#she will probably not change (she's been a _____ for a while now)

[cobbled-peach]

˗ˏˋ જ⁀➴ The JJ Issue

when Spencer has to work late on a case with JJ, you find yourself spiralling with jealousy. And now, you're determined to make him remember exactly what he's been missing.

cw: 18+ Spencer reid x jealous!fem!reader. NSFW content. Mildly insecure reader, explicit language, alcohol use, mentions of masturbation, heavy making out, slightly toxic relationship and emotional manipulation if you really really look a/n: so this was a request, but I'm technologically inept and deleted it when trying to copy it to my word doc. ANYWAY, I feel like I veered slightly off topic, but I present my take on jealous!reader and some dumb bitch-ish Spencer™ for you mwah mwah please feel free to send in more requests i am happy to take whatever!!! wc: 3k

The clock flicks to 11:00 PM.

You watch the numbers change with quiet contempt, the harsh glow of the display slicing through the darkness. The sheets beside you remain cold and untouched. Empty. Too still and too silent.

Still no Spencer.

It’s the third night this week. The third night of cold pillows and even colder silence. The third night of laying in a bed made for two and wondering if your boyfriend was going to crawl in before the sun came up – or if he’d even bother returning home at all. 

He’d been busier at work in the past month, his absence only being amplified by the newest case.

You’d tried to follow along when he explained it. Something about Montclair, Virginia. Weird geographical patterns, overlapping jurisdictions, unusual victims. Apparently, it was the kind of bureaucratic mess that kept the BAU tangled in an endless supply of paperwork.

But all you’d really heard – what had stuck and started looping in your head – was JJ.

JJ.

JJ and Spencer. Working late nights in close quarters.

Beautiful, capable JJ. With her glossy hair and understanding eyes. Who could read a room in seconds and had helped Spencer through numerous cases. JJ, who had history with him. Real, lived-in history. She probably understood the way his brain worked in ways you hadn’t even discovered yet.

JJ. Who had the privilege of seeing him more often than you did lately, while you were stuck eating leftovers and watching the clock tick toward midnight.

You tried not to be the jealous girlfriend.

Tried so hard.

But it’s easier said than done when you’re alone in a dark apartment, with your texts left on read since 12:23 PM.

You can picture it too clearly – Spencer and JJ tucked away in some dim conference room, heads bowed over maps and files, shoulders brushing. JJ laughing softly. Spencer glancing up from his notes with that boyish smile that he reserves for only his favorite people. A room of shared trauma and comfort, of inside jokes and a history you can’t compete with.

You hate how vivid the image is. 

You hate how much it turns your stomach even more.

Your fingers curl around your phone, thumb hovering for a beat before you start to type:

Any idea when you’ll be home? x

You stare. Waiting.

The dot-dot-dot appears almost instantly. He’s always fast, when he can be.

No, this case is a mess. JJ and I are still trying to determine the geographical patterning. I’ll be home when I can.

That’s it.

That’s it?

No “I miss you.” No “Sorry for the late night.” No acknowledgement that its eleven-fucking-o’clock and you’re still alone, curled up in his shirt, half-hoping for the sound of him returning to break you out of this fog. Just plain, clipped Spencer-speak. Cold. Factual. Like he’s updating Hotch, not the person who shares his bed.

“JJ and I.”

Of course.

Your jaw tenses and you type again:

Should I leave the door unlocked, or is your work wife walking you home tonight?

No response. Probably back to his files. Or worse – laughing with her about something brilliant he said. You picture her touching his arm. Picture him not pulling away.

Two minutes pass, and you try again:

Let me know if she likes it when you quote Voltaire.

Maybe she even moans when you pull out statistics too.

Still nothing.

You throw your phone to the end of the bed with a dull thud, resisting the urge to follow it with your wine glass. You’re not drunk – not quite – but your veins are warm and the wine bottle is getting low. Almost as low as your patience.

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face.

It’s not that your insecure.

But it’s been a long week. And you’re tired. And lonely. And a little more than marginally horny.

And all that serves to make a deadly combination.

You glance at the wine bottle on your nightstand, dragged in here from when the living room started to feel too big. Half-empty now, or maybe half-full, but you don't feel like looking on the bright side today. Your fingers wrap around the stem of the glass like a lifeline, and you take a slow sip.

The taste of sour grapefruit and poor decisions.

It doesn’t take long for you to start wondering things you shouldn’t be wondering.

Like if JJ’s ever seen Spencer shirtless, skin flushed from an adrenaline-fueled takedown. Like if she notices the way his lashes flutter when he gets focused, and the subtle tick in his jaw when he’s trying to hold back a dirty comment. Like if she’s ever heard the quiet, shaky sound he makes when you touch him just right – a sound you haven’t heard in what feels like forever.

You huff, irritated with yourself.

This is not the kind of spiral you want to be in.

But how are you supposed to feel okay when the man you love has spent more nights with someone else this week than with you?

Someone brilliant and bright and right beside him.

Your mind drifts – dangerously, again – to what he might be doing if he was here. What you wish he was doing. Your hand plays absently with the hem of his shirt, sliding a little higher up your thigh, feeling the fabric brush over bare skin. Skin and air and silence.

You wonder if he’d even notice you were awake if he walked in right now.

Or if he’d still be thinking about JJ and her smiles.

Your stomach twists again.

You set the wine glass down, staring into the dark, heat curling beneath your skin like a storm on the verge of breaking.

You’re not proud of the jealousy. Or the spite. But tonight?

You’re not sure you care.

It’s 1:00 AM when you hear the door open.

You’ve migrated back to the couch now. Curled up like a forgotten thing in the quiet throb of the living room. A blanket is pulled tight around your shoulders, forging a cocoon of spite and cheap Sauvignon Blanc. The bottle on the coffee table is empty. There’s half a glass still in your hand, warmed by your palm. Your fingers are molded around the stem like its something keeping you grounded.

The door shuts gently.

Spencer enters the apartment the way he always does when he knows it’s late. Softly. Cautiously. The guilt doesn’t show on is face right away, but seeps in to the little things. The way he trades his leather shoes for worn slippers like they might squeak loud enough to wake you up. The careful way he sets his keys down, not with the usual absentminded clatter, but softly, like he might disturb you.

You hear the rustle of his cardigan being shrugged off and flung over the back of a chair. He moves through the apartment with the measured care of someone navigating a crime scene. Almost like a ghost; present, but not where you need him to be.

The bedroom door creaks. A pause. Then a soft, confused hum, like he’s surprised the bed is cold and vacant. 

You don’t move.

His footsteps return, still soft and hesitant, and then the living room light clicks on. It’s not bright, just enough to paint his face in a warm gold shadow. When he sees you, wrapped up and still, his features settle somewhere between relief and worry.

‘There you are,’ he says gently. ‘I didn’t think you’d still be up.’

His voice is warm. Too warm. Like he’s dealing with a wounded animal, already prepared for a potential fallout.

You don’t answer right away. Just lift the glass and sip what’s left of the wine. It brought warmth before, but now just feels thin and useless as it settles in your stomach. A comfort that has already faded.

Spencer looks like he always does after a long day – exhausted. Shirt untucked and wrinkled at the collar. His hair is tousled like he’s raked his hands through it a dozen times. His lips are parted, already searching for the right apology.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ you say. The words land flat and cold. Sharper than you intended, but not enough to make you regret it.

His brow furrows as he takes a tentative step forward. ‘Oh no. Are you okay?’

‘Oh, just peachy.’ You flash him a malicious smile and tilt your head. ‘How’s JJ?’

‘JJ?’ he repeats. ‘She’s… fine?’

‘I bet.’

You see it in him. The subtle shift. His brain starts ticking, trying to process the change in tone, piece together context clues. His hands twitch slightly at his sides. You’ve seen it before, when he’s dealt with a particularly messy profile. It’s how he acts when trying to decode erratic behavior.

But this time, you’re the chaos.

‘What’s going on?’ he asks, slower this time. Careful.

You finally meet his eyes, steady and level. ‘You’ve spent more time with her this week than you have with me.’

He exhales and crosses his arms. Not intentionally defensive, but it comes across that way. Just the subtle shift of someone bracin against a growing storm.

‘Me and JJ? We’re working the same case,’ he offers. Not patronising, just explaining. ‘That’s how assignments work.’

A rational answer. Reasonable. Sensible. And completely useless to the part of you that’s been sitting in silence every night, nursing bitterness like it’s a glass of wine.

‘That’s not what I said,’ you reply.

You toss off the blanket and stand, wanting to be level with him.

His gaze drops, almost instinctively, to your bare thighs peeking out from beneath his shirt. Snaps it back to your face instantly. Like he caught himself doing something inappropriate, even if it wasn’t.

‘She get’s your attention,’ you say softly. ‘Your thoughts. Your little facts. Your laughter. Your time.’

His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You keep going. Getting closer enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. 

‘And I get cold sheets and texts left on delivered.’

‘I didn’t mean to ignore you–’

‘She gets to share your space. Share your mind. Is that what gets you off now? Criminal profiling and shared trauma? Is that your kink, Doctor?’

His cheeks go red immediately.

‘She’s married,’ he points out, like that’ll resolve the tension.

‘Married women flirt too, Spencer.’

He’s still red, sputtering slightly now. ‘I don’t—I don’t think of JJ like that. I never have.’

‘Do you think of me like that?’ you challenge. ‘Or have I been bumped down your priority list below paperwork and tactical briefings? Do I need to start talking about blood spatter patterns during foreplay? Or maybe I need to join the FBI just so you’ll remember me.’

He swallows visibly, jaw tightening. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘No,’ you snap. ‘What’s not fair is me touching myself alone in our bed to the sound of your voice in some old Quantico press briefing because it’s the only version of you I could get this week.’

His eyes widen slightly. His breath catches. 

‘I think about you constantly,’ he says, almost desperate. 

You scoff. ‘Sure. Right after filing case summaries.’

‘No,’ he says, firmer now. ‘I do think about you. I just—I hyperfocus. And when I hyperfocus, my brain sort of queues everything else. It’s not about priority or importance. It’s about sequence. You’re just… waiting in line.’

‘Great,’ you say flatly. ‘I’m a fucking deli number.’

He winces. ‘That came out wrong.’

You look at him, taking a breath. Run a hand through your hair.

‘Do you think I’m crazy?’

‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘I think you’re angry and hurt. And I think you’re trying to make me angry and hurt too. Like earlier, your messages were mean. That’s why I ignored them... Now, you’re just sort of scaring me.’

That stops you. Not because you’re insulted, but because he looks genuinely lost. Innocent.

‘I’m not trying to scare you,’ you say quietly. You deflate slightly, some of the heat leaving your voice. ‘I’m just… trying to remind you that I’m still here. Wanting you. Waiting for you.’

There’s a silence.

Then–

‘I didn’t realise it was this bad. I thought you just wanted some space.'

You nod. Not spitefully, just confirming the truth.

‘Do you even remember what it was like?’ you ask. ‘When you used to come home and fuck me like you were starving. Like you couldn’t stand being apart from me. Like the space between us physically hurt you.’

He doesn’t answer. But you see the recognition in the way his jaw ticks, the way his hands clench at his sides. 

‘I miss that,’ you say. ‘I miss you.’

That look returns to his face, unsure if this is a test. If you’re being serious. If you’re going to snap at him for misreading your cues.

So you lean in – slow – until your lips are just inches from his. ‘You say you think about me constantly… prove it.’

He hesitates. Blinks. ‘You mean like—right now?’

‘Preferably in a way that makes me forget I’m mad.’

He pauses. ‘...Sexually?’

‘That would be ideal.’

He clears his throat. ‘I just want to make sure. Because sometimes when you’re upset, you use sarcasm to—’

You lift your hand, cutting him off. ‘No sarcasm now, Doctor.’

He shifts his weight, brows still drawn a little.

‘Right, okay.’ Another pause. ‘So, just to clarify – you’re asking me to have sex with you. Now. Because you want to stop being angry. Or is the sex part of the anger expression?’

You stare at him.

He continues. 

‘Because if you’re just using me to release emotional frustrations, that’s fine, I want to have sex with you, but I’d just like to know in advance so I can—’

You step in and kiss him. 

Not sweetly or softly. 

It’s the kind of kiss used to shut him up. Open mouthed and hard, tongue sweeping across his lower lip before he’s even realised your lips are touching his. For a moment, he’s caught between instinct and hesitation. Trying to figure out if this is you just getting back at him.

Then you feel him give in. His hands grip your waist, grounding himself, allowing his mouth to move with yours in a way that’s messy and uncoordinated – like he’s catching up with weeks of missed makeout sessions.

When you finally pull back, his pupils are blown wide, his lips flushed and slightly parted.

‘I’m not asking you to give me a therapeutic exercise,’ you state. ‘I’m asking you to stop thinking and touch me.’

He nods, too quickly. ‘Right. Touching… now?’

‘No. In another three days,’ you say sarcastically, grabbing his hand and sliding it beneath the hem of your shirt – his shirt – until his fingers are splayed across your ribs. 

His palm is warm. Touch a little tentative.

‘Do you even remember what touching me feels like?’ you ask, breath brushing against his cheek.

Spencer exhales sharply, the memory hitting him and punching the breath from his lungs.

‘I think about it all the time,’ he whispers.

‘Then why are you still just standing there like this is a goddamn team-building exercise?’

He snaps into focus. ‘I’m sorry. You’re just—when you’re mad, and basically half-naked, it’s hard to follow all the emotional subtext and my working memory has lost it’s buffer—’

You roll your eyes, pushing him backward until his knees hit the couch. He drops onto the cushions with a surprised noise. Part yelp, part breathless laugh.

His hands instinctively settle on your thighs as you straddle him. He stares up at you like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he doesn’t deserve for it to be happening.

You place your palm on his shoulder, playing with the soft cotton of his shirt.

‘Spencer.’

‘Yes?’

‘Please stop thinking.’

‘I’m trying.’

‘Try harder.’

You lean down and kiss him again. Slower, this time. Deeper. He responds instantly now, hands sliding to your waist, then up your back, holding you close to him. His mouth moves with less hesitation, more purpose.

‘I missed you,’ he murmurs between kisses. ‘Missed you so much. I’m sorry—I didn’t know what to say without it sounding like I was making excuses before.’

You shift your hips against him, just enough to feel him getting harder beneath you. 

‘I don’t want an apology,’ you say.

‘You don’t?’

‘No.’ You grind down again, a little harder. ‘I want you to make it up to me.’

He moans softly, head tipping back against the couch cushions. He nods in understanding, taking a moment to catch his breath before pressing his lips to your jaw, trailing them down to your throat, feeling your pulse fluttering beneath his tongue.

‘You’re so…’ he pauses for another kiss to your skin. ‘I mean, you always look good, but—God, you’re so, so pretty. I missed you.’

His fingers dig into your hips, and then his mouth is back on yours, rougher now. He’s kissing to make up for all the nights you went to bed alone, all the hours he spent at work while you touched yourself to a crackly echo of his voice. 

His hands slide up beneath your shirt again. Tracing your skin. He gets to your breasts, and gasps softly, like he’s surprised.

‘You’re not wearing anything under this.’

You roll your eyes at his astute observation.

‘You want to keep narrating?’ you ask, a little breathless. ‘Or do you want to do something about it?’

‘Doing something. Yes.’

He lifts the shirt off your body. Slow and tentative, like you’re something delicate. It’s a sight he’s seen numerous times before, bit his eyes still go wide as he takes you in. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares.

‘Jesus, Spence,’ you say, nudging his shoulder, getting impatient.

‘Sorry. You’re just gorgeous. And naked. And still angry. And you—’ he pauses, runs his hand up your ribs again. ‘—feel like something I shouldn’t be able to touch.’

‘Well I’m letting you touch me.’

You grab his wrist, guiding your hand to press between your legs. He sucks in a breath, still looking up at your face.

‘This is how mad I was,’ you whisper.

His brain seems to short-circuit again. ‘I have… no response to that.’

You push your hips down against his hands. 

