both a drink.

“It was never paradise to begin with,” you replied, thanking him for the drink and taking a sip.

You had grown used to Tommy’s Irish whiskey and the bourbon he gave you wasn’t nearly as smooth going down.

“Was it not? From what I’ve heard, you two have quite the fairytale. Gang leader’s daughter married off to another gang leader, uniting two empires.”

“That’s not the way I see it,” you lied.

“And how do you see it?”

“A desperate father sold off his daughter to a desperate gang leader in an attempt for the both of them to gain more power and disregarded the woman’s wishes,” you replied simply, shrugging your shoulders.

“And so you’ve come to London for what?” Sabini questioned, wanting to hear you say it.

“Because I think we can help each other, Mr. Sabini,” you said, downing the rest of the bourbon and standing up.

His eyes followed your movements, his eyes trailing up your body before resting on your legs again.

“And how do you think we could help each other?” He asked.

You moved to stand in front of him, placing one leg over the side of his and straddled him, placing your arms around his neck.

“They trust me, Mr. Sabini. They don’t suspect me of anything,” you started. The shiver of disgust that rolled up your spine due to his hands trailing up the back of your thighs was one he apparently took as excitement as he gripped slightly at the backs of them, “I can tell you everything and, in return, I get out of my marriage once they’re all gone.”

“They don’t even realize the ticking time bomb they’ve got in their fingertips, do they?” He asked and a chuckle left your lips as a genuine smirk took over.

“They don’t…” you said, trailing your hands down his chest and then up your thigh, trying to make the move appear seductive. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of your knife, “and neither do you, apparently.”

His eyes widened and he realized the trap he had walked into at the same time as you pressed the blade of the knife to his neck.

“I’d say that if you ever threaten my husband or our family again, you’ll regret it, but you won’t be,” you told him, unable to resist pausing for a touch of dramatic effect before adding on, “Never fuck with a Shelby.”

In the next second, you were quickly slicing the knife across his neck and flinching back as his blood coated you.

You knew your next move was morbid, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It had been morbid for him and five other men to attack your husband when he was alone. It was morbid for him to rip out his tooth. It had been morbid for him to slice his cheeks. It was just as morbid for you to quickly and quietly clear off his desk, dip your fingers into his blood, and leave a bloodied message across his desk.

Revenge is a scorned Shelby

As soon as the message was written, you grabbed one of the coats from the coat rack and slipped it on, then crawled out of the window. The coat was long enough to cover all of the bloodied mess that was now your dress.

Sabini is dead.

That seemed to be the only thing you could think of as you were driven back to the Arrow House. It wasn’t the first time you had killed a man and you knew it wouldn’t be last.

But you hadn’t told anyone about this time. You hadn’t told anyone your plan, where you were going, or why you were doing it. You had also just started a war.

You weren’t surprised to see almost every light in the house still on when you arrived, and you made sure to slip the cab driver a little extra for the long drive.

You hadn’t risked staying in London longer than you needed to. You had gone into your hotel room, grabbed your bag, and promptly left, only taking the time to slip your wedding ring back on when you were in the cab.

When you stepped into the house, Tommy was in the hallway. All he saw as you stepped in the door was you, in another man’s coat, your wedding ring still on your finger, but your hair and makeup done much differently than it had been you had left.

You stayed silent as you stared at him with nervousness written on your face.

He put out his cigarette and quirked an eyebrow at you, a silent prompt for you to explain yourself.

Your silent explanation was to undo the tie on the coat and let it fall to the floor, revealing your blood stained dress.

“I need a fucking drink for this one,” Tommy grumbled, motioning for you to follow him. He guided you to his office and poured both of you a drink, handed you your glass, then sat down in his office chair. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Do you want the short version or the long version?” You asked, a smirk on your face as he looked up at where you still stood across the room.

Despite himself, he couldn’t help but chuckle and shrug his shoulders,

“Humor me. Short version first,” he told you.

“About a year ago I got married, and tonight I started a war.”

Tommy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and running a hand over his face, “Long version.”

“About a year ago, I got married. Over the past year my husband has been nothing but a respectful gentleman, making it nearly impossible for me not to fall for him when you combine it with his fucking blue eyes that could bring the devil to his knees,” you started, feeling the hint of a blush creep into your cheeks, which you knew he noticed by the way his eyes flicked to your cheeks and then back to your eyes, “then today we had a meeting with his family where he mentioned Sabini. When I asked, his sister-in-law told me about what Sabini had done to him. About how my husband had been beaten to an inch of his life and brutalized, leaving him permanently scarred, and I knew I had to make the bastard pay.

“So, I lied to my husband and said I didn’t feel well. I went home, packed a bag, left him a note saying I’d be back, and went to London. I rented a hotel room where I changed into a fancy dress and did my hair and makeup, then I wrapped a knife to my thigh and slid my wedding ring into my bag and went to The Eden Club. News of a Shelby woman spread quickly and Sabini showed up to question me within an hour. I lied to Sabini, told him that I didn’t want to be a Shelby and that I had never wanted to be one. He took me back to his office and I sat on his lap and made him think I was about to cheat on my husband when I slit his throat and made sure he knew it was because of what he’d done to my husband. I left a message on his desk, went back to the hotel, grabbed my bag, and then headed back to our house.”

Silence filled the room for a long moment as Tommy stared at you. His eyes were unreadable as he watched you.

“What did the message say?” He suddenly asked.

“Revenge is a scorned Shelby.”

“Nothing about the Peaky Blinders?” He asked curiously, tilting his head slightly.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It wasn’t Peaky business,” you answered confidently, watching him just as closely as he watched you as he stood from his chair and came to stand in front of you.

“Was it not?” He questioned, taking the untouched glass of whiskey from your hand and setting it on the desk before turning back to stare you down.

“No. It was Shelby business, but not Peaky business.”

“Explain.”

“He didn’t just harm a Peaky Blinder. He harmed a Shelby, my Shelby.” Your gaze was unwavering as you held eye contact with him. You wanted him to know you meant your words. He was yours, and the protective touches on your back when you were in public and the way he intimidated and glared at any man who tried approaching you was all the proof you needed to know that you were his.

“So I’m your Shelby?” He asked as he took a step towards you and continued to do so until you pressed against the office door.

“Yes.”

“And that means you’re mine?” He questioned, his hands now pressed against the wall on either side of your head.

You could feel that you were walking into some sort of trap, but you didn’t have a way out of it right now. All you could do was be honest.

“Yes.”

“Then you should know something about what it means to be mine.”

“What’s that?” You asked, your breathing getting shorter as he lowered his face so it was level with yours.

In a second his hands were on your waist and he had you picked up against the wall with legs instinctively wrapping around his hips.

“My Shelby is to never come home wearing another man’s coat again,” he said, pressing his lips to yours in a rough kiss.

You don’t know what reaction you had expected from him, but being pinned to his office door and him kissing you hadn’t been one you had thought of. Your shock wore off after half a second and you returned the kiss as your arms wrapped around his neck to keep him close.

“You’re not mad?” You asked against his lips.

“At you starting a war?” He questioned, leaning down and beginning to trail kisses hastily down your neck.

“Yes,” you replied, leaning your head back to give him more access.

“Livid,” he said with no hint of joking in his voice.

“This is quite the punishment,” you replied sarcastically. A moan fell from your lips as he nipped at your pulse point.