‘Then shut up, and make me come.’

a/n: i ummed and ahhed about putting an aftermath scene but decided not to because I lowkey like 'em toxic >:) We also do NOT hate JJ in this house, she was just convienient. I also (can you tell I like to yap?) don't know what era of Spencer Reid I pictured for this. Somewhere in the earlier seasons, maybe? But idk. You choose. I have a taglist now! Please comment if you want to be added, or go to this post here. I've decided not to put tags on my 18+ fics, just as I don't want any minor interactions with them Also, to the person who requested this: if it did not align with your request I'm so sorry and I can do if you really really want xxxx

[sortagaysortahigh]

Lovefool | James 'Bucky' Barnes

A/N: Guys ive been writing ts for like four days and lemme tell you im so glad it's over. Ugh everyone say thank you to @anxietyandtacos for making me into a bucky girl, and thank you to @love-chx for feeding into my bucky dellusions and beta-ing this monster of a fic <3. I was gonna split it in 2 but I'm too lazy to edit that out so I prese,t idiots in love! Minor TB/CABNW SPOILERS

Summary: James Barnes is a terrible congressman, hence Sam sending you to be his assistant. You keep him on a tight leash, and you both do a horrible job at hiding your feelings for one another. Add jealousy and alcohol to the mix? what could possibly change?

Warnings: 2nd person POV, use of Y/N, being a D1 John Walker hater, mentions of bipolar parents/family trauma (minor), forced super soldier serum injections (mention, not depicted!), reader is also a super soldier lowkey but she's just a girl ok!, cursing, spelling and grammar errors probably idk fr, jealous!bucky and jealous!reader, SMUT: hair pulling, choking w that vibranium arm, spitting, hickies, kissing, oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected P in V, creampie, swallowing, reader gets a facial (im going to hell guys), minor handjob, whimpering (MEN WHIMPERING UGH!!)

Word Count: 18k. PART 2

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Secretary!Fem Reader (reader has vague descriptions regarding having STRAIGHTENED hair/curled hair, reader is shorter than Bucky)

UGHHHHHHHHH LET ME AT HIM! FUCK! anyways MINORS DNI!

James Buchanan Barnes is a terrible congressman.

How he managed to get elected to represent Brooklyn? You had absolutely no idea. Sure his campaign made sense, it aligned with his long-term goals of making amends for the tragedies he’d committed as the Winter Soldier, but outside of his initial campaigning,he hadn’t done much. 

He hadn’t had any major bills passed and he had a terrible media presence. Anytime anyone wanted to interview him or ask any major questions following a congressional session, he would mutter the same ‘yeah uh huh, it’s super important, oh I think we should care about this- blah blah blah’. 

It made zero sense.

That’s the entire reason you were hired. Then again, it was also because you owed Sam Wilson a major favor after he opted not to arrest you following the whole ‘Flag Smashers terrorism’ ordeal. It’s not like you were voluntarily involved with the group, but you were a major part of the brains behind the tech-based operations.Plus, you knew how to talk to people. Most importantly, you knew your ins and outs of politics and had a vast network of connections.

“Bucky, can you just listen to me for once! You’re gonna fuck up your entire career if you keep bullshitting responses to the press!” 

You let out a frustrated sigh, two fingers pinching your nose bridge as you shut your eyes. You’re doing your best to remain calm and avoid screaming at him for the fourth time this week—it’s only Tuesday. 

Working with Barnes was like your own personal hell. 

It made sense that he was over a hundred years old. He's stubborn and rude and since the beginning, it was apparent that he didn’t trust you. He even vouched for you to be arrested a few years ago following the takedown of the Flag Smashers, but that was mostly because you had kicked his ass and clearly bruised his ego.

Things were better now…well, if you didn’t count the constant arguments. He was just too nonchalant at times.

Bucky nodded his head, clearly ignoring you as he focused on buttoning up his white shirt. 

The both of you were in his Washington D.C. penthouse. It was a nice place all things considered, a luxury awarded to him by the government, and, of course, being a national ‘hero’ recognized by Captain America himself did come with perks. 

You lean against the island counter, arms crossed in front of your chest while you glare at him. Meanwhile, he was focused on his own reflection in the large circular wall-mounted mirror across the room. 

You were due for a briefing surrounding the Foreign Affairs congressional committee soon, but based on the way he couldn’t answer any of your questions, you knew he’d either be making a fool of himself or you’d have to swoop in and save the day again.

“Would you relax for five minutes? All you do is yell at me, I get you’re supposed to be my know-it-all secretary but Christ, you need to calm down.” 

Your right eye twitches at his response, then you grab the nearest item to you, a glass vase, and launch it in his direction.

Bucky caught it with ease, shaking his head at you as he eyes you from the reflection of the mirror.

Admittedly, Bucky had no issue with his wandering eyes when it came to you. His gaze trailed from your irritated expression, a smirk on his face at the sight of your ever-present pout, then he eyed the few thin gold chains you always wore tucked into your shirt. Today, you hadn’t buttoned your shirt all the way up just yet, leaving quite the eye-full of cleavage out. 

It didn’t help that you were practically pressing your tits together with your arms crossed below them. Bucky took in the rest of your outfit, one of your black pencil skirts that was deemed as work appropriate and modest--even though it hugged all of your curves perfectly and made your ass practically irresistible. Finally, he landed on your shoes, the pointed toe stiletto heels that he knew made your feet hurt, yet you always had a pair on.

They did wonders for your legs.

You ran a hand through your perfectly straightened hair. Usually every strand was laid perfectly and you’d spend too much time making sure it wasn’t frizzy in the slightest-which was like hell during D.C. summers. Now it was messy, but it was messy in a way that made Bucky’s brows raise slightly.

“Don’t tell me to fucking relax Barnes. Your political career is a direct reflection of my political career. I hate to break it to you, but us being two ex-enemies of the state already have us on thin ice constantly! Presidential pardons don’t mean shit in the eyes of the public—a public which you’re supposed to serve!”

You were raising your voice again, he shook his head at that, now finally turning around to face you while he grabbed his tie.

“Just come help me with this tie so we can go. I read the files. I get it, if I fuck up it’s a problem, blase blase blase. I’ve got speech writers, advisors, and most importantly—you.” 

You sighed again, hands now on your hips as you stared at him while clenching your jaw and shaking your head. You hated when he said things like that to you, things that were a little too sweet for a supposed strictly professional relationship.

Sure, you’d known him before he was a Congressman, but you weren’t close in the slightest. 

Then during the aftermath of the Flag Smashers, Sam had you in constant therapy sessions, and after pulling several strings, he had you working side-by-side with him. That’s what really launched your political career.

People liked to argue that Captain America wasn’t political, but he absolutely was. The mantle itself was propaganda, and honestly, you were glad it was Sam holding the shield, he was the best fit for the job regardless of what idiots thought. 

Sam brought you into the world of politics, and it was easy for you to build a network, plus you were able to spin your own narratives regarding your past, playing into people’s emotions, and sure, it was a little manipulative, but you were smart. 

Y’know what they say—work smarter, not harder.

You had started working with Bucky because Sam had cashed in on the ultimate favor after watching Bucky during his campaign trail. His speeches were all amazing, but then when anyone would ask him a candid question, he would struggle, or he’d be dismissive and it was evident he didn’t want to answer questions or be there.

That’s when you showed up, and following his election, you were at the forefront of his public appearances. Answering questions on his behalf, assisting in briefings, and even being with him during any congressional sessions, especially committee sessions. Most representatives didn’t have their assistants with them at all times, but things were different now, and as the world continued to adapt and change, so did the sphere of politics.

You rolled your eyes as you approached him, stopping less than a foot away, ignoring the ever-apparent butterflies you’d feel in your stomach anytime you had to stand in close quarters with him. It wasn’t that being next to him flustered you, it was being face-to-face with him. There was a height difference, but the heels helped with that.  

However, the heels did not help with his wide stature. Bucky Barnes is a wall of muscle, and some days it felt like his biceps alone were the size of your head.

You knew he knew how to tie his own tie. But you also knew he liked when you did it.

He looked down at you, a smirk on his face while he watched your hands work against his royal-blue tie. Your jaw was still clenched, and you were very clearly annoyed with him.

Bucky knew you had a soft spot for him. Just like he had a soft spot for you.

You know this because he’d already fired two assistants prior to Sam ushering you into the role.

You were the only person he’d ever let scream at him over anything. Admittedly, he kind of liked it when you yelled at him too, but he wouldn’t tell you that. It was attractive because, well, you were attractive. But you were also his assistant that was around eighty years younger than him.

“Can you at least pretend you want to be there today?” You glanced up at him as you finished adjusting his tie. Your faces were inches apart as you searched his icy blue eyes for an answer.

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try for you.”

You nodded at that, moving away from him and walking towards the sofa to  grab his suit jacket and your purse. Then you glanced down at your watch, muttering a few curses at the time. 

He watched you walk towards the door, snapping your fingers a few times at him. He smiled and shook his head, grabbing his briefcase and keys as he followed you. Before the both of you could leave, you handed him his jacket, raising both brows.

“Put it on, Barnes.” 

He nodded at that, shrugging it on then buttoning it. You were quick to run your hands along the front of his chest, straightening out any potential wrinkles—the motion felt natural to you. The first time you’d done it, it left you flustered and blushing, but now it didn’t bother you. The quicker it was done, the quicker you’d actually be able to make it out of the building and to the car that had been waiting on you both for ten minutes.

Bucky didn’t like being driven around, it was something he was still getting used to. It wasn’t like he couldn’t drive himself. Then again, the drivers usually had bulletproof trucks to avoid any potential Kennedys happening.

Yeah, his career as the Winter Soldier was extensive and most likely resulted in several of the current governmental security measures. 

Besides, at least he knew you would be safe by his side in the blacked out suburban.

On the drive to the capitol building you were talking non-stop, running him through every agenda that had been previously reviewed and would most likely be circled back to today. You also went on and on about him needing to actually answer questions with real information, not his typical half-assed responses brushing everything off.

When the SUV was finally parked and stopped, you grabbed his forearm before getting out of the car. 

“Don’t piss me off today, Barnes.” 

He ran his tongue along his bottom lip as he nodded his head. “No promises, Sweetheart”.

When he said no promises he meant it.

The both of you hadn’t been in the hearing for longer than twenty minutes before he’d managed to irritate you. It didn’t help that this hearing was scheduled to last three hours. 

You prayed that the three hours would go by fast, especially with Bucky already brushing off another congressman. The entire reason he was on this specific committee was because of his experience overseas working with the former Avengers, and several foreign threats, plus his ‘stellar’ work with groups such as the Flag Smashers.

All he was asked to do was give his input on the current situation regarding Celestial Island. That was it. 

It was a simple question, with an even simpler response, and he’d manage to start his bullshit fiasco again.

You were quick to cut him off, a bright smile on your face as you leaned into his space, pulling the small microphone in your own direction.

“What Congressman Barnes means is that we’re very concerned with the potential threat of any foreign militant uprisings pertaining to the discovery and appearance of Celestial island. Alongside that, it’s evident that with the newfound and limited natural resources on the island, there are several concerns regarding the legal boundaries of mining on foreign territory.”

You sat back in your seat, glancing around the room while several officials nodded and took notes. Bucky was staring right at you, his eyes slightly squinted while he tried not to make a scene. He then subtly pinched your thigh, which led to you swatting his hand away. 

When he leaned into your space, you were practically enveloped in the smell of his cologne. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t relax you slightly. 

Bucky whispered into your ear, “Can you not shove me out of the way to correct me every five minutes.” 

Your jaw clenched at his words. His breath against your ear sent a shiver along your spine, and quite frankly you wanted to slap him. Not because he was wrong to address you in a private manner, but because he was making a fool out of himself and pissing you off.

As he pulled back you offered a smile that was very clearly fake. Well, at least to him it was fake.

“Of course, Congressman.” 

The rest of the hearing was spent the same way, you taking notes while he took half-assed notes. Telling him what to say and what not to say, and correcting him a few more times when he couldn’t provide enough detail on the matter.

Once the meeting was adjourned and the both of you were out of the room, the press were everywhere, surrounding each member, asking a million questions, and when they crowded around you and Bucky, you let out a deep sigh, glancing up at him as he smiled and nodded at the reported forcing microphones into his face.

“Congressman Barnes, what is your opinion on the ongoing Celestial Island expeditions and the potential interstellar crisis right now?” He glanced over at you for a brief few seconds. Then he looked around before clenching his jaw and taking a deep breath. He then leaned closer to one of the mics.

“No comment.” 

With that, he was quick to guide you through the crowd and out of the building.

The two of you stood at the top steps of the capitol building, your gaze focused on a series of notes that you’d taken, eyes trailing each sentence, trying to compartmentalize all of the major points of the meeting. Meanwhile, he was shooting the driver a text, letting him know that things had wrapped up.

“You said you wouldn’t piss me off today, Barnes.” 

He shrugged, now looking at you, eyes taking in the way that the sun practically radiated off of your skin. God, you were so beautiful—if only you didn’t talk so damn much. “I said no promises.” 

You shook your head, now squinting as you looked around, the sun brighter than ever. Without even thinking about it, you were using your free hand to fish in Bucky’s jacket pocket, pulling out his black aviator sunglasses before slipping them on and going back to your reading.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a little too comfortable?” 

You blinked a few times, shrugging the same way he always shrugged when people asked him questions. “You’ll be fine Barnes. Also, don’t forget we have a fundraiser to attend tomorrow, black tie event, I think Sam’s an honored speaker there. And if you’re bringing your team of miscreants, make sure to keep them on a tight leash.” With that, you started descending down the white stone steps, leaving him confused.

He watched as you walked off. At first he thought maybe you were messing with him, however, after you’d made it to the bottom and continued walking down the cement path, he knew you were on the way somewhere. It was a nice day outside, so maybe it made sense that you’d go for a walk on Capitol Hill? But that usually entailed you needing to get something, or speak with someone.

“Where the hell are you going?!” he called after you, leading you to pause and spin around, pushing his sunglasses to the top of your head, moving your hair out of the way.

“To get lunch, what am I supposed to photosynthesize?” 

He shook his head, following after you and ignoring the looks he was getting from tourists, locals, and other political figures.

It didn’t take long for him to catch up to you, his long strides quicker than yours as he descended the stairs. That and he wasn’t wearing a pair of four inch stilettos on. Some days when you moved too slowly he’d debate throwing you over his shoulder to get somewhere quicker.

But that was both unprofessional and embarrassing for the both of you. He knew for a fact that you’d make a scene, most likely shouting at him, switching between his military rank to his political title while hitting him.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair before glancing at you as the both of you walked in sync. He took a second to look around, observing the area to ensure there were no major threats. An old habit that always seemed to surface anytime he was with you in public. 

“So, where exactly are we going?” 

You shrugged, now holding a manilla folder above your face to further block the sun, squinting behind the black aviators before crossing the busy street. It wasn’t uncommon for secretaries to walk around the Hill, especially during lunch or recess. You knew your way around the city relatively well.

However, it was clear Bucky did not, considering you were guiding him in the direction of the Vietnamese restaurant that the two of you frequented during the first few months of working together. There wasn’t any point in trying something new, not when you had several pages of notes to sort through and reiterate to Bucky.

“To 54, y’know the cute little mom and pops place we used to go to all the time? Best summer rolls in D.C.” 

He nodded as you spoke.Truthfully, he had no idea what you were talking about. Sure, he knew that when you first started working for him you had dragged him to lunch, claiming that taking a break from the ‘seriousness’ of the job was important, but outside of that, he couldn’t remember half of the places you dragged him to.Usually the food was good, though.

After about ten more minutes of walking alongside Bucky, who was constantly grabbing you and pulling you away from incoming traffic when you’d been too focused on the hearing notes to actually look before crossing the street, you’d finally made it to the restaurant.

The second you opened the door, you spotted Ms. Minh, the older woman that owned the restaurant. Within a few seconds she’d noticed you and Bucky, a wide smile on her face as she approached the both of you with menus.

“My favorite customers! Tell me Bucky, are you two engaged yet?” 

You blinked a few times, eyes wide at the insinuation that you and Bucky were together. When you glanced over at him, his brows were knit together as his eyes met yours. 

Neither of you would acknowledge the rosy flush on his face.

“Now, Ms. Minh, you know we’re not together romantically. He’s my boss, and between me and you, the biggest grouch I know. Plus, he never listens to me! I can’t be with a man who doesn’t listen.” You spoke as you followed her to a table that was a bit more secluded in the back corner of the dining area. 

She shook her head, scoffing a bit before elbowing you, leaning closer to you.“Men never listen, but he’s a good one, can’t let him slip away.” 

You gasped at that, laughing and smiling at her as you sat down. He slid into the seat directly across from you and smiled at Ms. Minh when she handed him his menu, lightly slapping his shoulder and winking before walking off.

“I remember this place now.” 

You nodded your head, smiling as you read through the menu. You knew exactly what you were getting, but you also didn’t want to look into those baby blues right now. Not while you tried your best to ignore the butterflies—scratch that, it was like an entire team of olympic gymnasts were doing somersaults in your stomach.

You’d be a liar if you said you hadn’t ever thought of Bucky romantically. Outside of being an absolute moron in the realm of politics, he’s a genuinely good guy. He’s done the work to make amends, he understands empathy, he’s kind and giving, and in the words of the other assistants you had the displeasure of working with, he really was a tall glass of water.

“Are you gonna take the sunglasses off, Sweetheart?” 

You blinked a few times, finally registering that everything still had a dark blue-ish hue. You were too lost in thought to actually take off the aviators. He already had his hand out, waiting for you to place them in his palm.

Once you returned the glasses, one of the servers came around to take your order, and without any hesitation you were ordering for yourself and for him. When he opened his mouth to say something you quickly shushed him before finishing the order. “I know what you like, Barnes.” 

He nodded slowly, looking from you to the glass of ice water on the table. Sure, you did know what he liked to a certain extent. 

He also liked you, a lot more than he should’ve. But he was positive you didn’t know that, even if you were the biggest know-it-all on the goddamn planet.

You finally looked up at him, now stirring the thin plastic straw in your glass of water, taking a second to push the lemon wedge to the bottom of the glass, lightly squishing it with the straw.

“So, after the term is over, what’s next for you Congressman Barnes?” 

He shrugged, one hand reaching for his phone, the other on the tabletop, fingers tapping against the worn wood. The white, green, and red hues from one of the bright neon signs on the wall reflecting against his skin ever so slightly as he looked at you.

James Barnes needed to be painted. He was too handsome to not be preserved forever in art. Then again, anytime you’d ever mentioned anything about him being preserved, he’d make a joke about being in cryostasis that would leave your jaw dropped.

“I dunno, probably go back to being a hero or something, who knows. Got the whole ‘New Avengers’ thing to address. Maybe, keep working on the whole making amends thing. Not sure if politics are for me.” 

You tried to hold in your laugh but it easily slipped past the cracks in your stoic expression. “I’m gonna say this as your friend, not your assistant so don’t fire me. But you’re really shitty at your job.” 

He laughed at that, shaking his head lightly, his hair had a slight bounce that made you want to run your fingers through the chocolate locks.

“You’re probably right Sweetheart, but the Winter Soldier turned politician looks good on paper. Sam’s always talking about history remembering names, guess it was the best way to redeem myself. Y’know serving the people.” 

As the both of you spoke, your food was brought out. The two bowls of pho were placed on the table, alongside your side of summer rolls. You absentmindedly grabbed the few bottles of sauce on the table. Immediately adding some hoisin sauce and a dash of sriracha to his, the way he always liked it.

Then you moved onto your own, throwing bean sprouts, mint, and jalapenos into the bowl.

“Y’know I can do things on my own.” 

You shrugged, now raising a single brow. “Then I wouldn’t have a job.” 

He rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face was evident, a large toothy grin that was typically reserved for the people closest to him. Bucky let out a boisterous laugh as he picked up his chopsticks, mixing his pho. “Fine, you got me there I guess.” 

You nodded at that, then added, “Besides, I like doing stuff for you. Actually, I think I just enjoy doing things for people in general, I guess it’s my love language or whatever Joaquin says.” 

The mention of the new Falcon bothered Bucky, not because he didn’t like the kid, but because it had an angry green emotion swirling in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t envy, no it was blatant jealousy.

“Ah, how is Joaquin anyways?”

You raised a brow at him, swallowing the food in your mouth before answering. “Well, after crash landing into the Indian Ocean, his recovery is actually going really well. Been in physical therapy and rehab for a while, still doesn’t shut the hell up, and is constantly yapping Sam’s ear off—and mine—when he calls. I think he’s back in the air now too, last I heard from Sam at least.” 

He nodded as he ate. Then, he couldn’t help himself  “So…are you two still close?” 

Your brows knit together as your head craned back a bit. 

“It’s pretty unprofessional to ask about your assistant's love life, hmm?” you were teasing him, pointing the chopsticks in hand at him, both brows raised now. Then your smile cracked. “Good  thing we’re friends-ish. But no, me and Joaquin are a negative, sure we’re around the same age, but I dunno, he’s a great friend, but not my type y’know. I usually go for the whole tall, brooding, kinda mean, type.”

Bucky bit his bottom lip slightly as you spoke. Externally, he was focused on you and his meal. Internally he was jumping for joy at the fact that you weren’t remotely interested in Joaquin Torres. Plus, hearing your usual type, he was right up your alley. But once again, it was incredibly unprofessional to fraternize with your secretary.

“So, what about you, Barnes? Seeing any ladies when I’m not around?” You wiggled your brows at him. He shook his head, laughing while you practically stuffed your face with a summer roll. He was glad you were comfortable around him, but that comfort also fed into his delusions he liked to keep to himself.

Plus, you were annoying. But he kind of liked annoying these days.

“Yeah, no. All I do is work, don’t have much time for a social life, sure as hell don’t have time for a romantic one at this point. Besides, I’m a bit old to be going back into the dating scene.” 

You scoffed at that. “Not true at all! Sure on paper you’re like a century old, but I mean c’mon you’re like what thirty-six? Thirty-seven? And I mean this in the most professional sense, you’re not exactly ugly or unattractive. Sure you’re mean, a politician, and have a history of being a war criminal! But we all have flaws!” 

He blinked several times, head tilting slightly while shutting his eyes and pinching his nose bridge while taking a deep sigh. “You’re a terrible relationship coach.”

You shrugged at that, biting into the second summer roll before pausing, food clearly stuffed into your right cheek like a hamster. “That’s why I’m in politics, duh.”

Then your phone was ringing, and Party in the U.S.A. was on full blast, earning several looks from people around you both. You sighed, putting your spoon down before grabbing the phone off of the table and answering while looking directly at Bucky who had a single brow raised.

“Sam, please tell me this isn’t a work related call.” You sighed, as you listened to Sam speak, running a hand through your now frizzy hair. Then, you placed the phone between your cheek and shoulder, digging through your bag in the empty chair beside you until you were able to pull out your planner. The same planner which several people made fun of you for using, stating that you needed to just use google calendar or some other app.

The apps never worked for you, so you stuck to pen and paper.

Then you were flipping it open to this week, eyes scanning the different hearings, meetings, press releases, and scattered notes. Brows knit together as you dug out a pen.

“So, it’s mandatory? Like this isn’t one of those ‘oh we wish we could’ve made an appearance, so sorry for missing the fundraiser’?” You let out another sigh at Sam’s response, now looking up at Bucky who was focused on drinking his water and attempting to read all of your scribbled notes upside down.

“This is way beyond short notice Sam, y’know one day can you just call to invite us to one of Sarah’s cookouts again? Or maybe a fishing trip? Hell, even saving the world would be better.” 

Bucky groaned as he finally registered that you were making note of a charity fundraiser event happening in two days.

“Okay Sam, yes I’m fine! Yes I’m safe! Wha-what?! Don’t ask me that oh my god! Goodbye Sam!” You quickly hung up, a bit flustered over Sam’s last question, and as much as Bucky wanted to ask what it was, you were already focused on the schedule. Sometimes you were like a robot, immediately switching into work mode, hyper fixated on a task until it was fully complete.

This was one of those instances, or at least, from his end, that’s how it seemed.

Meanwhile, you were just avoiding his gaze after Sam had asked if you and Bucky and finally ‘dealt with that sexual tension’. It wasn’t like you had sexual tension! He was just your very attractive boss that fit right into your typical archetype of men that you’d go after, plus he was older, which was an added bonus. 

But he was also stubborn as ever, mean, unprepared, unprofessional at times, and obnoxious when he wanted to be. 

Everyone has flaws, you just had to fixate on his to remind yourself that Bucky’s your boss not your potential husb—boyfriend. The first option would be too far fetched, even if Ms. Minh was your biggest supporter in the matter.

“Okay Barnes, turns out we have a mandatory charity fundraiser to attend this weekend, and since today’s Thursday, I’ve gotta book us some flights for tomorrow to be back in New York. Turns out it’s in Manhattan, and apparently it’s at the old Avengers tower, also known as your future home.” 

He sighed, shaking his head at the reminder of Valentina’s ‘New Avengers’ scheme. He would be finishing his term before being fully acclimated into the misfit group of ex-criminals. But when the two of you were in New York, or he was needed, he would show up with you in tow. By technicality, you were also a part of the rag tag group of anti-heroes.

“You mean our future home?” 

Something about the way he emphasized the word ‘our’ sent heat along your neck and cheeks. 

“Please, I’m not a damn Avenger. I’ll probably stay in the political sphere, even after your stint as a Rep is over.” 

He shook his head at that, a ‘tsk tsk tsk’ leaving his lips. “That’s what you think, you were there at the press conference a few months ago. Plus, we’re still going back and forth with Sam about the whole Avengers fiasco. Pretty sure he’s just gonna form one gigantic group eventually, sift out the nutcases and move from there.” 

You reached across the table, lightly smacking his arm. “Don’t talk about Bob like that!” 

He sighed, shrugging again. “You’re always quick to defend him y’know that? You don’t defend Walker—” 

You cut him off. “Yeah cause he’s an asshole! But Bob is really sweet! He’s just, like, super bipolar. Besides, he reminds me of my mom, y’know, before she went totally psycho after the blip.” 

You cleared your throat at the mention of your mother, it was a sore subject, one that was typically only brought up in therapy.

“But you need to stop calling him a nutcase! And that also applies to Alexei! He’s also super nice! A bit much at times? Yes, but he cares! Don’t be so mean to your team.” 

He raised a singular finger, pausing your rant. “Actually, you’re the only one on my team, literally and legally. But fine, you’re right I guess, I’ll be nicer to them. Even if they’re all in need of some serious court mandated therapy.” 

You smiled at that, now closing your planner and shoving it back into your purse.

“Good. Besides, not everyone gets to be like Sam and recruit a bunch of happy-go-lucky people who have aspired to be heroes their entire life. I mean Joaquin and Kate are always so happy, they’re like golden retrievers. Peter’s also pretty positive, granted he’s still grieving, but I’m glad he’s managed to see the good in people again. But Stephen Strange can count his days, next time I see him, I’m kicking his ass on principle—off the record.”

Bucky let you rant, it wasn’t necessarily an ‘in one ear, out the other’ situation, but you looked so pretty as you spoke, the sunlight beaming from outside highlighted the soft angles of your face, then the LED signs on the wall had small hues of color dancing along your features, and your smile was always so vibrant and full of life.

He was whipped.

Sam was completely right.

“I’m charging this to your card by the way, and I’m tipping the same as the bill. You can afford it.” With that you winked, now walking towards Ms. Minh who sat behind a small counter that blocked the entrance to the kitchen. 

The next day was a whirlwind for Bucky, he knew he had to travel today. He was used to the constant back and forth. It was his last year as a Representative, and because he represented Brooklyn, the both of you were always going back and forth between New York and D.C.

However, you were the one who always organized the travel plans, and usually you both avoided early morning flights because you didn’t live together, meaning you were likely to make it, and he wasn’t. At this rate he should’ve been used to the travel, but he wasn’t and you constantly reminded him that he was on thin ice.

Today he’d finally fallen into the frozen lake.

Yesterday at about seven thirty you’d sent him the flight details. You were set to take off at eight in the morning, meaning you had to be up around five and at the airport by six forty-five. That would’ve given the both of you enough time to actually make your flight, then head over to the tower early to help with preparations for the fundraiser, and to go over a few important details with Yelena about the impending galactic crisis, the same crisis that you’d gotten a plethora of information on from sitting through the Foreign Affairs committee meetings over the past two months.

Bucky woke up at eight forty-five with twenty-three missed calls, fifteen very angry text messages, and three even angrier emails. He tried to call you back, and you purposefully ignored the first two calls, finally answering on the third, thankful that you’d purchased the in-plane wifi as it gave you the opportunity to yell at him.

Then, you were texting him flight information for eleven in the morning, which led to him rushing to pack a bag, almost missing the pile of documents that you’d left on his kitchen island for him with a neon-pink sticky note on top that said ‘Take Me’, and rushing out of his townhouse.

He didn’t have time for a driver, so he opted for his motorcycle which he knew would piss you off once you found out. Especially because he also wasn’t in his typical suit and tie, no he was in his black jeans, a t-shirt, and his leather jacket. 

That would inevitably get him yelled at. He’d seen the schedule you emailed to him, specifically stating that the moment he got off of his flight, he needed to haul ass—your words not his—to the tower to be remotely present at a meeting regarding a potential impeachment hearing. It wasn’t his impeachment—thankfully.

Bucky would also probably have to deal with more press on the issue circulating who the ‘real Avengers’ were, which was also a previous major point of contention between him and Sam, to the point that Sam had threatened a full-on lawsuit, followed by a copyright of the ‘Avengers’ title itself.

But under your guidance, also known as you forcing him and Sam to sit down and talk things over like ‘real adults’, they were able to come to a temporary agreement solely based on the fact that the galactic threats, celestial island, and global terrorist movements were a bigger issue than who got to ‘play hero for the day’. Once again, your words not his.

To be fair, Bucky wouldn’t have missed his flight if you lived with him. But you were hellbent on not living in the same house as him, even if you were his assistant, you called it ‘highly inappropriate and fully unprofessional’. Which, in theory it was, but he didn’t really care about theory.

It made perfect sense to him, you were already always with him, what was moving in going to change? Or rather, what would moving in change, negatively.

Now, he had to figure out how to grovel for your forgiveness. He had a few ideas, but they were far from professionally appropriate. There’s that very obvious line that Bucky is well aware of, the line that he can’t cross, even if he’s constantly contemplating it.

He’d barely made it to the airport on time, and he’d paid extra to park his motorcycle, which pissed him off. Then he was practically sprinting through the airport to make his flight, which he somehow managed to board at the last possible minute.

By the time he landed in New York, you were already ready to curse him out. Now standing in the airport outside of his gate, arms crossed in front of your chest, foot tapping against the tiled floors while you stared directly at the crowd leaving the flight.

He spotted you before you spotted him. He knew he was in deep shit based on the way your jaw was clenched and your usually pristine hair was thrown into a hairclip, loose strands framing your face, frizzy bits and pieces sticking out of the clip, and you weren’t in your heels.Instead you had on a pair of flats. 

Flats were never a good sign. 

Plus you ditched the pencil skirt for pants, and a black blouse. 

“Listen, Sweetheart, I’m sorry—” 

You easily cut him off, immediately shushing him and taking a deep breath. “Let’s go before I cuss you out and lose my goddamn job.” 

He slowly nodded at your cold demeanor.

This was different.

You walked ahead of him, he wasn’t used to that. Usually you kept the same pace, but not today, not when you were in your angry flats and exhausted outfit. 

It wasn’t until the both of you were in a cab that you finally broke.