“Oh, I’m livid,” he said, looking up at you, “but also extremely turned on at the thought of my wife slicing a man’s throat over me and coming home still covered in his blood.”

You weren’t given a chance to respond before he was kissing you again. Your hands came down to his tie, pulling it loose before starting to work at the buttons of his waistcoat.

He didn’t bother setting you down, only turned the two of you around and walked you over to the couch in the office. He laid you down on it and then pulled the waistcoat off before leaning back down between your legs and kissing you again once. His lips started trailing down your neck again while your hands went to undo the buttons of his shirt.

“Someone’s impatient tonight,” he teased as nipped at your skin again.

“You’re the one who pinned me to the door after I revealed I killed a man for you,” you replied in the same teasing tone as him. You undid the last button of his shirt and pushed the fabric off his shoulders, his undershirt following a second later.

He reached his hand to the side of your dress and unzipped it, pulling the fabric down your body while his hands grabbed hold of your underwear, stockings, and garters in the same move and pulled them off, leaving you completely naked underneath him.

He stared and looked over your body a moment longer before running his hands up your thighs and giving a gentle tap to your thigh,

“Up,” he said, causing your eyebrows to furrow in confusion.

You did as told though and sat up, leaving him enough room to lay on his back and pull you up to straddle him,

“Was killing a man not enough work?” You teased, not actually minding if he was going to have you ride him. At least it meant you wouldn’t be subjected to him teasing you when all you really wanted was for him to fuck you.

“That’s cute,” he said sarcastically, gripping your thighs and attempting to pull you further up his torso, “that’s not where you’re sitting tonight.”

The man was no stranger at using his mouth to make you see stars, but you’d never ridden his face before. You looked at him, the question obvious on your face.

“Seriously?” You asked even though you knew by his face that he was.

“Seriously. You were enough of a leader to go after Sabini, you’re enough of a leader to sit on my face. Up,” he repeated again while his grip on your thighs tried pulling you forward.

You did as you were told this time, shuffling forward until you were straddling his face. You weren’t given a choice of when to sit as his hands came to your hips and pulled you down, forcing your full weight onto his waiting mouth.

If there was one thing you were grateful for, it was Thomas’ ability to use his tongue and lips in more than just outsmarting his enemies.

His tongue trailed through your lips, his hands keeping your hips in place, while his tongue slowly explored you at first.

It had only taken a couple weeks for you to crack and make the first move on Tommy, joining him in bed one night when you’d decided you could trust him, and you’d been insatiable and addicted to him ever since, though he never complained. He’d spent the first couple times figuring out every move that made you tick and every name that made your cheeks flush and used them to his advantage at every turn.

His tongue was a gift with the way he knew exactly how to use it. He dragged it up and down between your folds, drinking in every bit of your arousal before focusing on your clit, alternating between quick flicks and long drags.

Tommy’s hands on your hips began guiding them, silently instructing you to take control. You didn’t hesitate in going along with what he wanted you to do and began rocking your hips. One of your hands trailed to his hair while your other went to lay on top of one his that gripped your hip. You hadn’t realized the volume of your moans until you felt the vibration of his moan against your clit.

Your hips jerked at the added stimulation and he hummed against you purposefully, his eyes never leaving you as your hips sped up, chasing your own high. Within moments you could feel it approaching and your grip on his hair and hand tightened, moans of his name falling from your mouth like a prayer.

“Please, fuck,” you cried, whimpers falling from your lips, “Tommy, Tommy…”

Your high crashed over you a moment later and you felt Tommy’s movements begin to slow down as you rode out your high, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you caught your breath.

You went to move off of him, but his grip on your hips tightened at the same time that his tongue started speeding up again.

Your moans of pleasure turned to whimpers of over stimulation and you squirmed against him, but he didn’t let up. Your hips jerked as you tried moving away from him, but all it did was add to the stimulation.

You could practically feel him smirking underneath you as he continued on, watching as your eyes clenched shut and you relented yourself to letting him torture you so beautifully.

If it wasn’t for the way your body was on edge from not being given any type of break after your first orgasm, you might have felt slightly ashamed at the way he was able to bring you to your second orgasm so quickly.

And then your third.

Tears were freely falling from your face when he finally slowed his movements to a stop and helped you to lay down on your back.

He trailed soft and slow kisses along your thighs and stomach to help bring you back down to earth. When his lips reconnected with yours, you returned the kiss, letting your eyes fall shut at the surprisingly tender moment.

“Next time you want to start a war, at least let me know your plans,” he said, causing you to open your eyes and be met with a smirk dancing across his lips, “and don’t doubt my punishments.”

You could’ve smacked the smirk off his face if it wasn’t for the fact he had turned your entire body into mush.

“Think you can be a good girl and handle one more?” He asked.

Your cheeks flushed at the praise and his hands moved to his belt and pants, pulling them off after you nodded your confirmation.

Once the rest of his clothes had been removed, he gently lifted your legs and positioned himself between them. He was gentle as he pushed inside you, but the smirk on his face from the way your voice cracked when you moaned was obvious.

The stretch was familiar at this point, but it didn’t mean you didn’t need the moment he gave you to adjust. When you nodded your head, he started moving.

Tommy knew your body like he knew his own after your time together. His hips immediately changed position as he started thrusting, making sure to hit the spot inside you that added to the ways your legs shook underneath him.

He leaned down and placed his elbows on either side of your head, capturing your lips in a kiss right as a moan parted through them. One of his hands came back to cradle the back of your head and his fingers tangled into your hair to keep you close to him.

His other hand went to one of your legs and pulled it up so it rested in the crook of his elbow, causing him to hit even deeper inside you.

The action caused you to let out a high pitched moan and you wrapped your arms around him. Your next moan broke the passionate kiss the two of you had shared while your nails raked down his back.

“Who do you belong to?” He asked, beginning to speed up the movements of his hips.

“Y-you,” you moaned out, your back arching underneath him.

“Say my name. Who do you belong to?” He repeated.

“Thomas Shelby,” you answered and dropped your head back.

“Good girl. You’re my fucking wife,” he moaned out. He sat up, using one hand to keep your leg up in the same position while his other hand went to your already over sensitive clit, “all mine. No other man gets to touch you, look at you, or even fucking think of you. It’s my cock that you’re whimpering over right now, and it’s the only cock you’ll ever be whimpering over again.”

“I’m yours, Tommy,” you repeated, your voice breaking as moan after moan fell from your lips.

“Then cum for me. Be a good Shelby wife and make a fucking mess on my cock just like how you made a mess of this war tonight,” he commanded.

You didn’t need any more encouragement from him as your fourth orgasm hit you, causing your back to arch again and your nails to run down his arms.

His moves start to become more sloppy and his pace sped up as he began to chase his own high, the feeling of your cunt squeezing around his cock only driving him closer to the edge.

“Want to feel you Tommy, please,” you moaned underneath him, “please, cum inside me.”

“Fuck,” he swore out. His hips pushing against yours as his high hit him and his arms came down to either side of your head again while he shoved his face into your neck, completely claiming you as his own while his cum filled you.

His hips slowed as he rode out both of your highs and your arms came to wrap around him, placing a gentle kiss on the side of his head you could reach.

Once the two of your breathing had slowed down to a normal pace, he moved to push himself up and your legs around his waist tightened along with your arms.

“Don’t. Not yet,” you said in a quiet voice.

“I’m going to crush you, love.” He placed soft kisses along your shoulders between his words as he tried warning you.

“I’m a grown woman. I’ll tell you if it’s too much,” you replied and began running your nails softly along the shaved part of his head, knowing the motion worked on him every time.

“Stubborn,” he falsely chided, but relented and relaxed back into your hold.

“Little late to the party if you’ve just worked that out.” Your reply causing both of you to chuckle. “Remind me to start more wars if it means you fuck me like that every time.”

His hand came down and gently slapped your thigh in response while a burst of quiet giggles left your lips.

“Stubborn and a brat,” he teased, sitting up again and carefully sliding out of you.

“Too bad you’re stuck with me,” you responded with a smirk.

“I don’t think of it that way,” he said as he stood up and wrapped his arms under your waist and legs before pulling you up into his arms.

“How do you think of it?” You asked him as he carried you across the hall and into your shared room.

“I think I’m lucky enough to be married to a woman who killed for me over a years-old attack even though we’d never even said that we loved each other.” He set you down in the middle of the bed before crawling in next to you and pulling you into his chest.

A bright blush rose to your face as he pointed out that you had never even said you loved each other, even though you had admitted to him earlier that you had fallen for him. You didn’t know how to reply immediately and you turned in his arms to look up at him, his arms staying locked around your waist.

He didn’t seem to expect you to reply though, because he leaned in to you, pressing his lips against yours. The kiss was tender and sweet, as if he was trying to communicate what your actions had meant to him without having the words to say it.

“I fell for you, too,” he finally admitted, “I don’t know when it happened, but I know that I realized it tonight. The panic I felt to see your note and to see you come home covered in blood. The anger I felt over seeing you another man’s jacket. The way I felt when you revealed what you had done and why…” He trailed off, looking down at you and seeming to try and memorize every part of your face, “You’re mine.”

“I’m yours and you’re mine,” you replied, leaning up to kiss him.

“I’m yours and you’re mine.”

#thomas shelby #thomas shelby smut #thomas shelby x reader #Thomas Shelby x reader smut #tommy shelby #Tommy Shelby smut #Tommy Shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby x reader smut #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy #cillian smut #cillian murphy x y/n smut #cillian murphy x fem!reader #cillian murphy x reader smut

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messenger-of-babel · 8 months ago

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The Call

Summary: One little call to each of them. One big consequence. (Batfamily x sibling!reader)

Word Count: 2.9K

Notes: IM LATE AGAIN. I hope you all know that I do stay up wildly late when this happens cause I want to edit before I submit, even if some of these were pre-written (its 1:30AM RAHH). ANWAYS. Batfamily, I tried to get as many as I could but I haven't collected runs for about half the family cause I am biased towards my boys, but I am trying to be as accurate as possible when I can be and that includes those dynamics! So rest assured I am doing my research and hopefully that'll reflect soon. As usual, enjoy your daily feed and I'll enjoy my nap. Warnings just for general description of violence.

Much Love~! xx

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When Dick got the call, he was in his civilian clothes.

Dick Grayson was suit shopping, needing something for an upcoming gala. He had put it off for so long, since he wore the Nightwing suit more than any other in his closet. He had let it ring out once while he got his measurements taken, but when they called back a second time, his lips dipped into a frown. Excusing himself, he clicked the answer call button, stating his name. He hears the voice of Bruce, but in the stern tone of Batman. He doesn’t think that he's ever left a store as fast as he had that day, feet thudding on the pavement and breath cold in his chest as he hurries to his car. He unlocks it and all but throws himself into the passenger seat, lines on his face hardening. Throwing it quickly into drive he pulls out and heads in the direction of the manor.

He tries to keep himself composed, his emotional training kicking in. His fingers are tense on the steering wheel, passing over the bridge at a speed a cop would most certainly pull him over for. Even though he tries to take a deep breath, there's a burning in his sternum. It builds until it creeps into his neck, making him click his tongue uncomfortably.

The sensation is a rage he hadn't felt in a while, a fire that hadn’t burnt that intensely since he was just a boy grieving his parents’ death. It had flickered when he had heard Bruce had adopted a boy called Jason after him, sputtering to life upon hearing about his death. Yet he had grown, he had risen above it and had become a shelter for his younger, extended family. He was dependable, uncrackable, and upbeat, that was Nightwing. Yet as he drives back with that painful fire in his chest, he felt nothing more than Dick Grayson, the boy stricken with fear at the idea of losing his family.

When Jason got the call, he had been on patrol.

Helm securely on his face, it kept the drizzly night rain of Gotham out of his eyes. It had been a rather quiet night, stopping a few minor robberies and assaults that were common down by Dixon Docks. He was eager to return home, wanting to swing by the manor quickly to take full advantage of the hot water system before heading back to his apartment in Old Gotham for a well-deserved rest. He had just finished interrogating some of Penguins' men, about to call the cave to let whoever was on tonight know that they finally had the location of the new drug den they had been chasing the past month. However, the communication device he had set on his bike was lit, screen full of notifications.

Calls, one after another filled the small holographic display and he pressed the button to call back, leg swinging over the side of the bike as he did so. He had only started the bike but already he screeched to a stop, making sure he heard the words properly. A curse and gruffly shouted questions were his only response and when he got the information he wanted, he cut the call and the bike roared to life. He leant forward as if that was going to help him get to his destination quicker, blood boiling underneath his skin. His chest ached with the urge to sputter out pants, desperate to start the sign of panic racing through his veins. Yet he was stronger than that, keeping his cool like a tightly wound coil, muscles tensed beneath the suit.

His mind buzzes with worry, anxiety gnawing at his ribcage like a feral rat.

Jason doesn't often allow himself to be emotional on the job, despite his tendency for rage.

But rage was different. Rage burned and warmed him up from the inside, was the force that he put behind every punch or kick. It was his kindling, and it served to guide him as well as any star. Of course, Bruce had tempered it somewhat, but he had just guided Jason into turning it into something else, not getting rid of entirely. He used rage to protect the people of the city, the outrage he felt when he saw them get treated badly. He used rage when coming to his family's defence, the sight of hands being laid on people he had come to care for sparking it too. Those were the rages he was used to using, although there was always a third.

The pit.

The rage that bubbled away in the back of his mind, hidden behind a tall wall and shoved into the deepest part of him. That was the rage that crept forth, green and poisonous in his veins and clouding his judgement in a fog of pain and despair and anger. When it would appear, he would often take a moment to himself to pack it back away, contain it once more in the bulletproof casing of his heart. Yet right now, he didn't want to put it back. It made him rev the bike harder, made him feel like he was getting there quicker. The bike kicked up water as he zig zagged through the back streets, his mental map of Gotham rerouting anytime the traffic was longer than five cars deep. He couldn't afford to lost time, to not be fast enough. Not now, not this time, and if he had to use the rage the pit cursed him with, he would.

Tim was at the manor, holed up in his room when he got the call.

It had been a long night the night before, tossing restlessly. Not that he would have told anyone, but the last fight with Bane had left him with a few more bruises than he had let on, cleverly hidden from the keen eyes of Alfred. He wanted to nurse them himself, carry his own weight. In fact, he had been sulking in his room going over the things that had been troubling him, knees pulled to his chest.