“Are you freaking kidding me, Barnes?! Can you not piss me off for one day? One day! It’s not like I asked something major, I sent you the flight last night at seven! You had more than enough time to set a damn alarm! And why the hell aren’t you in a suit?! Did you miss the fact that the millisecond we get back, you need to be present as a Congressman?! Not as yourself—” you took a deep breath, looking up at the roof of the car as you shook your head.

You looked over at him, and he finally noticed how stressed you really looked, his eyes trailing your fatigued features. This job was difficult, he knew that, but something else was clearly bothering you.

“I get it. You’re tired, your job is hard, okay fine. But Jesus Christ. You just act like shit doesn’t matter, and fuck—it fucking matters. Everything fucking matters, Buck—” 

His right hand was on the side of your face, pulling you closer to him as he leaned forward to kiss you. 

It took you a few seconds to process the fact that James Buchanan Barnes was kissing you. The same James Barnes that was your boss who you were incredibly irritated with. But you didn’t pull away, no, you kissed him back.

Your lips moved in sync, and for a second you let yourself slip into a land of delusion where this would work. But this was real life, and you were not about to risk everything you’d worked hard for to screw your boss. So you shoved him off of you.

“What the fuck!?” 

He stared at you, lips slightly parted as his gaze was focused on your lips for a few more seconds. You tasted like strawberry chapstick and mint. Then his eyes met yours.

“Uh, something came over me, I guess?” his nonchalance made your eye twitch. Then you were shoving a folder full of paperwork into his chest.

“Focus on that or something, Jesus. Once again, I’m your assistant and that just crossed so many boundaries it’s not even funny. It was a mistake, plain and simple, we’re not circling back to this ever again, got it?” 

He slowly nodded at you, taking the leather-bound folder from you while rolling his lips inward.

The rest of the ride was silent. It wasn’t your typical comfortable silence, it was tense and awkward and you did your best to not look at him. Your gaze focused on the moving traffic in the streets and anything that wasn’t James Barnes. 

“So, are you gonna tell me what’s wrong? Outside of your never-ending rage about my morning fuck ups—” 

You gasped slightly at the sound of him cursing. You knew he swore, but neither of you ever moved past words like ‘hell’ or ‘damn’ with one another, now you were both diving off of the deep end of cursing and kissing. This couldn’t possibly end well.

“Nothings wrong. I’m just tired.” 

He shrugged, flipping a few pages in hand, focused on the briefing notes that you’d reorganized. “No, something is definitely wrong, you have on one of your ‘having a bad day’ outfits. Down to the shoes.” 

You sighed, slumping into the seat with your arms crossed again. Eyes now on the street ahead. “My mom called.” 

He looked at you, noticing the way you were picking at the skin and cuticles around your thumb. It made sense, sure he knew you had a lot of pent up rage that was specifically reserved for him, but he was used to that, this was different. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shrugged. “Not much to talk about. She’s having one of her ‘high on life’ phases again. Told me she’s off the pills. Won’t take them.” 

He nodded, he knew you had issues with your mom, but he also knew you really cared about her, even if you had an odd way of showing that. Not everyone was raised with ‘I love yous’. “Y’know you can always take time off to go see her, the worlds not gonna end.” 

You shook your head at that, gaze now on your hands. “I’m not putting myself through that again. You can’t save everyone, I’ve learned to accept that. Guess it makes me as depressed as the rest of the Thunderbolts, hmm?” You tried to crack a joke, but your usual laugh and silly expression was missing. He placed a hand on your knee, giving it a gentle reassuring squeeze.

The rest of the ride was quiet. Once the two of you had arrived at the Avengers tower you were back in ‘work mode’ rushing Bucky into the building, rolling your eyes at some of the half-assed security measures on the first floor. More specifically the DNA based retina scan you were required to do in order to gain access to the higher levels where everyone lived.

You rushed him into a conference room, muttering a series of curse words that would for sure get you blackballed from politics if they were ever heard aloud. Especially in the context of cursing out other politicians.

Then, you were forcing Bucky into a seat, rolling your eyes at the sight of his appearance, sure he looked good in the leather jacket and fitted t-shirt, but that was the least professional thing he could’ve put on. You wanted to smack him with a book.

You didn’t need to be present for the impeachment proposal, so you gave yourself the hour to breathe. An hour of alone time, spent on the rooftop with your legs hanging over the edge, shoes already off and sitting to your side. At first you opted to put your earbuds in, listening to music as you glanced along the skyline, gaze moving across Manhattan, then you took them out.

Finding comfort in chaos was normal for you. It was easy. It’s the entire reason that you worked so well with the Flag Smashers in the first place—you were the brains they needed, and they were constantly on the move, constantly doing something. They never stood still.

Then, of course, they’d injected you with a super soldier serum against your will, but that was neither here nor there. Some days you missed working with organizations like that,they were fundamentally righteous and overzealous, but the people had passion, they cared. They had a problem and wanted to create their own solution, even if it was extreme.

You’d always wanted to do that, find solutions to the problems in the world. It made slipping into politics easier, especially at Sam’s side, and now at Bucky’s. 

But Bucky Barnes knew how to tick you off. 

Yet even on your shittiest days, he still managed to make you smile. Your fingers gently grazed your lips, as if they could feel the ghost of his against them. 

It was morally wrong for you to want to kiss your boss. Just like it was wrong to want to run your fingers through his hair, to trace his jawline, to feel his back muscles, and to imagine what it would be like to sleep with him beyond the realm of cuddling. Bucky kissing you was like opening Pandora’s box. 

You knew you were attracted to him, and he gave you butterflies from time to time, but now as you thought about him, you were thinking about more than just a simple kiss. 

The sound of your phone’s timer going off caught your attention, knocking you out of your sex-filled thoughts as you got up and slid your shoes back on. 

Once you made it back to the briefing room, he was no longer there, so you opted to look for him without screaming like a maniac. You’d run into Bob, Yelena, and Ava before finally finding him in one of the larger common spaces, now looking at his newest Winter Soldier tactical suit as it was laid out across a table.

“What, you wanna play dress up now?” 

He turned to look at you, shaking his head at the question. “Meeting went well, they asked me one question. I said yes to the trial.” 

You shook your head, cracking a small smile. One of the Texas representatives was going on trial for misconduct and for going against the constitution, he deserved to be impeached in your eyes, and after reading your very irritated notes on the matter, Bucky agreed with you.

“So, care to explain why you’ve got your gear?” 

He shrugged, now looking back at the black suit. “Well, turns out, I’m hanging up the mantle until my term is officially over. Talked it over with Yelena while you were decompressing. Besides, they seem to be doing alright without me all the time.” 

You slowly nodded, brows knit together as you moved to stand beside him, now looking at his suit as well. “That's it then? What if you end up severely out of shape and can’t run a mile?” 

He blinked a few times, shaking his head at the joke, then he lightly elbowed you. “Then I’ll have you to yell at me. Besides, I've already put on some weight.” 

You scoffed at that, responding without even thinking about it. “Barnes, you’ve got the dad bod that makes ovulating women foam out of their mouths. You’ve got that muscular frame that would keep someone warm at night.”

Your eyes widened when you looked up at him, he looked taken aback, lips slightly parted while he processed what you said. Then you had to process what you’d said as well.

“For the record, I mean that in a totally platonic, hype-woman kind of way. Oh and here—I found these, figured you might want them back.” 

He watched as you dug in your pocket, pulling out a thin silver chain, then he noticed the silver tags on them.

You held the necklace up, his military dog tags hanging from it. “Sergeant Barnes, you really should keep an eye on your things. They were in one of my purses. Honestly, not gonna lie, I had them on walking through TSA so I didn’t lose them.” 

He nodded at that, biting his bottom lip at the thought of you in his dog tags with nothing else on.

Then you snapped with your free hand. “Hello? Earth to Barnes? Take your tags. I don’t even know why I had them in the first place. Considering you almost never take them off.” 

He blinked a few times, shaking his head before running his hand through his hair. That brought your eyes to his hair, sure you’d made fun of the mid-length long hair a few times, but with the way his hair was parted down the middle, a bit voluminous, and managed to frame his face perfectly, he looked like prince charming.

If Prince Charming was a half-decent Congressman and former war criminal that managed to irritate you every twenty-seven minutes. 

“Keep them for me.” 

You raised a single brow at that, glancing between the dangling chain in hand and him.“Am I your closet or something?” 

He scoffed at that, shaking his head while placing his hands on his hips, the motion drawing your attention directly to his waist. It was a terrible thing to focus on, not because he was unattractive, but because it reminded you of every inappropriate thought and fantasy that had surfaced on the rooftop earlier.

“No, but consider them a good luck charm, besides, if I had taken them off and left them with you, clearly I trusted you with them. I’d be a liar if I said I remember the exact day that I left them, but I had to have a reason. Now c’mere—” he paused, gently taking the chain from you before facing you fully. 

He took a second to look down at you as you turned to face him. Then, he was slipping the necklace onto you, taking a moment to properly adjust the tags once they were dangling against your chest, the motion making you blush as his hand brushed against your clothed chest.

God, you felt like a bumbling virgin. 

This was his fault, all of it was his fault. If he hadn’t kissed you in the car none of this would be happening, you would’ve been able to keep any and all sexual thoughts about him locked in the deepest pits of your mind. Nothing would’ve changed, or shifted.

Hell, you weren’t even sure if something had shifted or if you were overthinking everything.

You made eye contact with him, getting lost in the ocean blue of his irises.The moment was intimate, too intimate. His tongue grazed his bottom lip as he held eye contact with you, a storm of emotions flowing through his eyes and wrecking his entire being.

Part of him wanted to kiss you again, the other part was afraid that if he did kiss you, you’d up and quit your job.

Bucky knew he needed you in his life. Not just because you helped elevate his political career in every sense, but because you kept him in check. You weren’t just his assistant, you were his friend, and even if he hated to admit it sometimes, he really did appreciate everything that you’d done for him.

The moment was interrupted by a door slamming, both of you jumping apart as you looked towards the far end of the room, Alexei walking in with Yelena in tow, the both arguing over her childhood soccer team’s sponsor once again. When they spotted how close you and Bucky were, they both paused, sharing a look before turning around and leaving the room.

You cleared your throat, glancing down at your watch. 

“I have to uh—shit sorry. I’m a little all over the place today, but I have to make a personal call. You don’t have much else to do today, there’s a few emails I need you to respond to though, and I forwarded you a request for a congressional scholarship. The kid lives in your old neighborhood in Brooklyn, and honestly, it’s a pretty convincing piece. I need your approval before moving forward in that process, lots of paperwork involved.”

You paused, pulling your phone out of your right pocket, glancing down at the screen while reading several text messages and a few subject lines from several emails forwarded to you.

“Turns out I have more than a few emails I need you to read. Oh, and I need to type up an outline for a briefing about the whole space war thing. I’ll forward everything over to you, and can you please,for the love of Christ himself, make sure to actually docusign the pdfs I send? Without your signature there’s no legality.” 

He shook his head, a small smile on his face as he watched you slip right back into ‘work mode’. It was all so natural for you, and your seriousness was adorable. 

“Are you even listening? I need to go call Sam and find out when he’s flying in. He should be here tonight, hopefully sooner than later. Also, Valentina’s been pissing Yelena off with her lawyers. I’ll be dealing with that fiasco today, honestly I’m probably just gonna threaten to blackmail them, works every time.”

“You talk a mile a minute.” 

You raised a brow at him, now looking back at him, slipping your phone back into your pocket. 

“You’re already on thin ice today, Barnes. Don’t start irritating me again. Oh and Mel wants to talk to you.” 

He noticed the shift in your tone at the mention of Valentina’s assistant. If he wasn’t so unsure of his feelings towards you, he would’ve been able to easily identify the jealousy in your voice. But, he was too busy internally debating whether or not kissing you again was a bad idea and simultaneously debating on resigning from his position as a Congressman.

Things would surely be a lot less stressful. 

Then again, you’d probably incinerate him.

“What’s she want to talk about exactly?” 

You simply shrugged, arms crossed in front of your chest as you tried to remain neutral. “I dunno, maybe call her back and find out, since she won’t tell me directly. She’ll only send me passive aggressive emails and texts about needing to reach you. I don’t even know who the hell gave her my number.”

Your irritation was seeping through, so instead of staying on the subject of Melissa Gold you chose to turn around, heading towards the doors, ready to head to your temporary bedroom (which Yelena said would be your permanent room once you settled into the tower) and work. 

He watched you walk away, eyes trialing your figure, stopping on your ass. Even in the wrinkled slacks it still looked good. Bucky’s head even tilted to the side a bit as your hips moved back and forth, 

“Call me if you need me, Barnes.”You hadn’t even turned back to look at him, then you were gone and he was still staring. 

Sam Wilson arrived at the Avenger’s tower at almost two in the morning. 

Naturally, you were still awake, sitting in an empty living room area.The only light in the room streaming in from the large floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Manhattan’s night-life. The room had a deep blue-ish purple hue to it, a few small golden lights shimmering around, emphasizing items that were plugged in or left out. 

Then there was your laptop screen that illuminated your features as you angrily typed up all of your unorganized committee notes into streamlined documents,not only your boss, but for the rest of his and Sam’s team. 

You recognized the footsteps in the room, three distinct sets, one lighter than the others—Kate’s, one with a bit of a wider stance and a slight sway as if their feet weren’t firmly planted on the floor—Joaquin’s, and finally, one that was louder, steps heavier—Sam’s. 

They hadn’t noticed you at first, not until the lights were turned on. Thankfully they were dim, not the typical bright fluorescents that would have driven you into a state of rage. Then the three of them saw you, seated on the large black sectional, a green knit blanket wrapped around your figure as your computer rested in your lap and one of the side tables had been pulled to your side, covered in files, paperwork, and pens. 

“Jesus kid, late night?” 

You sighed, nodding your head, not even bothering to turn and face Sam.“Working for the U.S. government is exhausting in an inexplicable way. But I’m glad you guys got in safe.”

Sam nodded at that “I’m gonna hit the hay, we’ll debrief in the morning? Actually, maybe in the afternoon. Gives you some time to sleep, I know you’ll be up for a while. Don’t worry about Buck either.”

You finally turned to look at him, a small smile on your face while you nodded at that. “I’d get up to hug you but I’m finally comfortable.” 

Kate laughed at that, moving to the couch, leaning over the back of it, wrapping her arms around your shoulders in a warm embrace. “I missed you! We’ll catch up tomorrow or the day after! But I gotta go find Yel. Pretty sure she waited up for me.” 

You used your right arm to hug her back.“Yeah, she’s on the eighth floor, go down the corridor, last door to the left. She’s most definitely waiting on you, earlier today she was talking Bob’s ear off about you, Bishop.” You both laughed at that, then she kissed the top of your head, a dramatic ‘mwah’ leaving her lips as she gathered her things and left the room.

Sam followed suit, saying his ‘goodnight’s’. It made you contemplate packing things up and trying to head back to sleep.

Truthfully, you’d fallen asleep at around seven, a distinct lack of sleep the night before causing you to crash. But of course, you weren’t able to sleep peacefully through the night, rather you jolted awake in a cold sweat at 11:23pm, eyes wide as you processed the very explicit dream about Bucky. Not only was it explicit, but it left a noticeable damp spot in your panties.

That pissed you off.

The cold shower that followed also ticked you off.

You wanted to stay in your room, however it was too hot in there, and you couldn’t figure out how to work the air conditioner, which led to you migrating to one of the living room-esque common spaces on the floor that held several guestrooms.

It was always cold.

“Well hello to you too!” Joaquin smiled as he rounded the couch, opting to sit right beside you, leaning into your space while he looked at the laptop screen, brows raised at the side-by-side page display showcasing a numerical outline with different bolded headings, subheadings, and specific details regarding each categorized issue. 

“Damn, sometimes I forget how smart you are.” 

You yawned while nodding. “This is literally my own personal hell. I hate organizing my notes, but I can’t just force everyone to read my scribbles. I only force Buck to do that.”

He elbowed you, earning your attention as he wiggled his eyebrows up and down, signature smirk on his face. “So…you call him Buck now I see?” 