Dick was capable and dependable, and the first Robin, the biggest shoes to fill. Jason was tenacious but loved deeply, and he fought for what was right. His methods might be unconventional to the Bat sometimes, but he knew what he wanted to fight for. Steph had flown the nest to become Spoiler, Cass already had such a firm grasp of who she wanted to become now that she was Orphan. Barbara had even been able to turn her life around after being put into her wheelchair, her desire to help leading her to become Oracle when she had to hang up Batgirl. Even Damian, the true son of Bruce Wayne, was so confident, growing at a rate he knew Bruce was quietly proud of.

But then there was Tim, who stayed up on weekends trying to redesign his suit, to carve his own vigilante life, only to look on it and see the traces of his time as Robin printed clearly on it. The role of Robin had outgrown him, but there was the shred of doubt that whispered in his ear that just maybe, he hadn't outgrown it. The ringing of his phone snapped him out of his daze, and he let it go to voicemail. When it came again, he grabbed his phone with the desire to turn it off, but seeing the emergency signal had him picking up right away.

"Hello?" he called, sitting right up in bed. His eyes widened and he shelved his pity party, running out of his room.

He winds through the halls of the manor until he finds the door he's looking for. Tim's knuckles rap against the wood loudly, repeating until a disgruntled Damian comes to the door, swinging it open violently. "This better be good, Drake." he deadpans, scanning the flustered state of the older boy. Tim just turns his phone screen, showing the emergency call signal before gesturing to the direction of the grandfather clock with his head. "We've got to go." he says curtly, the young boy hot on his heels after he recovers from his shock.

Both of them head to the cave and prepare to depart immediately. Tim slips the suit over his skin like an outgrown shedding, domino mask sliding onto his face. He couldn’t recognise his own face when he caught sight of it in the glass reflection, but a mask and suit would never be enough to hide the panic that clung to him tighter than the Red Robin suit.

When Bruce got the call, he was at Wayne Enterprises.

He was making a rare appearance at the office, knowing that Lucius had something that he wanted to talk to him about. His office felt foreign and sterile, empty and unreal. The glass surfaces everywhere let him glimpse the face of Bruce Wayne, a face that he was beginning to see less and less. It felt uncanny seeing himself without the cowl, and sometimes when he was working, he could swear he saw a reflection of the bat ears in the window beside him. The night had dragged on, and he was only an hour into the meeting with Lucius when the phone in his suit pocket rang.

He and Lucius shared a sceptical look as he turned the phone screen. The call location wasn't displaying as the Batcave, the only place that could contact this phone directly outside of his children, Lucius and Alfred's personal mobile. Yet he knew Red Hood was taking the brunt of patrol tonight, and Bruce was intended to join him after the meeting. Dick was carrying out some errands downtown and everyone else had either stayed home or didn't contact him like this often. The girls preferred to call his phone as Bruce Wayne or spoke through Alfred, so who could it be?

Lucius gives a nod, silent as he sits down. Bruce's face hardens as he presses the speaker button, accepting the call.

"Who is this?" he says, lowering his voice to the gravelly timbre of Batman.

"Da...B-Batman?" comes a broken, shaky voice on the other end. Lucius's eyes widen and flick to Bruce's immediately, mouth parting. Bruce's jaw ticks, eyes widening as well when he hears your voice.

"This is the Batman. How did you get this number?" He asks, having to focus on keeping his voice low, even though the tone of Bruce threatens to creep back in.

"He-he just had it. I don't know. He just told me to speak, I-I'm not even holding the phone I can't see anything; I’m tied, my eyes are-" you begin to ramble, struggling to get through your words before you're cut off.

"Hello, Batsy." calls a voice close to the receiver, and Bruce swore that his heart fell through the floor in that moment. His fingers tighten around the phone the same way that his lungs are constricting in his chest.

"Joker."

The man on the other end cackles, if Bruce could even call him that. "Miss me?" he snickers, Bruce's mind filling with the image of a red stretched grin. "You see, this is more of a... courtesy call. You know Bruce Wayne, billionaire extraordinaire?"

Bruce's head snaps up to Lucius, who's rubbing at his face nervously.

He didn't know, did he?

"You see, I didn't make a lot of impact going after the commissioner last time, so I had to think to myself, If I wanted to really shake things up in Gotham, who else is there? Then I thought of it, who better than the playboy of the century?" he laughs, punctuated with a sharp snap of his fingers.

"Get to the point." Bruce all but growls.

"Yeah yeah, you always love to rush me, don't you?" The Joker snarks back with fake hurt, before continuing. "Regardless, I have one of his little orphan projects, thinking I might have a bit more success with this one."

He hears a thwack over the phone and a scream, making his nails dig into his palm. He steadies his breathing.

"What have you done?" he asks, low and dangerous.

Another thwack.

"Exactly what I said. But there was a rumour going around that you know Mr. Money, so I thought I'd give you a call, you know, a little gift. If you do know the richest orphan in Gotham, then I want to give you the honour of telling him I've got one of his. Better yet, I want to give you the honour of delivering their body to his doorstep. Maybe that way, you might be able to bond over losing your fake kids."

Bruce feels sick, closing his eyes to try and stop himself from making a mistake right now.

Your life was on the line. He had to play smart.

"Where are you?"

The joker tuts on the other end. "This was a courtesy call, nothing more. I don't want anyone interrupting my playtime. Tata for now~"

"Joker-" he starts but then he's cut off, line going dead. Lucius doesn't say anything, his own personal phone pulled out as he calls Alfred, studying the frozen figure of Bruce. It's almost like there's dark tendrils to the shadows on his broad body, deepening the lines on his face.

Bruce doesn't remember too much, but Batman did.

Immediately he had left the room, suit en route to him and arriving within the minute. As soon as the comfort of his cowl touched his skin, Bruce was gone, and it was Batman calling everyone at the same time. It was Dick who picked up first, a couple of rings earlier than Jason before Tim joined, the sound of Damian in the background. Oracle and Spoiler joined together, while the others were still pending. He didn’t have the time to temper his voice as he relayed the situation, immediately getting as many people on recon as possible.

There were shouts and yelling and cursing before all of their lines became inactive, replaced with trackers signalling that their suits were live. When he enters the batmobile he grips the wheel tensely. The lump in his throat doesn't seem to disappear, only growing larger with each second. His mind is filled with pictures of Jason. Pictures of Barbara. The smiling photos of you.

He might never admit it, but he had your photos front and centre in his wallet (something you did in fact know and used to your advantage frequently in 'dad loves me more' battles). He remembers the first day he ever saw you, cold and scared apart from the other kids in the orphanage. He had been investigating a potential human trafficking ring operating out of the centre, but when he saw you, the fatherly pang hit him. The way your eyes stared forward dully as he greeted children as Bruce Wayne, cameras flashing around him. He had enough wealth to buy the children anything they asked for, the other kids excitedly asking for new toys or clothes or art supplies. However, when he kneeled down in front of you and asked you want you wanted, you said only a few words, 'a family'.

And god be damned if Bruce didn't have money enough for that too.

So, he took you in, hid batman from you like he had tried to with everyone else as well. Yet he failed again, but unlike his children in the past, you never asked to join. Never asked for a suit or to stay up or to train in the cave. Never showed any interest in joining your siblings or throwing yourself in front of danger for the sake of the city. When he asked you why you had simply shrugged, giving him a soft smile.

"All I've ever wanted was to be part of a family. I don't need to be a superhero to be loved."

And then you beamed at him with a smile that could have lit up his world and chased the clouds away from Gotham, so pure and genuinely content. That made Bruce feel like he had finally succeeded as a father, and for once Bruce felt like a father. No Batman, no mask and cape. He didn't train with you; he went out with you to the theatre on weekends. You didn't jump from rooftop to rooftop, you liked to come study with him in his office when he had to take care of Wayne affairs. Batman may have been created to save Gotham city, but he was convinced that you were sent to save Bruce Wayne.

Now, he felt that he had failed you as both Bruce and Batman.

"Hold on sweetheart," he whispers to himself, letting his eyes close for a brief moment during his exhale. "I'll get you home. I promise."

He pressed the accelerator further, Batmobile display signaling that everyone else was suited up and across the city waiting further instruction. He just hoped, he prayed that when he brought you back, it wouldn't be in a body bag.

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harryspet · 1 month ago

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ribbons & rage | b.barnes

[warnings] dark!gray!congressman!bucky barnes x feral!hybrid!reader, daddy!bucky, power imbalance, possessive bucky, pet play elements, dollification, political manipulation, age regression tones (dd/lg dynamics), dom/sub dynamic, stockholm syndrome, forced domestication, DUBCON

summary: After a diplomatic mission turns into an extraction, Congressman James Buchanan Barnes brings home a prize no one knows about. She’s impulsive. Dirty. Disobedient. But under his eye, with enough ribbons, praise, and correction, he’ll turn the wild thing into something beautiful. Something his.

word count: 5.8k

bucky barnes masterlist

Sam warned him not to get involved in Project LUPUS. He was only a year into his congressional term and he’d managed to fully rid the public of the image of the Winter Soldier. For the first time in the century he’d been alive, he was just James “Bucky” Barnes. Some of his colleagues had even begun to take him seriously. Despite this, Bucky knew Sam didn’t fully understand. He’d never fully understand the destruction that Hydra had caused to his mind. Bucky was the only one who could understand the minds behind the deep-state project. Modern American scientists influenced by Hydra’s science.

Project LUPUS was Hydra’s legacy. The experimentations, the genetic manipulations, the violence. They hadn’t been erased. They were buried, waiting for someone to dig them up. It was his responsibility to make sure everything tied to it was destroyed.

The classified file came across his desk because one of his colleagues recognized he would be the best person for the job. He was granted limited access under the purpose of an oversight audit and a bioethics violation review.

According to the document, everyone involved had been terminated and all the experiment subjects had been exeterminated. His colleague believed otherwise. Bucky read the documents even closer during his private flight to Outpost-25 A, and undisclosed location in Alaskan territory. A snowstorm had grounded most flights but he’d been given “special clearance”.

The scientists, under the direction of a network embedded within the Department of Defense, were intending to create self-healing, biologically engineered hybrids with enhanced aggression, sharp senses, and fast reflexes. They’d be able to detect and eliminate threats, control public unrest, recover key asessets, and could even be deployed during warfare operations.

They’d learned nothing from the past.

The very last document in the pile of fifty pages peaked Bucky’s interest the most. It was a scanned intake form, faded, stained and partially redacted. This one had many notes written in the margins. A different tone than the documents describing the purpose of the project, the different subjects and how they’d been exterminated.

Subject 109. LUPUS-F. Status: Unconfirmed termination. Last seen on Sublevel 3.

Ah, the real reason he was here. You were nineteen at the time that the project had been terminated. Many of the notes were similar to the other subjects. Rapid healing. Strong territorial response. Pre-verbal communication. A few others, including you, had been listed as non-compliant.

He stared at the paper longer than he should have, becoming unsettled as he read further.

There were so many incident reports related to you. Reports on the use of deadly force. Gunshot wound to the abdomen. The accidental death of a Lt. Carney. Another accidental death of a Lt. Wynn. Destruction of two containment doors during transport. The standard dose of sedation being ineffective due to rapid metabolism.

Avoid eye contact.

Will only accept food from [REDACTED]

Your termination order was prior to the termination of the project. The justification included unmanageable behavorial volatility and emotional instability. It stated your body had been incinerated but there were no autopsy photos included.

Double dose required for sedation.

Rejection of mating partner 103-M.

Rejection of mating partner 98-M.

Rejection of mating partner 115-M.

Bucky searched for anything that gone right during your captivity and didn’t find anything. Bucky finally tore his eyes away when the plane dipped from turbulence. The storm was building. As the jet began its descent into a snow-covered valley, Bucky caught sight of the outpost. It was buried under permafrost in a decommissioned missile silo.

The pilot warned him not to stay long before he finally stepped off the transport. It was a thirty-foot walk through snow, reaching up to his mid-calf, to the entrance. The tall steel doors of the entrance had been sealed off. He used his clearance code, courtesy of his colleague on the oversight committe, and the steel doors groaned open.

Lights flickered weakly above. He passed through long corridors and security checkpoints until he reached the main lab. It didn’t look abandoned. Only frozen in time. Notes were still scrawled across whiteboards, papers stacked on desks, and metal trays with half-used syringes. A shattered, glass, containment chamber sat nearby, clawmarks across the glass.

But there were no bodies, or bones, or even any bullet casing.

Carefully and methodically, Bucky cleared the first two floors of the outpost. He found each cage door open and and empty. When he finally reached Sublevel 3, he noticed something in the air had shifted. The air cooled even further and lights dimmed. That’s where he found the bones. Animal bones.

He checked each cage for a sign of life. Though there was a pistol on his hip and a shotgun strapped to his back, he didn’t ever reach for them. He paused at cell 12-C and stepped inside. There was bedding, sheets created from lab coats, chair cushions and even shredded documents. Muddy foot prints. Small and barefoot.

You weren’t in a cell. You were loose. Surviving.

He stepped back into the hallway. And then he saw you. No chains. Just … standing at the end of the hall. Watching him.

Despite the the lack of sunlight and coldness of your home, your skin was rich and radiant. Your curls, though some were matted, defied gravity. Your frame was slender, most likely from being trapped here with dwindling resources, but the curves of your body remained. Gunshot to the abdomen. He saw the scar above your hip bone. He also saw another one on your right thigh and an even larger one on your collarbone.

It wasn’t just the scars or the angles of your body that made you unlike anything Bucky had ever seen. Unnaturaly wide pupils that he could see even in the dim light. Slightly pointed ears. You looked him over, scanned him, and Bucky noted the faint twitch of your nostrils – scenting him. Though you were physically much smaller than him, you did not cower. You were not prey.

Your lips parted and Bucky could see your canines, just slightly too long.

He remembered your file.

Hybrid Type: Homo sapiens/Canis lupus (Genome Series III)

Ancestral Donor: [REDACTED]

You were made this way. Selfishly, inappropriately, Bucky wondered how something made by evil minds could be so … beautiful. Something switched in his mind then. He couldn’t ensure the full termination of Project LUPUS.

You were like him. A monster of another’s creation. He had to save you. Someone decided to give him a second chance, he could do that from you.

Perhaps they had evolved. Maybe he was here to get rid of you like the others. He was armed. There was no reason to trust him.

You didn’t speak. Just stared. Assessed.

Until you did move.

Part of you expected to easily pierce his skin. To be so much faster and stronger that the shear force of pushing your body against his would easily knock him down. You hadn’t met a worthy opponent yet. Until now.

He caught you.