You groaned, lightly shoving Joaquin. “Don’t even start! He’s my boss! That’s it.” You felt the heat in your cheeks as you attempted to lie to Joaquin. It didn’t help that the man was one of your closest friends, and could see right through you. He was quick to scoff, lightly elbowing you again, over and over.

“Yeah right, just your boss my ass! That’s like when I said my physical therapist was just my therapist. You’re full of shit and you know it!” 

You sighed, saving the document you were working on before shutting the laptop, placing it on the table in front of you, s.hoving him away to get comfortable again, you now face Joaquin with your legs criss-crossed on the large sofa cushion. “That is not the same thing!”

He nodded his head, scooting back some to face you, the positioning very familiar to you both. When you first started working with Sam, Joaquin had welcomed you with open arms. He hadn’t judged you, not after hearing your story, and after witnessing your peaceful surrender. Well, it was somewhat peaceful, you’d fought Bucky first, eventually managing to take him down—but that wasn’t important.

It was easy to bond with Joaquin, mainly because he never stopped talking. He’d easily gone from being just your co-worker to your friend, and now one of your best friends.

“Uh yes it is, we literally went back and forth for like years. Pretty sure I fell in love with her the moment I laid my eyes on her, then had to do the whole ‘this is strictly professional’ thing forever. Bullshited reasons to be around her, fought with her constantly, but in the end she was right—still is right most of the time, and we’re completely and utterly in love. Plus the sex is great? Wait—have you and him hooked up yet?” 

Your jaw dropped, eyes wide as shock painted your features. Then you were leaning towards him, smacking him on the bicep a few times.“Hell no! Once again he’s my literal boss. What the hell is wrong with you?!” 

Joaquin raised a single brow at that. “So something did happen. Your left eye twitched a little! What aren’t you telling me? Wait, are you still jealous of that other assistant that he talks to sometimes?”

You smacked him again.“Joaquin Torres, keep your freaking voice down! Jesus! And no I’m not jealous of Mel. What’s there to be jealous of?!” You were being too defensive, and your voice had gone up an octave.

“Stop bullshitting me! You’re so into him and you hate how caring he sounds when he talks to her, or do I need to pull the series of spam texts you sent me telling me how much you hated her and hated him. Or the drunken voicemail?” He held his phone up, staring at you while your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.“Now, tell me what happened between the both of you!”

You sighed, nodding your head, running a hand over your face before giving in and divulging him on everything that had gone on in the past forty-eight hours. Even letting him know about the car kiss, followed by the sexual tension that you knew was obvious, and finally, the most embarrassing detail being your wet dream about him.

Of course you didn’t go into detail about the dream.

“Damn, you’re more whipped than I am, and I’m in an actual relationship.” That earned another smack. “Hey! Okay, shit! Stop hitting me woman! Wait—what’s that—” he pointed to his neck, then to yours.

Your eyes widened as you reached a hand up, the blanket had fallen off of one of your shoulders, exposing the loose U Miami crewneck that you had on, except you’d cut the neckline so it sat off of your shoulder. It hadn’t occurred to you that you still had Bucky’s dog tags on. Then you felt around your neck and upper chest, hands finally grasping the tags.

“No way in hell he gave you those and you’re ‘strictly professional’.” He spoke with air quotations while watching you grasp the tags in one hand. “Yeah, that’s definitely your man, are you kidding me? The only person I’d ever trust with my tags is my girl. Here's some advice though, when you two finally go at it, and you’re on top of him make sure they’re in his fac-” 

He was hit in the face by a throw pillow. 

The two of you spent the next hour and a half talking. Joaquin kept trying to convince you that you were clearly in love with Bucky and vice versa. Meanwhile, you argued the entire time, and tried to turn the subject towards anything else.Eventually, the both of you settled on his current relationship, and it was nice to see him gush over his physical therapist turned girlfriend. 

You even told him that you were proud he’d managed to find someone who loved that he never shut up, the two of you in a fit of laughter after that.

The next afternoon had passed by fairly quickly, mostly because you were extremely busy.

You’d barely seen Bucky, only speaking with him during your debrief on the current galactic issues, but that hour and a half was mostly focused on answering Yelena and Sam’s questions based on the information provided by the U.S. government.

Sure, some of it was technically top secret, but you all technically were employed by the government, and did also hold the security clearance to know about the ongoing monitoring. 

He wasn’t in a suit again and you weren’t in your heels. Actually, you’d foregone any professional attire. It was a rare sight for everyone to see you in a t-shirt and sweats, not to mention the white fuzzy slippers. Your hair was pulled into two braids and you lacked any makeup, even wearing your prescription glasses that you usually left at home.

Bucky didn’t focus on a single thing you said during the briefing. His gaze was fixated on you and all he could think about was how comfortable and casual you looked, and that flooded his mind with domestic fantasies about you. Said fantasies almost spiraled into the thought of you with a ring on your left hand, a round belly, and a baby on your hip with eyes as blue as the clear sky.

He had to snap himself out of it several times. The fantasy was just that, a fantasy. You were still his assistant, and you’d already made it plenty clear that you were not interested in any semblance of a romantic relationship with him. Things were strictly professional, and once his term was over, you’d go your separate ways.

You’d practically sprinted out of the conference room once the hour and a half had passed, and he knew you were supposed to be helping in preparations for the fundraiser with Sam and Joaquin. He didn’t care that you and Joaquin were ‘just friends’, the thought of you spending your time with him irritated Bucky in ways he couldn’t comprehend.

By the time the fundraiser itself was starting, you were nowhere to be found and he was stuck making small talk with local politicians. Most of what they discussed surrounded Bucky’s future plans once the term had settled, he’d made a few comments about running for re-election and being an Avenger, stating that it might clash, doing his best to warm people up to the idea of him having to choose one over the other.

It was an obvious choice for him.

Well obvious outside of the fact that if he chose to be an Avenger, he might lose you, but then again, you were also technically an Avenger, whether you liked it or not. You’d been there that day in Manhattan, you were in the void, and you were at the conference, standing right beside him.

Then Mel had finally tracked him down, pulling him into a more secluded area, showing him a series of top-secret footage that Valentina had been trying to fully erase regarding the Sentry project. She was giving him useful information that would not only help Bob better understand who and what he was, but information that could be leveraged over Valentina if needed.

It was classic blackmail, something that you often shrugged off. It wasn’t that you were blackmailing people all the time, but you said it was part of politics, and he fully allowed you to do whatever you wanted. He trusted you to make the right decisions for both of your careers, and time and time again, you did.

“Oh, hey Y/n, you look beautiful tonight!” Mel’s chipper voice irritated you. 

You’d stumbled across them accidentally. You’d been looking for Sam, and instead you managed to find Mel and Bucky, leaning close together, in a quiet dimly lit area. You could clearly see the phone in her hand that she was showing to him, but she was too close to Bucky.

He turned away from Mel, gaze now on you, his brows raised a bit while his lips parted, eyes practically burning a hole into you while he took in every inch of your appearance from head to toe.

Your hair was voluminous and clearly curled, the now loose-waves framing your face perfectly and cascading along your shoulders and back. Your makeup was minimal, almost identical to your typical look, except your lips were a deep crimson and your waterline was emphasized with a black smoked-out eyeshadow look (courtesy of Yelena).

He bit his bottom lip while taking in your dress, the black silk practically hugging all of your curves perfectly. The swoop neckline leaving little to the imagination, and you had on his dog tags, the lengthy chain disappearing into your obvious cleavage, tags clearly in the valley between your tits.

You had on your heels again, black pointed toe stilettos with some golden designer logo for the heel. He didn’t care about the designers, all Bucky cared about in this exact moment was controlling himself. If Mel hadn’t been there he would’ve had you pinned against the wall with his lips on yours already. 

“Thanks Mel. Barnes, I’ve been looking for you” 

He slowly nodded, unsure of what to say, too focused on what not to say.

You were quick to grab Bucky’s forearm, pulling him in your direction before offering Mel a forced smile. “Mind if I borrow him? Got a few things to go over.” She nodded, giving you a tight lipped smile as you made eye contact. Then, you were dragging Bucky away from her, rolling your eyes the second you knew she couldn’t see you anymore.

“So what exactly do we need to talk about?” 

You shrugged at the question, finally letting go of his arm, then facing him.“Some district court judge told me that you’re debating on running for re-election and fully committing to the Avengers? The hell is that about?” 

You honestly didn’t care, but it was the easiest thing to come up with.

He wondered if you were jealous, but maybe he was reading too much into the situation. Usually you’d know that he was bullshitting, most of your job involved calling him on his bullshit, there was no way in hell Bucky was running for re-election.

“Gotta warm them up to the idea, you’re always saying it’s important to ease people into dramatic changes aren’t you?” he put his hands in his pants pockets, raising his brows while he waited on a response. 

“Okay…that’s actually a good point. I dunno, I just had to double check that with you. Sorry for pulling you away from Mel, feel free to go talk with her.” Then you spun around, heading in the opposite direction. 

Bucky knew you were jealous. That confirmed it. He wasn’t losing it, you were one hundred percent jealous of Mel and he had no idea why, anyone with a pair of eyes would know that he wasn’t remotely interested in the woman romantically. 

Sure Mel was pretty, but she wasn’t you. 

The open bar was a bad idea.

Two hours had passed since then, and you’d managed to do all of your networking within the first half hour. Kate and Yelena had peer pressured you into getting a drink, and one drink quickly turned into two, then three, then Joaquin was bringing you a drink, and it spiraled from there.

It took a lot to get you drunk. The whole ‘super soldier serum’ issue made your metabolism much, much faster. At the rate that you were drinking, any normal person would’ve needed their stomach pumped at the emergency room. But you weren’t a normal person, not anymore at least.

You were one hundred percent drunk. There wasn’t any debate on the matter.

Which led you to being a lot friendlier than usual, laughing and flirting with other guests, a playful aura to you while you mixed and mingled with everyone.

It wasn’t until you were laughing with Joaquin, head leaning against his shoulder while you sat near the bar, talking about his girlfriend, that Bucky had finally found you.

He knew that you were networking, what he didn’t know was that you’d been drinking. 

Then again, he’d also been drinking, and the typical spark of jealousy he felt when you mentioned Joaquin was now a raging forest fire as he took in the sight of you leaning into Joaquin, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, both of you smiling and laughing at something that Kate had said. 

Joaquin nudged you a bit, earning your full attention, a hazy smile on your face while you moved to look at him. His brows were knit together as he tried to look serious.“Your boyfriend is staring us down.” 

You blinked a few times, now glancing across the room, eyes scanning the crowd of people, only to land on Bucky who held a champagne glass in-hand while he stood in a group of four men, all of them clearly in a conversation. Except now his attention was fully on you, holding eye contact.

“Please, if he was my boyfriend we’d be having freaky sex all the time.” You both bursted into another fit of laughter, your gaze now on Joaquin, then on Kate who looked absolutely shocked.

“Wait?! What! You and Bucky?!” 

You shrugged, then shook your head at her. “There is no me and Bucky! He’s my boss who’s bones I can’t jump!” 

She laughed at that, shaking her head while sipping her long island.“Why can’t you do that again? I know he’s like technically your boss, but that man wants you girl, like, he’s always eye-fucking you. I think he’s eye-fucking you now not gonna lie.” She looked over at him, and you mirrored her.

His eyes met yours again. He didn’t care what you were talking about, nor did he care what the men around him were speaking about. The topic having gone in one ear and out of the other. 

Bucky Barnes’ sole focus was now on you.

You and that black satin dress that would look so much better on the floor.

You who sat smiling and laughing with Joaquin Torres. 

Bucky was beyond jealous, the liquor flowing through his veins easily letting his composure slip. He swore that if he watched you lean any closer to Joaquin that he’d storm over there and throw you over his shoulder.

Then you did just that, laughing again and rolling your head forward a bit, forehead resting in the crook of Joaquin’s neck while your body shook with laughter.

Bucky easily excused himself, mumbling something about having to speak with his assistant, which earned a few wolf whistles when the men noticed you across the room. Specifically, they noticed the way you sat up now, two hands on the front of your dress, grasping the fabric and adjusting it slightly-your very present cleavage now a bit more tamed.

It had taken him exactly forty-five seconds to get to you.

Joaquin noticed him first, slipping his arm away from you, offering Bucky a tight-lipped smile.

Then you made eye contact with Bucky again, his typical icey-blue eyes were a few shades darker, pupils a bit dilated while he looked directly at you.

“So, you’ve been drinking on the job I see?” His tone was laced in venom, your brows knit together at the harshness of it, sitting up a bit straighter, glancing at Kate, then Joaquin, just to make sure you weren’t losing your mind. They both gave a subtle nod, then you were standing up and grabbing Bucky’s right arm, pulling him with you.

He let you guide him, then you two were in a crowded hallway, taking a left turn, then a right, then finding the elevator that would lead you directly to your designated floor.

“What’s your problem, Barnes?” 

He scoffed at that.“Let’s see, my assistants drunk, not working. I’d say that’s enough of a reason to be irritated.” 

You blinked a few times, looking around as if you were on the Truman show, or maybe this was an episode of Punk’d and Ashton Kutcher would jump out at you.“Everyone’s drunk, what's the issue? It’s a charity fundraiser, we raised like ten million tonight. Can I not celebrate?! I’ve done my job for the night, I just want to spend the rest of it as me—not your fucking assistant.” 

You were getting loud now, angrily pressing the elevator button, a surprised gasp when the doors immediately opened. Then without any hesitation you walked right in, leaving him in the hallway. 

Bucky wasn’t having it, not tonight.

He followed right behind you. “You’ve never had an issue with being my fucking assistant before. It’s always about professionalism with you! Boundaries and shit like that!” 

You rolled your eyes again, hitting the button for your floor while shaking your head.“Because professionalism is important! We all can’t be you, Bucky! Not all of us can be America’s fucking sweetheart!” You didn’t even look at him as you shouted, gaze focused on the small digital screen above the elevator doors, the red numbers switching as the elevator ascended into the higher levels of the tower.

Then it stopped on your floor, and you were shoving past him, shoulder checking him while storming towards your room.

“Seriously?! That’s it, just gonna run away? What, suddenly all that bullshit about communication doesn’t matter?!” He ran a hand through his hair as he yelled after you, hot on your heels.

You turned on your heel, brows knit together as you stared at him, only a few feet from your room.“What the hell is the real reason you’re being a massive asshole tonight?! I know it’s not because I’ve been drinking. I’m a grown ass woman, Bucky! I’m not some little kid you get to yell at and fucking criticize and treat like shit! Or like a personal punching ba-” 

His lips were on yours. You hadn’t registered how close he actually was to you. He had a hand on your forearm, pulling you flush against his chest as he collided his lips against yours. 

Your hands were immediately on him, one hand grasping his suit, the other in his hair.

Then he was backing you up into the wall, his left hand on your jaw—holding you in place. You whimpered at the feeling, not because it bothered you, but because his vibranium hand was cold, a shock against your warm flushed skin. Bucky’s lips led yours, his head slightly tilting, giving himself the opportunity to get even closer to you, his hair brushing against your face.

His lips were soft, he tasted like champagne and mint with a hint of tobacco. 

It was almost soothing, but it also made you feel hazy.

Instead of asking for entrance, he pressed his thumb against your chin below your bottom lip, applying minimal pressure as he tugged in a downward motion. 

You easily parted your lips, letting him slip his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss while he swallowed your soft whimpers. 

It didn’t help that one of his thighs was directly between yours, pinning you against the wall. He felt your thighs clench around his, pulling back slightly, heavy breaths hitting your parted lips.

“Tell me to stop and I will—I swear.” He brushed his thumb along your bottom lip, thankful that the Wakandan technology in his arm and shoulder actually allowed him to have a sense of feeling. It hadn’t mattered to him before this moment, watching as you looked up at him, feeling your soft, swollen, and spit-slick lip. 

“What if I don’t want you to stop,” your words were quiet while you looked at him, hand grasping against his suit even tighter. The hand that had been in his hair now slowly grazing against his cheek, fingers moving to his jawline, tracing the sharp ridges before sliding down his throat.