He moved but barely. You let out a scream of anguish as his arms wrapped around your torso, pulling your body against his. You thrashed wildly, trying to pull your knees into his groin, before you decided to go for his throat. Bearing your teeth, you lunged for him, but the wind was almost knocked out of you when you suddenly found yourself slammed against the concrete wall.

Now you were mad. Blindingly furious.

What was he? He didn’t smell like a hybrid. He smelled chemical, metallic, and synthetic. His arm, across your chest, pinned you against the wall. You looked up at his face now, long dark hair shielding half his face.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” His first words to you weren’t a threat. You knew that much although you couldn’t decipher the full meaning. He was surprised. Not scared of you. Not the least bit scared of his own safety. It made you even more furious, “You’ll hurt yourself if you don’t stop.”

Dead. Hurt. You knew those words. Those were bad words. But he almost seemed worried. He looked … conflicted.

You couldn’t breathe, your chest was tightening under the pressure, and it felt like your bones might crack at any minute. Your eyes burned from the rage and frustration. No one had ever made you feel like this. You wanted his heart in your hands. You wanted his head off his shoulders. But you forced your body to still. Not in submission but to allow yourself time to think.

A growling whine left your throat, the pain finally fully registering. His grip loosened and something changed in his face. He managed to keep you pinned but the pressure lessened, “I don’t want to hurt you,” He spoke and you hung onto every word. You needed to think. To try to understand him, “You won’t be able to hurt me. Not in the way you want to.”

Your nostrils flared. You didn’t believe him. You also didn’t move. Clearly, you would have to take a different approach.

He talked like a human. Carried weapons like the humans. You weren’t sure why. It wasn’t like he needed them. You could take another bullet, you’d done it before. You wished that the food hadn’t started running out a few weeks ago. You would be stronger. But there was still fight left in you.

He didn’t notice the switch flip in your mind. He was already pulling away, giving you space, but you quickly struck again. Dropped your weight, slammed your forehead against his jaw as hard as possible. Nails slashed against his throat when you successfully caught him off guard. You drew blood and smiled.

“Fuck,” He growled, actually growled, and your smile grew bigger.

So he bleeds. What was he?

A metal arm wrapped around your throat before he shoved you to the ground. You scrambled and kicked as he got on top of you, straddling your torso. When he reached into his pocket, you thought he was reaching for his gun.

“You don’t get it,” He said. You screamed as best as you could. Your chest heaved, “I’m not your enemy.”

You didn’t see the syringe until it was already pressed against your arm. The sting was nothing. You’d felt much worse. You didn’t flinch. Despite the way his face softened, you showed him your rage. You pushed at him until you couldn’t feel anything anymore.

Bucky didn’t realize he’d taken on too much responsibility until it was too late.

“You’re safe here,” He’d say over and over, “This isn’t a cage.”

Now you were here in his Brooklyn home, barefoot, feral, and you were close to destroying every valuable item in his home. His first mistake was trying to make sure you didn’t feel caged. He realized quickly that he couldn’t be nice with you. The only things you responded to were pain and control.

This would be a journey. A long one. It would be a slow, brutal fight to drag you out of whatever darkness they left you in.

And Bucky wasn’t sure yet who would survive it.

For the first two weeks, he kept a bit gag in your mouth to stop you from biting, and padded gloves on your hands, leather on the outside, soft inside, to keep you from scratching him. He had to sedate you everytime he deemed you needed a bath or your teeth brushed because you’d fight him until your body went limp from exhaustion. You completely refused any clothing, leaving Bucky to draw every curtain in the home.

He hadn’t found a way to make a click. To help you understand. Until he’d prepared you a breakfast one morning and you’d thanked him by flipping the table. He lifted you by your waist and dragged you kicking and screaming to the living room. He bent you over the couch, vibranium arm pressed against your upper back, and spanked you until your growling turned to whimpers.

He hadn’t seen you cry yet. Not until then. His heart panged, realizing he’d let his anger make him lose control. He hand’t wanted to hurt you. Not really. But the spanking had done more then bruise your ass. It embarassed you. Made you truly realize how much stronger he was. You were deadly but Bucky had an extra eighty years to perfect his craft.

Bucky could tell in the way your posture softened. How you leaned into the fabric of the couch for comfort. You weren’t broken but you were beginning to understand. He was the one in control. He could keep you here no matter how much you fought it.

You allowed him to lift you, to place you softly on the material of the expensive sofa. As he rounded the piece of furniture and sat close to you, he watched how you pulled your knees into your chest. And then quickly sat up and tucked your knees under yourself instead, bottom sore. Hesitantly, he rested a hand on your thigh. You looked up at him, eyes sad and confused.

“I know,” He said quietly, voice rough but steady, “But there are rules to follow. You were being a bad girl–”

You pointed to your chest and spoke to him for the first time, “B-ad girl.”

Bucky was taken aback by your tone of voice. Gritty from misuse but he heard so much softness underneath. A delicateness he had not expected. Bucky nodded after a long pause, “Yes, you were being a bad girl. But I know you can be a good girl.”

Your brows furrowed and Bucky saw the way that you momentarily grew frustrated before you pushed it away. For the first time, you pushed away your gut instinct to fight him. You pointed to him next, “Good girl?” You asked, confused. It didn’t sound right and Bucky could see your mind working.

Bucky grinned, “No, I’m Bucky.”

“Boy,” You corrected yourself, “Good boy?”

Bucky’s lips parted. He honestly hadn’t thought he’d get to this point with you so he hadn’t spent enough time considering how he would explain all of this you, “No,” He said after clearing his throat, “That one’s for you. You get to be the good girl.”

You tilted your head again, “You … Alpha?”

Bucky shook his head, “No, not exactly. I want to be your …” He thought carefully about his next words. He pointed to you, “You … good girl. Baby. Doll. Pet.”

He pointed to himself next, “Me …. I’m Daddy.”

“Hmm,” You made a noise as you looked him over. You reached out next, your fingers wandering curiously over the fabric of his white button up. You felt his chest, hard and thick before you gripped the metal wrist of his left arm, “Daddy arm … this … you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Still me,” Bucky spoke a little breathlessly, not realizing how much that word on your lips would make his heart race. You studied his face and then subsequently his heart rate. You placed a hand over his heart and felt the beating. It fascinated you. Your heart rate was so much slower, so much more controlled.

You made another noise and your hands wandered back to your own lap. It would be a strange sight to anyone looking in. You were completely naked and Bucky had, somewhat, grown used to looking at your figure. Sometimes his eyes lingered a little too long on the perks of your nipples or the plumpness of your bottom. And your legs were slightly parted, he could clearly see your slit. You didn’t mind it. It bothered you more when he wanted you to wear clothes.

“No baby,” You interrupted his thoughts and Bucky realized his hand was traveling closer to the gap between your thighs.

You were so soft.

“What?” he asked, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“No … not baby,” You pointed to yourself then and gestured to a lower height, palm facing downward, emphasizing how small an actual baby would be, “This baby.”

You wanted to be understood, “Not a real baby, no,” Bucky said, “But I want you to be my baby,” When you went quiet, he continued, “I want to take care of you. I will take care of you.”

You shook your head, “No need.”

“I know,” Bucky agreed, “You’re right. You’re strong. But I know you don’t want to be alone again. All by yourself. No family. No friends. No love. It’s bad for you.”

“Bad for me. No love,” You said after awhile, mimicking him. Trying to understand.