“Y’can’t say shit like that to me Sweetheart—makes me think you care.” He let out a deep sigh, eyes moving from yours down to your lips again.

“James, I do care.” You’d said his name so tenderly, so lovingly. Then you leaned into him, now kissing him first, and that was all the confirmation he needed.

Both of his hands now on your waist, your bodies flush against one another while your lips move in sync. The kiss should’ve been angrier, should’ve had more teeth, but it was surprisingly soft, sweet, and even slow. He kissed you with passion and hunger, as if he wanted to leave the imprint of his lips against yours. 

You grinding yourself against his thigh had the both of you breaking apart, gasping for air, then he took a singular step back, doing a short half-squat, hands on the backs of your thighs before he scooped you up, holding you against his waist, lips back on yours as you locked your legs around his waist, hands in his hair.

The next few minutes involved more kissing and fumbling through your bedroom door. He kicked it shut before pressing you against it, lips moving from your own, to your jaw, planting open-mouthed wet kisses along your soft skin. 

Your entire body was on fire, and truthfully, you’d never been hornier. 

“Buck—as much as I want to go slow with you—I need you to fuck me.”

He laughed against your skin, teeth nipping a mark in the crook of your neck, earning a whimper. Then he licked a flat stripe along your pulse point, making you shiver.

“You’re always so mean and demanding, now you’re needy? C’mon, Sweetheart, you’ve gotta throw an old dog a bone.” His tone was so flirty, voice gruff and deep as he spoke between kisses. His hands sliding from your upper thighs to your ass, using his lower body to help stabilize you.

Then he was moving one hand, slipping it between your legs, below your bunched up gown. His rough fingertips moved against your inner thighs as he sucked on your pulsepoint. Then his fingers paused, lightly brushing against your clothed core, the motion making you whine, your hands tugging on his hair while he remained still.

“Ask nicely, baby.” He smirked against your skin.

You groaned, now looking at him, tugging harshly on his hair, practically ripping him away from your throat so you could look at him. Holding eye contact as you spoke. “Please fuck me, with your fingers, your tongue, your cock—I don’t give a shit—just please fucking fuck me.” 

He bit his bottom lip, still smirking at your request, then his fingers were gliding along the damp fabric of your panties, up and down—over and over again. Bucky was clearly teasing you, and it was driving you insane. But he caved when you moaned his name—not Bucky—no you moaned a low pitched ‘James-please’.

Bucky didn’t let anyone call him James, you were the only one that had ever really used his first name and usually it was on rare occasions, but clearly the liquid confidence and horniness brought out a different side of you. 

His hand slipped below your panties, finding your slick folds, two thick fingers teasing you, sliding along your cunt, spreading your wetness from your sopping hole to your sensitive clit, then back down again. The sounds of your moans were music to his ears, that in combination with your hands tugging at his hair and your hips grinding against his hand was sending him into overdrive.

Eventually he stopped teasing you, lips back on your own, swallowing your moans while his fingers rapidly fucked into you, two thick digits stretching you perfectly, the feeling had your toes curling, one of your heels already on the floor behind him. It wasn’t long until you were kicking the other one off as well.

You were rolling your hips into his hand, whimpering his name like a prayer while his fingers curled inside of you, reaching the spot that usually made you see stars. A spot that you could never quite hit on your own, meanwhile it took Bucky little to no effort to get to it. 

“Just like that Sweetheart, c’mon give it to me, I deserve it.” His voice was deeper than usual as he spoke.

You nodded desperately, back arching while your head leaned against the wall, loudly whining as your orgasm crashed through your body, all of your nerve endings practically on fire.

“That’s it baby, gonna have you creaming on my cock next.” He went back to kissing along your throat and any exposed skin he had access to, fingers still fucking into you, prolonging your orgasm and ushering in a wave of oversensitivity.

“Fuck me, please,” your breathy words were quieter than usual as you looked at him, one hand toying with the hair closest to the base of his neck, the other gripping his suit again. 

Bucky didn’t need to be told twice, in seconds you were laying flat on your bed as he unbuttoned his jacket, tossing it aside, then undid the buttons of his shirt. Your stare was driving him mad.

Then you were sitting up, now standing right in front of him, taking a moment to appreciate your height difference before shoving him onto the bed. He looked shocked at the motion, blinking a few times as he watched you slip out of the dress, the black fabric now nothing more than a pile at your feet. 

His eyes trailed your figure, practically memorizing every single detail of your bare body. 

The moment was much more intimate than either of you had expected.

Well, until you were practically climbing on top of him, straddling his waist and pulling him into a sloppy drunk kiss. This time it was all teeth and tongue, your mind already hazy enough from the first orgasm and all hesitation had been thrown away. Your hands were all over him, sliding along his bare chest, feeling the faint definitions of muscle along his abdomen.

He let out a strangled moan the second your hand moved into his pants, now palming his thick cock for a few seconds before sliding it out of his pants. His hips instinctively bucked into your hand, and for a second you debated on taking his girthy length down your throat.

“Fuck-don’t even try it-need to be inside you.” His words were strained, pulling away from the kiss slightly as you pumped your hand on his shaft, thumb spreading the beads of precum around his tip, smiling against his lips while he moaned.

Then you were pulling away, biting his bottom lip and tugging at it. “But I wanna taste you.” You trailed your tongue along his jaw before lightly biting against it, then trailing kisses down his throat. 

He watched as you kissed along his exposed chest and abdomen, eventually slotting yourself between his thighs. You were going to be the death of him, his eyes nearly popped out of his head at the sight of you arching your back, ass in the air, face inches from his throbbing cock. 

You spit on it, biting your bottom lip as you used both of your hands to jerk him off, moving in a twisting motion, spreading the mixture of your saliva and his precum along his veiny cock. 

“You’re so big Buck—or would you prefer Congressman? Since you want me to be your little secretary forever.” 

He moaned, running a hand through his hair, trying to catch his breath and control himself. It’d been a while since he’d had sex, and at this rate, he was about to cum all over your face if you kept your mean facade up.

“Can’t wait to feel you inside of me Congressman Barnes.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut, how you managed to sound so demeaning while fisting his cock was beyond his comprehension. He let out a choked moan the second your mouth wrapped around the flushed red head of his cock.

Then you were moaning around him, taking more and more of him into your warm, wet mouth. His metal hand was now in your hair, grasping the frizzy strands, pulling them away from your face as you hollowed your cheeks in and started to bob your head—only really taking half of him at once.

Your tongue swirled around his cock as you sucked him off, moaning at the saltiness of his precum coating your tongue. This was downright sinful, and it was everything you’d wanted over the past few months. When you finally decided to take him out of your mouth, you laughed, smiling as you caught your breath, a string of spit connecting his cock to your lips.

The sight had him moaning your name like a prayer.

“Shit baby—fuck you gotta stop ‘m gonna cum.” 

You bite your swollen bottom lip, looking up at him through your lashes for a few seconds. Then you were pressing a kiss to the tip of his cock, using the head to spread his precum along your lips before wrapping your lips back around it. One hand slowly moving along his thick shaft while you focused on the most sensitive part of his cock.

The way he was pulling your hair burned in the best way, the sting from your scalp plus the taste of his cock had you moaning and whimpering against him.

“Shit—fuck—oh shit, Sweetheart.” He was practically whimpering as he came, cum coating your tongue and mouth, and you swallowed, then moved back, now sticking your tongue out, jacking him off with one hand as thick ropes of cum shot from his cock onto your tongue. A few missing slightly, painting parts of your face.

This was downright sinful. Sure Bucky knew that if Heaven truly did exist then he’d most certainly be going to Hell, but this? This earned him a spot in the deepest layer of Hell.

He moaned your name as he came, watching as you drunkenly giggled and let him give you a partial facial. This was straight out of a porno, if you were a pornstar he wouldn’t be surprised.

You smiled at him, taking your thumbs and index fingers, dragging them along your cum-stained face, gathering his spend before licking it off, one by one. 

He’d sat up so fast he hadn’t registered it, not until he was pulling you further into his lap, his metal hand squishing the bottom of your face slightly as he grasped your chin, pulling you into a rough, sloppy kiss. 

“You’re fuckin filthy,” he spoke against your lips, hand now on your throat, the cold vibranium a stark contrast to your warm skin. It made your head fuzzy. 

One thing Bucky was thankful for was his stamina, he’d always had pretty good stamina, but post-serum some days he felt like he could fuck for hours on end.

He hadn’t registered your movement until your hand was grasping the base of his cock and you were easing yourself onto him, gasping against his lips. He bit down on your bottom lip, and he knew he’d broken a bit of the skin based on the taste of iron in his mouth. But you were so tight around him, if he hadn’t been drunk before, he sure as hell was now.

“F-fuck ‘ts so big,” your words had a slight slur to them as you sat flush against him, forehead now leaning against his shoulder while you let yourself adjust to his sheer size. After a few seconds you started grinding your hips on him, back and forth, whimpering against his skin.

“C’mon, Sweetheart, I know you can do better than that.” His hands were on your waist now, loosely holding you, slowly guiding your movements, helping you build a rhythm.

You nodded, now sitting up a bit straighter, slowly pulling your hips off of him, then sliding back, taking each inch of his cock until you were filled to the brim. 

He bit his bottom lip as he looked at you, then he was nipping and sucking marks into your chest, focusing on each of your tits as they started to move more and more the faster you bounced on his cock.

“Just like that, keep going baby, know you can take it.” 

You nodded, your head leaning back slightly as you placed your hands on his thighs, back arching even more, using his body for leverage to help ground yourself and build your pace. 

The mixture of your moans practically echoed off of the walls, alongside the sloshing wetness of your cunt and the sound of skin slapping as you continued to take his cock. All you could focus on was the feeling of his thick shaft deep inside of you, stretching you deliciously, and the head of his cock pressing against your cervix, not exactly bruising, but the pressure added another level to your pleasure that you hadn’t experienced in the past.

His lips were parted as he held onto your waist, hands moving down to your hips, fingers bruisingly tight as he kept your movements up, not letting you falter for even a second. Bucky’s eyes focused on your cunt taking him, a ring of your wetness evident on his girthy length each time you moved up, then slammed your hips back down.

It had him salivating. 

Bucky’s eyes were stuck on you, fixated on your every movement, but what really got to him was the sight of you in his tags, the thin metal moving with you, and in this exact moment he knew you were it for him.

“You’re so fuckin beautiful,” his voice was gruff and strained while, he felt himself teetering closer and closer to the edge, meanwhile you were lost in your own world of pleasure, taking everything you could from him—using him.

It made him delirious in a way he couldn’t describe.

“‘M gonna cum-fuck Bucky—oh my god-” you moaned and whimpered, words coming out as a high pitched whine. Your rhythm was faltering, but he kept you moving, your hands now leaving his thighs, instead they were overtop his own that were holding your hips. Your fingers gripped his hands, nails practically digging into his skin as you moaned his name.

“Bucky…Bucky…oh shit…Bucky!”

It was music to his ears. Then he felt you fluttering against him, clenching down on his cock, tight walls practically milking him as you gushed against him. Your body trembling slightly, still moaning a mixture between his name and curse words.

Then you said it, “Oh fuck—right there—James!” 

That’s all it took for him to let out a deep, guttural moan, your name slipping past his lips as he came. Warmth spilling inside of you, as he bucked his hips into you a few times, losing himself in the moment.

You both sat in a breathy silence for several minutes after. You didn’t even bother getting off of him, instead you shoved his upper body down onto the bed and laid right on top of him. You weren’t ready to leave and let the fantasy shatter. Not yet at least.

He traced small shapes into your back as you laid against him, your head resting against the right side of his chest, your fingers slowly gliding along the ridges of his arm, then you paused before hesitantly moving to the scars along his left shoulder leading into his arm. You always knew they were there, but you hadn’t ever seen them up close. 

“Did you do this to yourself?” your voice was quiet and soft, much softer than usual.

“I think so, it was so long ago, it’s all kind of fuzzy. I think I tried ripping the metal out, or digging it out of my skin. I wanted to read the records on it—on me. But I never could bring myself to do it” He let out a deep sigh at the vague memories, but before he started mentally spiraling, you moved again, this time leaving a soft kiss to his jaw.

“I’m sorry that you were put through hell and back Bucky.” 

“Don’t be sorry, I wouldn't have met you if that hadn’t happened to me.”

You didn’t respond, the intimacy of the moment finally getting to you, especially considering his cock was still inside of you. So you moved off of him, wincing at the soreness of it all. Then you were practically sprinting to your ensuite. 

He thought you’d be kicking him out, so he opted to start getting up, but when you walked out of the bathroom, hands now on your hips with an oversized grey t-shirt that read ‘ARMY’, he blinked a few times.

“Where the hell did you get my shirt?”

You shrugged, glancing down at the shirt. It had to be one of the few shirts he owned that wasn’t fitted. Honestly, you don’t remember when or where you’d gotten it, but it was most likely something that Sam had given you after a long night of sparring.

“Why are you getting dressed?” The question sounded almost meek, you internally cringed at how clingy it made you feel. If he wanted to leave, he could leave. It would hurt your feelings, but this wasn’t your boyfriend. Bucky was your boss, and you’d be internally scolding yourself for the next week about tonight.

“Uh, I assumed you wanted me to go,” he motioned towards the door.

“Don’t be an asshole and just ditch me after you fucked me.” 

His jaw dropped at your words, brows now knit together, head tilted slightly. “Don’t make it sound like this was more than just sex, Sweetheart.” Bucky knew he was being a bit harsh, but he had to keep his heart guarded, the risk of you completely rejecting him was still there, and he knew he couldn’t handle that tonight. 

You scoffed at that, arms now crossed in front of your chest as you glared at him. “Excuse me? Are you serious right now?! It’s not like I blatantly admitted to caring about you before you damn near fucked me in the hallway!” You were louder than expected, practically screaming at him. Anger coursing through your veins as you stared at him.

“You’re the one who always wants to be professional! Then you get drunk and things are different! What happens when you’re—when we’re sober! Then what?” He ran a hand through his hair, holding eye contact with you as his breathing picked up. Bucky braced himself for rejection. At least if you rejected him, he’d finally be able to move on—or that’s what he told himself.

Bucky knew for a fact he’d never be over you. Not while you worked for him, and even after his term as a Congressman ended, he knew he’d never be rid of his feelings for you.

You were a once in a lifetime kind of love, that much he knew. Anytime someone spoke about the love of their life with him, they’d ask if he knew what it felt like. If he knew what it was like to care so deeply for someone that none of their flaws mattered. It didn’t matter how angry you made him, or how annoying you could be, James Buchanan Barnes would forever be in love with you.

You’re the first woman that he’d met that had pissed him off within seconds of speaking to one another. Bucky would never forget the day that the two of you met for four distinct reasons:

The first being the long-winded chase that he and Sam had been on in attempts to takedown the Flag Smashers. They’d bickered the entire time, but it ultimately brought them much closer, to the point that Sam was family now. It also helped that they shared an equal dislike for John Walker, but that wasn’t relevant.

The second major reason was because the second he’d spotted you, he was taken aback, you stood beside Karli, attempting to calm her down, but it wasn’t working. Then you were arguing with her, and all he’d managed to catch on to was the fact that you knew Sam was right. He also realized how smart you were in that exact moment.

The third reason that he’d never forget that day—outside of you being incredibly beautiful—was the feeling of your fists colliding directly with his ribcage, followed by a swift kick to the gut that had him on his back. He tried to keep up with you, but he’d been a bit out of practice and with his ongoing struggle of making amends, the last thing he wanted to do was fight a woman he was eighty years older than.

The fourth and final reason though, was the blurry sight of you squatting next to him, asking if he was alright and apologizing profusely for knocking him to the ground. You’d grasped his face, taking in the damage, grimacing at the sight of his bruised and bloody features. You then proceeded to clean him up, calling him an ‘idiot’ for not properly fighting back.

Bucky stared directly at you, his brooding silence made your eyes water. Maybe this was it, maybe he really didn’t care as much as he let on.

That pushed you over the edge.

“I had to be fucking professional Buck! I’m so sorry that I have a job, and ambitions for a career that I don’t even think I want anymore! I’m sorry that I didn’t want to be known as the girl that fucked her way up!” Your voice was loud as you shouted at him, your voice started cracking and the tears started falling. You were quick to wipe them away, chest rapidly rising and falling as you shook your head.

“You don’t get it, Sweetheart. I know you have ambitions, I know you have goals, but I’ve spent the past year and a half swallowing my own goddamn feelings for you! I know you don’t want to be the girl that sleeps with her boss! God damnit for once—for once I just thought that tonight we could be us. Not a congressman, not a secretary, just two fucking idiots in love!” 

He was yelling back now, running both hands through his hair as he looked at you. The sight of you in tears had his heart breaking, he wanted to kick his own ass for making you cry. 

“Then why are you trying to leave?” You sounded so small, so weak. Then you looked down at the ground, avoiding his stare. You’d always struggled with vulnerability, and right now you felt as if you were about to explode.

You were so focused on the ground and tuning everything out that you hadn’t noticed him getting off of the bed and walking towards you. Not until he nudged your foot with his, even then you didn’t look at him, shaking your head a bit. “This is embarrassing, just go Bucky.”

“I need you to look at me, Sweetheart.” He was looking directly at you, ready to pour his heart out.

You slowly lifted your head, cringing at the closeness and intimacy.

He took a second to use his right hand to brush some of your tears away, now caressing the side of your face. “I don’t want to leave. I thought you’d want me out, thought this was a one night stand, never speak about it again, or as you would say ‘never circle back to this’ again.” 

Bucky tried not to laugh at you clenching your jaw, clearly cringing at your own words being used against you.

“Tonight we’re just us. You’re y/n and I’m Bucky. You’re not my secretary, I’m not your boss. We’re friends, hell we’re way more than friends. Tomorrow we can figure out the logistics of it all, but tonight—tonight I’m telling you that I’m so desperately in love with you that I go to sleep dreaming of you and wake up missing you.” 

He paused, thumb caressing your bottom lip slightly, running along the evident split he’d caused. 

“Everytime I see you with another guy I feel like I’m about to implode. That includes Joaquin and I know you feel the same way, I saw how you got with Mel. You make me crazy in the best way. I’ve never felt like this about anyone in my life—and don’t even think about interrupting me to call me an old man. I love you. I’m pretty sure I’ve loved you since the moment you called me an idiot after kicking my ass in Germany. I loved you when Sam sent your reluctant ass to be my secretary. I love you every second of every day and I don’t care about being professional or being anything other than yours. I’m yours.”

You blinked a few times, astonished at the confession, lips slightly parted as you looked up at him. Your heart was practically beating out of your chest. 

“You don’t have to feel the same way either, it won’t change anything. You’ll still be my mean, bossy, and obnoxious secretary tomorrow, and I’ll be your idiot boss that hates answering questions.”

That made you laugh, shaking your head and rolling your teary eyes. “If I’m being honest, I don’t want to be your secretary anymore—it’s not professional to be in love with your boss.”

He smiled at that, leaning into your space, connecting his lips with yours. The kiss was soft, sweet, and full of love. 

The next morning the sunlight streaming through your windows woke the both of you up, you rolled into his space, trying to bury your head on his chest, using an arm to block the sunlight. Your entire body was sore and your head was pounding.

“Morning, sunshine.” 

You blinked a few times, eyes widening at the realization that you were in bed with Bucky, the moment of shock easily wearing away at the memories of the night prior flooding in. Then you were picking your head up slightly, glancing at Bucky as he squinted, eyes adjusting to the bright light in the room before landing on you.

“I had a dream last night that would solve your professionalism debacle.” His voice was raspy and deep, it made you blush.

You nodded at him, “Okay, let’s hear it Buck.”

“You don’t need to be a Congressman’s secretary if you’re his wife.”

-

Thanks for reading sexies <3 as always feedback is appreciated!

[brookghaib-blog]

The quiet things that remain - II

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Bob and Y/N used to be the best of friends, he went to Malaysia to be better, only to leave her just with a ghost in the past and unresponded messages and calls. And return, but never to her. Never to the love she didn't had the courage to announce.

Word count: 10,1k

Warning: angst, depreesive thoughts, unrequited love, stalking, drug addiction

chapter I

--

The room in the Watchtower was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that brought peace — no, it was the other kind. The kind that echoed. That clawed at your ears and made every breath feel too loud, too alive. Bob sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, palms over his face, trying to hold in thoughts that had long since stopped asking permission to haunt him.

His thumb brushed something in his pocket, and his heart sank the way it always did when he remembered it was still there. He pulled it out — crumpled a little at the edges now, creased right through the middle from being folded and unfolded too many times.

It was a picture.

Their picture.

Prom night.

God, she looked beautiful. Not in the way people tossed that word around casually. Not like the glittering girls who bought their dresses a year early and posted rehearsed photos. No, her beauty was the quiet kind — the kind that struck him like lightning when she smiled, like she didn’t know she was doing it, like it just slipped out of her without warning. That night she wore this soft blue dress that barely fit right because they had bought it from a second-hand store, and her hair had been curled by her neighbor’s niece for free. But she was his.

And he — he was the guy in the too-big suit with a tie that Y/N had to fix twice. The guy who had dropped out months before, barely scraping by on gigs, sleeping in someone else’s garage most nights. He hadn’t been invited to prom, not really. He wasn’t part of that world anymore. But he had asked her. Not because she wouldn’t get an invitation — although, he knew she probably wouldn’t. Not because he pitied her, not even for a second.

But because he had wanted to. Before anyone else could see what he saw. Before someone could try to swoop in and act like they knew how to treat her better. He asked before it all changed. Before the Void got stronger. Before he started unraveling.

He remembered the way they danced — stiff, awkward, swaying in place while others moved around them with practiced ease. He had stepped on her toes so many times she just laughed and kicked his shin in retaliation. And he laughed, too. And for those few hours, he felt worthy.

But that was a long time ago. A lifetime ago.

When he went to Malaysia, it wasn’t because he had an adventurous spirit or some soul-searching excuse to make it noble. He went because he was a coward. Because every day in the States was a mirror to everything he had destroyed. Especially her.

She had held him through the worst nights. Nights when he was vomiting into buckets, shaking, crying, begging something he couldn’t name to just end it. She had held his face in her hands and whispered, “You’re not a monster, Bob. You’re sick, not broken.”

But he was broken.

And she wasted everything. Thousands of dollars in bail money. Rent money she didn’t have. Grocery runs that somehow always included his favorite cereal, even if it meant she’d only eat canned soup for the week. She gave him her bed when he had nowhere to crash. Washed blood out of his shirts when he’d get in fights. Hid his stash when he said he wanted to get clean. And when he failed, she still made him tea and said maybe tomorrow would be better.

He remembered one night, when she had worked a double shift and still came home to find him passed out in the hallway outside her apartment door. She dragged his half-conscious body inside and cried while she bandaged the new cuts on his knuckles.

That was love. That was her. And he let her drown.

No — worse. He pulled her under with him.

And still, she had smiled for the prom photo. Still, she had leaned her head on his shoulder like he was someone worth leaning on.

He wiped a thumb gently across the image of her face.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered to the picture, to the room, to the version of her that existed in the only place he could still hold her — memory.

Bob leaned back against the wall, eyes stinging, his chest tight with something unspoken. She could have had everything. College. A home. A future. But instead, she got him. And all he gave her in return was pain, fear, and an apology that never seemed enough.

The world saw the Sentry — a glowing god with impossible strength. But Bob? Bob saw a coward in a chicken suit who used to spin signs for cash and couldn’t even dance. A boy who ran to another continent because he was too ashamed to be seen by the only person who ever really looked at him.

And now he lived in a tower in the sky, surrounded by people who respected his power but would never understand his shame.

All he wanted — more than redemption, more than recognition — was to go back to that night. To that version of himself that hadn’t yet failed her. To hear the music again. To dance — even if badly — and know she was in his arms.

Because he hadn’t asked her to prom to fix her. He asked her because for one night, he didn’t want to feel like a mistake. And she had made that possible.

She had always made the impossible feel possible.

And he had walked away.

And now all he had left was a worn-out photo and the haunting question he would never stop asking himself:

What if I’d stayed?

God, he loved her. He loved her like a man dying of thirst in a desert, stumbling toward a mirage he knew wasn’t real but couldn’t stop chasing. He had always loved her. From the first time she rolled her eyes at his terrible attempt to fix a coffee machine, to the night she fell asleep on his shoulder during a movie marathon they couldn’t afford snacks for. She’d been his anchor when everything else in his life had slipped away, a lighthouse in the middle of a violent, black sea.

But he left.

Because loving her was easy.

Staying was the hard part.

He hadn’t run because he stopped loving her — he ran because he did. Because the deeper that love grew, the more the truth screamed inside him: she deserved a life that wasn’t spent waiting outside police stations or hospitals. She deserved a partner, not a project. She deserved poetry, not paranoia. A home, not hiding spots for narcotics.

And now? Now the drugs were gone, the sickness replaced by something far worse — power. The kind that shattered bones with a flick of the wrist, melted steel with a scream, erased cities in a blink.

He had nearly destroyed a building last week because of a nightmare. He didn’t even remember doing it until they showed him the damage. And he had thought addiction was the scariest part of him. Now he had to live every second fearing the thing inside him, this thing that wanted to hurt, to unravel, to destroy.

What if she had been there?

What if she had whispered to him in his sleep like she used to, trying to soothe him from a nightmare, and he’d woken in fear, in power, and — God.

The images haunted him. Her broken body in his arms. Blood he couldn’t heal. Screams he couldn’t undo.

He couldn’t even risk it.

Bob squeezed the photo tighter, fingers trembling as tears finally broke through the wall he tried so hard to keep up. He bowed his head, forehead resting on his knuckles, as if praying to a god he didn’t believe in anymore.

She was too good. Too kind. Too alive. And he was a man half-alive, stitched together by trauma and chemicals and cosmic radiation, held together only because people were too afraid to let him fall apart.

He wanted her.

He wanted her laugh in the kitchen again. Her sleepy voice asking him to turn off the lights. Her hair in his hands. Her nose wrinkling at his burnt eggs. He wanted the sound of her humming while folding laundry, the way her lip twitched when she was concentrating on a book.

He wanted to dance with her again. Properly. Without stepping on her toes. Maybe in the living room, barefoot, no music, just the sound of her breath close to his ear.

But what did he have to offer her now? A room in a tower that he wasn’t allowed to leave? A body that pulsed with danger? A mind that barely held itself together?

She didn’t love him like he loved her — he had always known that.

He would’ve taken her love at the slightest sign. God, he would’ve fallen to his knees for it. But love like that, love he wanted from her — it didn’t come out of guilt or pity. It came from freedom. And he had never given her that.

So he mourned.

Mourned a life that never got to bloom.

Mourned all the ordinary things he’d never have with her: birthdays, burnt dinners, arguments about dumb things, the feel of her hand in his during a movie neither of them liked. A child, maybe. A home. A Sunday morning.

He had loved her when he was nothing. Loved her as he became something terrifying. And now, as he stood on the edge of being unrecognizable even to himself, he still loved her.

But he couldn’t reach for her.

Because loving her meant letting her go.

Even if it destroyed him.

Even if every day he had to wake up in this tower, look down at the world that held her, and remind himself:

She is safer without me.

Even if it was a lie he barely believed anymore.

--

He hadn’t meant to walk that far.

It had started as a simple attempt to stretch his legs, to escape the suffocating stillness of his reality — the Watchtower walls too clean, too sterile, too artificial to hold any version of peace. So he slipped into the streets of New York, a hoodie pulled low over his brow, sunglasses covering the burden of his eyes. No one knew him, not like this. Not without the cape. Not without the glow.

He walked slowly, headphones in, music pouring soundscapes over his thoughts. The playlist hadn’t changed in years — songs she once liked, songs she might’ve liked. Tracks with lyrics that spelled out everything he couldn’t say to her, and never had the right to.

He thought about her every day.

In the quiet, between missions. During briefings. While shaving. While trying and failing to sleep. Her voice was a ghost he welcomed, a hallucination he refused to fight. She lived in the melody of certain words. In the shape of his pillow. In the steam from his mug. In every peaceful thing he encountered, she was there. And in every violent thing, she was the reason he hesitated.

That morning, the wind had that strange, biting softness of early spring — too cold for comfort, but gentle enough to pretend. She used to love days like that, he remembered. Said they felt like a promise. Like the world trying again.

He turned a corner, not really paying attention. Passed bakeries, coffee carts, flower shops. All things she loved. All things he remembered seeing through her eyes.

Books. Coffee. Birds.

She once told him that birds were proof life could be both messy and beautiful. That they shat everywhere but still carried the sky. That’s why she liked them. That’s why he liked her.

And then he saw it.

The bookstore.

It was unassuming. Brick walls faded by weather, a neon sign that flickered “Open,” its ‘O’ stubbornly dim. The display window was filled with paperbacks stacked in uneven rows, a handwritten note on the glass: Buy 2, escape twice. He almost smiled. It sounded like something she would say.

Maybe he’d buy one. She always said reading gave you extra lives. And God knew he needed another one.

He approached the window.

And that’s when he saw her.

She was standing on a wooden stool inside, rearranging a top shelf, her fingers running lightly over the spines of books like they were sacred. Her hair was tucked behind her ear the way it always did when she was focused. Her mouth moved slightly as she read titles to herself, and when one fell, she caught it with a flustered laugh, looking around to see if anyone had noticed.

Y/N.

Bob’s heart stopped. His breath caught. The world tilted.

He reached out before he even realized it, fingers brushing against the cool glass between them.

It was her.

Not a memory. Not a dream. Not a hallucination conjured by grief or the Void’s twisted games.

Her. In the flesh. In her world. Moving on. Living. Smiling. Alive.

He almost collapsed.

His knees buckled under the weight of it all. His fingers curled against his chest, against the photo tucked always in his jacket. The same face. The same girl.

He wanted to run inside. God, he wanted to run. Grab her. Bury himself in her arms and sob like the wreck of a man he was. Tell her everything. That he never stopped loving her. That he missed her so much it ached every moment of his cursed existence. That he was sorry. So sorry.

He wanted to say he still remembered the way her voice cracked when she tried to sing along to love songs. That he still carried the tissue she once wrote a grocery list on, with her doodles in the margins. That every moment he lived, she lived in it.

He wanted to scream, “Please. Just look up.”

But he didn’t move.

Because in that second, the world reminded him of the one unshakable truth: he did not belong to her anymore.

He didn’t belong to anything.

Not the streets of New York. Not the weight of a future. Not even to himself.

He was a ghost. A ticking bomb wrapped in skin. And she was... safe.

She looked so at peace. Like she had found a place in the world. A place he could never, ever risk stepping into. She looked home. And if he entered that bookstore, that sacred little world she had carved out for herself, he would bring chaos. He would ruin it. Just like he always did.

So he turned.

And he walked.

Every step away from that window was like slicing open his own chest.

He didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

But a part of him, the part that still dared to dream, smiled through the pain.

She did always look like a pretty girl who’d work at a bookstore. That had been his fantasy for years — her behind a counter, coffee on her desk, recommending books to strangers, changing their lives with a sentence. She used to say that stories could save people. That if you spent just an hour in a fantasy world, maybe you could make it through reality.

And now she lived inside one.

He hoped she believed it. He hoped it saved her.

Because no matter how much he loved her, and oh — he loved her beyond reason — he could not be the reason her life unraveled again.

So he walked until his legs burned. Until the city blurred behind him. Until the only sound was his own heartbeat whispering her name.

Y/N.

His home. His ghost.

--

The Watchtower was quiet. Too quiet.

A sanctuary of glass and steel floating above the world, above cities he no longer felt he belonged to, above streets where real life happened — the Watchtower was cold. Polished. Functional. Beautiful in that sterile, untouchable way. It had everything he could need, yet it felt like nothing at all.