Bucky nodded, “It’s good to have someone. Stay with me. I won’t hurt–”

“You hit,” You retorted, some of that fury returning. Your palm touched the skin of your bruised bottom, “See, you hit! No like. I … don’t like.”

You raised a hand and Bucky quickly caught it. His eyes grew sharper and he sent you a warning.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to like it. I hit, yes. But it’s different than this,” Bucky emphasized the scars on your skin, the bullet wounds, the scars from where knives had sliced you open, “Sometimes it hurts more here.” He pointed to you heart.

“I don’t like,” You said again, softer this time.

Slowly, Bucky’s tight grip turned gently and he took your hand into his. One hand on your thigh, his metal hand on your soft one.

“Then you won’t be a bad girl, okay? No fighting. No hurting Daddy. If you want something, you have to tell me. You can’t just throw a tantrum. There are rules to follow.”

You sighed, considering. Your lips parted again, uncertain. That was good enough for Bucky.

Bucky leaned in, his voice gentle, “Do you know your name? I’m Bucky. You are …”

“109-F,” You answered easily and flashed him a look of boredom, like your name didn’t matter.

“That was your name. We’ll think of something better, okay?”

Another week passed and Bucky found he had little use for the bit gag and leather gloves. The tantrums remained but Bucky noticed your intentions had changed. You didn’t get riled up and try to hurt him anymore. You pushed at him and knocked things over but mostly only when you wanted to communicate something and Bucky couldn’t understand you.

As the spankings increased, the good behavior increased as well. He started new routines with you.

Your room was currently only a twin bed and soft carpet despite the size of the room. It allowed for less things to be destroyed. You didn’t sleep in the bed anyways. Bucky started to notice that his couch cushions, blankets, old newspapers, and even clothes from his closet were starting to go missing. He found them later in the small closet connected to your room.

A nest.

You had created a soft, safe space for yourself inside. At first, you bared your teeth at him when he tried to step inside. Instead, Bucky sat right by the entrance of the closet door. He brought you breakfast, a simple bowl of oatmeal. He’d take a spoonful into his mouth and exaggerate an, “Mmmm,” as he ate. Then he would hold the spoon out to you and wait for you to take it, “Your turn, baby.”

You refused the first few times. Then eventually you took the spoon in your hand and catapulted it at the wall. Not out of anger, mostly out of curiosity. And then you clumsily dipped the spoon inside the oatmeal, brought it to your nose, smearing some on your nose. “See, it’s not so bad. Try it.”

You looked at him like he was from another planet.

Eventually, you took the spoon into your mouth and had a few bites, “Good girl, baby.” That’s how he knew you were warming to him.

His work in Washington continued even as he continued to help you settle into a routine. There were still meetings and late-night calls. Stacks of policy briefs piled high on the living room table and his phone buzzed constantly. Soon, he would have to return but he hoped by then you would be more house broken. Easier to manage. Easier to leave on your own.

You responded well to the corporal punishments. To make even bigger changes, Bucky tried to workout a system of rewards for you. It started with the stuffed animals. Soft and cute. He knew you’d never seen or held one before. He sat outside the closet, further than he usually did, one evening holding a stuffed, brown bear, “Look, he’s soft. Do you want to hold him?”

“ … hold him?” You made you way to the edge of door and reached for it.

Bucky pulled back, “You may hold him. You’ve been such a good girl, eating your food, and not throwing things. Come here,” He patted his lap.

For a long moment, you mentally debated whether or not you would leave the closet. When you finally decided the risk was worth it, you hesitantly crawled forward, sitting your bare bottom on the worn fabric of his jeans. Bucky let you take the bear into your hands and he saw something your face soften immediately. You brushed your hands over the fur methodically, over and over. Bucky counted fifty brushes of your hand over it’s head.

“You can hug him,” Bucky demonstrated for you, realizing then that you wouldn’t know what a hug was. He pressed the bear to your chest and then guided your arms around the plush toy, “See, sweet girl. Do you like him?”

“I like bear,” Your voice came out muffled as you pressed the bear against your face, “Soft.”

You were mesmerized for a solid fourty-five minutes. You didn’t mind when Bucky shifted you in his lap so that you were fully straddling him, the bear between the two of you. His hands caressed your back, the sides of your waist and eventually he fully grasped your bottom in his hands, “Fuck,” He cursed under his breath.

“Hurt?” You asked though it was clear your mind was elsewhere.

“No, baby,” Bucky said although he was painfully hard.

“I keep bear?”

Bucky placed a soft kiss against your shoulder blade and was surprised when your face remained soft, almost happy, “It’s yours. For you, my good girl.”

“I’m good girl,” You smiled a real smile. It was the first time he fully saw your teeth and you weren’t thirty seconds from trying to rip out his jugular, “Good bear for me.”

He nodded, brushing your curls back with his metal fingers. He’d have to tackle another deep detangling another night, “That’s right. But when someone gives you something special, there’s something else you say, too.” He touched your cheek. “Can you say thank you, baby?”

You blinked at him.

“Thannnk—” he started, slow and patient.

You studied his mouth. “Than...”

“Good,” he coaxed, smiling now. “Now say thank you, Daddy.”

You continued, “Thank you… Daddy.”

“There you go. So polite. So sweet.”

You just stayed there, safe in his lap, hugging the bear a little tighter.

You followed Mr. Bear around the house. Wherever Bucky placed him, you were there. The kitchen table at breakfast, the space beneath Bucky’s desk while he was working, beside the bathtub when Bucky decided you couldn’t go any longer without a bath, your bed that you had initially abandoned. You’d even spent a full night in Bucky’s large bed, letting Bucky hold your waist as you slept using Mr. Bear as your pillow. It wasn’t conscious at first. You fell in love with the small toy quickly. You looked in his eyes and squished his belly to help calm yourself, to even help yourself sleep. It was an attachment that was foreign to you. You liked that Mr. Bear was yours and that Bucky had given him to you.

It was comfort and regulation. It was all new.

You spent a full two weeks with that sense of peace. Until you woke from a long nap on the living room couch and Mr. Bear was missing. You’d learn to breathe, to slow down and to not let your anger rise to point of seeing red. You breathed deeply as you turned over every cushion and looked threw drawers. You couldn’t even smell him anymore.

He was gone. Forever. Stolen from you. Had you been a bad girl? You’d grown attached and now you’d been abandoned. You started looking under any item you could find, letting items fall to the ground with a thud. You emptied an entire bookshelf of all it’s books and spread the contents of one of Bucky’s manila folders all over the floor.

Cold, dense paper. Nothing soft. You didn’t register the sound of Bucky’s voice in the other room. You fell to your knees, cheeks wet with tears, and started to shred the papers with your nails.

“....Then tell them to hold off until I’m back D.C. I won’t sign off on anything blind …. Yeah, he knows this. Email him again. Then call. Whatever you have to do. That’s your job …”

A second later, the footsteps came. Fast, heavy but controlled.

“Give me a second,” Bucky said. Then louder, “Just pause the call.”

Your eyes found his when he finally walked into the living room from his office. He looked over everything quickly. You couldn’t control your breathing.

Before he could ask you what was wrong, you yelled, “You took bear! Not here! Where?!”

“He’s not gone,” Bucky crouched next to you, eyes dark and fixed sharply on you, “I was in the other room. You need to ask when you have a question. You can’t do … this.”

��Need bear, Daddy,” You crawled closer on your knees, “Need. Baby is sad.”

“Thank you for telling Daddy how you feel but this is not what you do when you’re sad. You didn’t ask Daddy for help,” Before he continued his lecture, he realized you weren’t the least bit sorry. Your focus was on your toy, “Daddy put Mr. Bear in the washing machine. He was dirty. He’s in the dryer now.”

“You took bear,” You croaked and Bucky sighed, “Not dirty. Give back.”

“I’ll give him back after you clean up your mess.”

“No, Daddy!”

“Do you want a spanking too?” You blinked, eyes wide. You shook your head slowly. It had been so long since Bucky had bent you over and done that to you, “Clean, all this needs to go in the trash. The books go back on the bookshelf. And you can put the couch back together. I will wait.”

You scowled then. You had to clean when all of this was his fault. He took Mr. Bear.

He kept his word. He waited. You put the couch cushions back where they belonged before you stacked the books back on the shelf. He stepped in to show you exactly where the books needed to go and held a trash bag open for you to place all the destroyed papers in.

“Good girl,” He said though the way his jaw clicked made you believe he might be just as mad as you.

He took your hand a moment later and led you into the small room with two white machines. One was loud, rumbling and as Bucky opened it’s door, the shaking came to a cease. And then Mr. Bear appeared. Before you could lunge for him, Bucky’s metal arm shot out, holding you at a distance, “My bear,” Your voice trailed off as you eyed the toy. He looked cleaner but he’d lost the smell you’d grown to like, “Bucky no more clean. Not dirty.”

“Mr. Bear does get dirty just like Baby does. He has to have a bath sometimes. Do you understand?”

You were reluctant but you nodded. “Yes,” As soon as the plus toy was in your arms, you curled up on the ground, and held him tightly. As Bucky turned to return to his call in the other room, you let out a small, “.... Sorry, Bucky.”

He paused in the doorway, glanced back.

“I know, baby,” he said gently.

Bucky decided the perfect gateway into you finally wearing clothes around the house was yet another toy. This one was a soft rag doll that looked just slightly like you. The same skin tone and dark curly hair pinned up by two lavender colored bows. She also wore a lavender dress and matching ballet flats. She looked sweet, safe, familiar.

His usual spiel had failed. He explained that clothes were a good thing. They were soft and kept you warm. He also teased the possibility of one day going outside with him, “The people outside always wear clothes,” He’d say, “You want to go on a trip with Daddy one day, don’t you?”

You just ignored him and let your eyes wander towards the window, “This is Mr. Bear’s good friend,” He presented the doll to you, placing her on your bed, next to the loose-fitting, pink t-shirt dress that was laid out on the bed. He chose something completely unrestrictive on purpose. You perked up then. You gave him a hungry look, as if he was presenting you with a medium-rare steak instead of a doll, “She’s a ballerina. Uh, like a dancer. To music. Her name is … Rina.”

“Rina,” You tried, your eyes locked on her, “Soft?”

“She’s very soft,” Bucky assured you, “She loves hugs too.”

“Rina mine?” You asked next, face soft, looking up expectantly, “Like Bear?”

“She could be. She wants a new friend. But she has a rule.”

Your arms crossed at that. You leaned forward to study the doll, brows furrowed, “She has rule?”

“She doesn’t want to be held unless you’re dressed, like people are supposed to be. Even cute hybrid girls have to wear clothes. She feels the most comfortable that way.”

You pouted adorably, “Bad rule.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, “That’s what she told me. Rina’s rules. She might let you hold her if you’re a good girl.”

“Don’t like,” You started to whine, pressing your body against Bucky’s body, forehead pressing against his chest, “Please … don’t like.”

Bucky placed gentle on your shoulders, lifting your body from him. He pressed a finger under your chin, lifting it until you were looking at him, “I’m sorry, I would help you but it’s not my rule.”

He turned away from you. Not far, only a few steps. He gave you space. Pretended to check his email on his phone. He heard you stomp your feet. Once. Twice. Then a whine. Then there was silence. The tiniest ruffle of fabric. When Bucky turned around, you were wearing the dress. He smiled wide, impressed.

He doubted he could get you in pair of underwear or a bra today but there was time for that.

He came closer again, running his fingers over your hair before he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, “Did it. See, Bucky.” You declared, eyes wide and expecting, “Mine now?”

“She’s yours.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” You bounced on your toes excitedly before you happily scooped up the doll. Bucky picked you up next, and you wrapped your legs around his torso. You let out a soft laugh, a real one, and it was music to Bucky’s ears. One arm looping around his neck, the other squeezing Rina to your body, you looked Bucky in his eyes deeply. Like he’d placed gentle kisses on your forehead, your shoulder, and cheeks, you placed a soft peck on his lips.

He stilled for a second. Then smiled, full and proud, “Thank you, babygirl.”

There was one week left until Bucky had to return to Washington. He was more than happy with the progress you’d made. You’d started wearing underwear and you’d even been open to trying different kinds of clothes. Pants were still a nonstarter. You didn’t mind the skirts. You didn’t love the tight-fitting t-shirts but Bucky often left you no options. You tugged at them and pouted. Selfishly, he liked the way they looked on you.

There were still many gaps in your social etiquette. It took him a full three days to explain that you couldn’t lift up your skirt whenever you wanted. You had a habit of wanting to stare at the different patterns on your underwear and often would flip up your skirt in the middle of a conversation or activity or anything to look. He corrected gently, not because he didn’t like the view but because ideally one day you’d accompany him to dinners and go on outings with him. He didn’t need you putting your body on display.

He convinced you Rina liked it when wore different hairstyles. Ribbons and bows were her absolute favorite. He’d started getting really good at braiding it into neat rows, and tying bows to the ends. During his morning meetings, you often sat between his legs at his desk, Rina in your lap, as he fixed your hairstyle for the day.

Bucky was settling into a sense of peacefulness. A feeling he had longed for. Therapy helped. His new job fulfilled him in some aspects but also made him realize how slow change really happened at the same time. This life, the pocket of innocence he was building around you, was starting to help most of all. This life was the opposite of everything he and you were ever used to.

He didn’t want you exposed to the real world. He would shield you from reality for as long as possible. He would give you something he never had for himself. He’d also had enough of following orders for ten lifetimes. With you, in his own house, he made the rules.

He had to address his mission. Debrief the committee on all of his findings. He had to give his colleagues enough information to satisfy them but couldn’t risk them getting their hands on you. You were the survivicing data to a program that never should’ve been created. He decided to lie. The site was clear of any sources of life. The facility was sealed, records wiped away, and he submitted a report that suggested Project LUPUS be permanently blacklisted from funding due to “gross ethical violations”.

He’d have to spin another story eventually. Explain your presence in his life. Mel, his assistant, was already working on using the story for political advantage. You were a rescued civilian during a humanitarian negotiation. You’d suffered severe trauma and Congressman Barnes, recognizing the complexity of the situation and understanding the importance of mental rehabilitation, he’s personally arranged for you to receive trauma-informed rehabilitative care under his sponsorship. He’d be even more of the hero than the public saw him as.

Colleagues would raise questions but no one would push to hard. He was a war hero. His word was gospel.

Pls reblog w/ your thoughts if you enjoyed! This will be a 2 part series with the second chapter focused on Bucky + Baby’s time in Washington! Hope you enjoyed :)

#dark fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes au #thunderbolts #black!reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x black!reader #dark bucky barnes

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