He wandered its halls like a ghost in a mansion too big for him, surrounded by everything and still lacking the only thing that mattered. It wasn’t that he hated it. No — Bob Reynolds understood what this place meant. What he meant. The world needed him to be here. Needed Sentry to show up to the galas, the photo ops, the charity balls with champagne flutes and polite clapping. They needed the godlike figure in golden light, the tragic redemption arc in spandex. A symbol. A story they could control.

And for once, Bob didn’t resent it. Not really. Because he had a room with a bed that was always made. He had clean clothes. He had the luxury of silence, of warm food, of people who at least pretended to care. He had friends now — of sorts. People who texted sometimes. Who invited him to rooftop dinners with wine bottles and awkward laughter. He had space.

He wasn’t locked in a cell or passed out in some alley. He wasn’t high. He wasn’t screaming at the Void inside his skull. He was safe.

And for a long time, he thought that would be enough.

But Bob learned something in that safety: The difference between being alone and being lonely.

Alone was what he craved when the world overwhelmed him. Alone was where he hid when he felt the darkness clawing behind his ribs. Alone was silence and choice.

Lonely? Lonely was after. Lonely was standing in a room full of people who only knew the surface of you. It was going home to nothing. It was the silence you didn't ask for. The kind that whispered her name.

He had time now — too much of it. And with time came thoughts, and with thoughts came her.

So he started walking. Every day, every chance he got. He’d vanish from the Watchtower, put on a hoodie and a cap and sunglasses, and disappear into the city. Into her world.

He told himself it was just to pass time. That the city soothed him. That walking helped clear his head.

But the truth was simple. Ugly. Raw.

He walked because she was there. Somewhere. And part of him was still trying to be close to her, even if she didn’t know it.

After all, he had found out where she worked.

A bookstore.

He wasn’t surprised. Not really. It made too much sense. She always smelled like paperbacks and cinnamon, always carried books in her purse, always talked about fiction like it was real and reality like it was negotiable. She had dreamed of quiet things. Soft lives. And now she was living one.

He’d walk by and see her sometimes through the window — standing behind the counter with her hair pulled back, cat hair on her sweater, a mug that said “books over bros” in her hand. She would laugh with customers, bend down to hand a little girl a picture book, roll her eyes at an old man flirting near the mystery section. He’d stare through the glass like it was a screen and he was watching the life they never got to have.

Other days, he’d see her at the park.

She had a routine, it seemed. Mornings or late afternoons, always with coffee in hand. She’d sit on a specific bench, the one they used to nap on during summer breaks. She’d sketch. Crochet. Read. Talk to an old woman who fed pigeons. And beside her — a cat. Dusty, he’d overheard someone say. A fluffball with attitude who’d perch in her lap like royalty.

He watched it all from a distance. Sat across the street, behind trees, across café windows. He never got too close. Never dared. But he learned her life like scripture. Memorized the way her hair curled in humidity. The way she tucked her feet under herself when she sat.

And she looked... peaceful.

Painfully so.

She looked like someone who had finally found her rhythm. Someone who had survived. Who had let go.

And God — he should’ve been happy about that. And he was. Part of him was.

Because he wanted her to be okay. Of all people in this world, she deserved a life that didn’t hurt. She had given so much, bled for him, cried herself sick, thrown away her dreams trying to pull him out of the fire again and again.

She had saved him, over and over. And what did he do?

He dragged her down with him. Burned her. Broke her. Left her.

So yes. She deserved this peace.

But watching her smile at strangers, or hum softly while threading yarn, or lean into a warm coat with that soft, familiar sigh — it felt like a knife in his chest.

Because she looked like someone who didn’t miss him. At all.

And that? That shattered something inside him.

It wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t fair. He had no right to want anything from her. He had given up that right the moment he left, the moment he decided she was better off without the burden of loving him. And she was. Objectively.

But it still tore him apart to see her world thriving without him.

He used to be her world. He used to be the reason her eyes lit up. Now, she didn’t even flinch when he passed by her block. Didn’t even glance at the door like maybe he’d walk through it.

He used to be her Monday lunches, her midnight phone calls, her “let me show you this funny thing.” Now?

He was a ghost.

A man watching the love of his life become a stranger with a smile. A story he didn’t get to finish. A home he could no longer walk into.

He walked miles every week just to see her for five minutes. Just to remember that she was real. Just to remind himself that once — for a flicker of time — she had been his.

And every time he turned around and walked away again, he left a piece of himself behind. Until he wasn’t sure how much of him was even left anymore.

--

They never asked about her.

Not directly.

Maybe out of respect. Maybe fear. Maybe because they already knew.

They all knew that somewhere, buried beneath Bob's shattered psyche and the nuclear firepower of the Sentry, there was someone he couldn’t let go of. A name that never left his mouth, but lived in his silence. In the way he flinched when certain songs came on. In the way he sat at the edge of team dinners, eyes somewhere far away. In the way he would sometimes disappear from the Watchtower, returning hollow-eyed and quiet, the smell of old bookstores or street coffee still clinging to his clothes.

They didn’t need to ask. The Void had shown them.

It was during the final confrontation — when the entity burrowed into each of their minds like a serpent, peeling back their worst fears, their lowest moments. It knew them. It was them. It didn’t just attack with brute strength — it weaponized memory, shame, the things they hid from even themselves.

But Bob?

Bob got the worst of it.

The Void lived in him. Knew every crack in his soul. Every scarred-over memory he tried to forget. And when the battle turned mental — turned personal — it didn’t use monsters or fire or screams. No. It showed her.

Y/N.

On the bathroom floor.

Her knees bruised from the tiles. Her shirt stained with something brown and sharp-smelling — coffee, maybe, or old blood. Her hands trembling, but still gentle, as they wiped vomit from his face, cradling his unconscious body like something precious.

His limbs were limp. His lips blue-tinged. An overdose — or the edge of one.

And she didn’t cry loud. No, that wasn’t her. Her sobs were quiet. Desperate. The kind of crying that comes when you don’t want to wake someone, even if you’re terrified they might never wake again.

She whispered to him in broken, soothing words, rocking him just slightly, whispering apologies to him, as if he were the one in pain.

She wiped his face. Changed his shirt. Brushed back his matted hair.

“You didn’t mean it,” she whispered. “It’s okay. You’re still here. I’m still here.”

And the worst part?

She looked so tired.

Not just physically — but soul-deep tired. The kind of exhaustion you don’t come back from. And still, still, she didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t curse him. She didn’t scream or throw things or leave.

She just held him.

And loved him.

When no one else could. When no one else should.

And the Void made them all watch.

Every teammate. Every soldier. Every person who had seen Bob level cities or snap metal in his hands like candy. They watched as the strongest being on Earth was reduced to a twitching body on a bathroom floor, and the only thing keeping him tethered to life was a woman — too soft for this world — whispering that he mattered, even when he didn’t believe it.

When the battle ended, and they staggered out of that hellscape, blinking in daylight and breathing like they’d been underwater too long — no one mentioned it. No one said her name.

But they all remembered her.

And days later, when the question finally came — in a rare moment of honesty, maybe over whiskey or after a nightmare — it was Bucky who asked.

Just a quiet, low, “You loved her, didn’t you?”

Bob didn’t even look up.

He just sat on the floor, back against the wall of the common room, hands hanging loosely between his knees. There was blood still under his fingernails from the mission. A tear in his shirt. He looked like something that had survived an execution.

“She was…” he started, and then stopped. His throat tightened, jaw working around a sentence that would never do her justice.

“She was the only thing I ever did right.”

The silence that followed was sharp. No one interrupted. Not even Alexei, who always had something to say. Not even Walker, whose tolerance for emotion was about as deep as a puddle. Not even Yelena, who had seen the worst kinds of pain, but still flinched when she remembered the image of that girl on the floor.

“She was the one who pulled me out,” Bob said softly. “Again and again. When I got too deep. When the Void got too loud. When I couldn’t remember who I was anymore. She… she made me feel like I was a person. Not a god. Not a monster. Just a man. Her best friend.”

He smiled, but it broke halfway through. Twisted into something hollow.

“I told her I loved her, in a message, I never even told her in her face, I still want to be able to fantasize that she did love me back. But I wasn’t a man when I said it. I was still broken. Still sick. Still—too much. And I left.”

No one moved. No one breathed.

“I told myself it was to protect her. That if I stayed, I’d destroy everything.”

He swallowed hard. His voice cracked.

“She forgave me for everything. Every relapse. Every blackout. Every time I disappeared for days and came back bleeding or high or worse. She’d cry, but she’d still hold me. She’d whisper that I was still in there. That she saw me.”

He clenched his hands. His shoulders shook.

“And I still left.”

For a long time, no one said a word.

Finally, Bucky asked, “Why are you telling us this now?”

Bob looked up at him. And for once, it wasn’t Sentry who answered. It wasn’t the calm, press-ready voice. It wasn’t the controlled, trained tone of a soldier.

It was just Bob.

His eyes were glassy. His mouth trembled.

He stood slowly. Wavered. Like the weight of all those memories was still dragging at his spine.

“She was the one thing that made me feel alive.”

He turned his face toward the window. Watched the city skyline like maybe she was out there somewhere, reading a book, sipping coffee, living a life where she didn’t have to remember him.

“And I will spend the rest of my life paying for what I did to her.”

--

He stayed across the street — or sometimes on the opposite sidewalk, tucked in behind a delivery van or under the shadow of a lamppost. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of a worn jacket, the same one she used to hang by her front door whenever he passed out on her couch.

He came to see her.

Sometimes she was restocking books in the front window. Sometimes she was sweeping the leaves off the front steps. Sometimes she was just reading, perched behind the register with a soft, furrowed expression — brows knitted in thought, nose crinkled just slightly like she did when a sentence made her feel too much.

He loved watching her read. She was the kind of person who felt books — who mourned endings and fell in love with characters and whispered “no” out loud when something bad happened on the page. Her face gave everything away. No armor. No filters.

God, she's beautiful.

Even now — even after everything.

He remembered the first time he saw her again, properly, in the park. He hadn’t been trying to find her that day. He was just… wandering. Trying to walk off the pressure in his chest. The static in his head. And then he saw her.

Sitting alone on a bench, no coffee, no cat, no old lady from the neighborhood chatting her ear off. Just her. Her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. Crying.

Not sobbing. Not theatrically.

Just… quiet, crumbling tears.

Like her chest had caved in and she didn’t know how to fix it. Like the world had knocked the wind out of her and left her to fold in on herself without a word.

She looked thinner. Not unhealthy, but not like before. Her style had changed a little — different colors, less softness, a longer coat like she was hiding from something. But her face… her face hadn’t changed.

Still that same quiet grace. That same storm of kindness behind her eyes. Like she could still save people if she tried hard enough — even when she couldn’t save herself.

He’d almost gone to her. Almost crossed the grass. Almost knelt beside her and put a hand on her knee and said her name.

But then he remembered who he was.

What he’d done.

He stayed frozen, half-behind a tree like a ghost in someone else’s story. A man without a place in the only life he wanted.

She wiped her face eventually. Stood. Pulled her coat tighter. Walked away.

And he watched. Did nothing.

But the guilt from that day didn’t leave. It never left.

He started coming around more. Just to check. Just to make sure she was okay.

That’s when the plan started to take shape.

He knew he couldn’t do it himself. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he knew someone who could — someone she might not push away. Someone big enough to take the hit if she got mad, but kind enough to genuinely want to help.

Alexei.

Bob waited for the right moment to ask. When the team wasn’t dealing with a crisis. When they were sitting in the Watchtower kitchen late one night, drinking tea instead of whiskey because Bob couldn’t handle the burn anymore.

“She’s not okay,” Bob said, out of nowhere.

Alexei looked up from his mug. “Who?”

“You know who.”

Alexei said nothing for a beat. Just nodded. Quiet. Respectful.

“I saw her crying,” Bob whispered, his voice barely audible. “She was alone. No one… no one should cry like that alone.”

“You didn’t go to her?”

“I couldn’t.”

Alexei sighed. “Why not?”

“She would want me there even if I'm still dangerous.”

Bob let the silence hang, heavy and pulsing. Then he looked up, eyes glassy, haunted.

“But I can’t… I can’t just not do anything.”

Alexei set his mug down. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

So Bob told him. About the bookstore. The bench. Her eyes. Her loneliness.

“I don’t want her to know it’s from me. Not yet. I just… I want her to have something good. Something stable. Something that isn’t pain or loss or… me.”

Alexei nodded slowly. Thought about it.

“Book club,” he said eventually. “She works in one, yes?”

Bob nodded. “Yeah. Tuesdays. I saw the flyer in the window.”

Alexei smiled. “Then I suppose I have some reading to do.”

Bob’s breath hitched.

“Thank you. I will help you with that.”

Alexei leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it because she deserves someone to show up for her.”

“I know.”

“But I’ll keep you updated. And I’ll be subtle.”

Bob smiled, watery. “As subtle as you can be?”

Alexei chuckled. “As subtle as a brick, but I’ll try.”

And so it began.

Alexei would show up to the bookstore every so often. Chat with her. Talk about books he didn’t really understand. Laugh too loudly. Always brief, always respectful, never pushing. Just… being there.

And eventually, she’d invited him to book club.

The plan was working.

And Bob?

Bob stayed where he was — on the edges, in the shadows, watching from far away. Letting Alexei become his eyes and ears. His quiet penance.

--

At first, it was simple.

Alexei joined the club to spend more time with her — to talk, to listen, to make sure she was still putting one foot in front of the other. That was the arrangement. A quiet mission with no glory. No weapons. No enemies to punch or gods to fight. Just a lonely girl who used to know a man that was already half-dead inside.

Bob didn’t expect more than that. A brief update. A kind word. The knowledge that she was still smiling. Still breathing.

But then Alexei came back from that first meeting with a glimmer in his eye — not joy, but something softer. Protective. He told Bob how she spoke about stories like they were sacred. How she laughed at a joke in Pride and Prejudice that no one else caught. How she paused in the middle of reading aloud because a single line made her voice catch, and she had to turn away so no one would see.

“She’s... she’s still her,” Alexei had said, like it was a miracle.

And Bob had cried when he heard it.

Because he didn’t know. He hadn’t known. If she was still her — still the girl who made mix CDs for rainy days and hugged people like she could stitch them back together — then maybe the world hadn’t ruined her completely. Maybe he hadn’t ruined her completely.

That’s when the idea started.

It was stupid. Pointless, maybe. But it gave Bob something to wake up for.

Books.

Not just any books — his books. The ones he read in the quietest hours of the night, when his mind wasn’t screaming and the Void wasn’t clawing at the walls. The ones he’d never admit to reading aloud, just to imagine what it might sound like if she was there beside him.

He began highlighting passages. Dog-earing pages. Scribbling notes in the margins like she used to in college, back when she made a game of arguing with the authors in ink.

He would hand them to Alexei with no explanation. Just a book. A quiet nod.

“Give her this one next.”

And Alexei would. Without question.

Week after week, a new title. A new story. Always something with meaning. A message buried in the pages. A secret only she might understand, if she read between the lines. If she knew how Bob’s mind worked the way she used to.

“I would have followed you anywhere.”

“I think I started dying the moment you left the room.”

“I loved you before I knew what it meant.”

They weren’t written outright. Never a full confession. Just sentences, thoughts, little crumbs of devotion scattered through prose.

Bob would stay up all night before each session, rereading and re-noting the pages. Sometimes he’d circle the same line six times. Sometimes he’d write “This is how I see you” beside a character’s monologue, and then cross it out until the paper tore.

He knew she never said anything to Alexei about it. Never mentioned the ink, or the handwriting, or the way every book felt like someone was whispering to her from another life.

But that didn’t matter.

Because he knew.

He knew she was holding something he touched. Reading the words he bled into the paper. Feeling something he could no longer say out loud.

In that tiny room above the bookstore, while Alexei sat in a too-small chair and cracked jokes to cover the silences, Bob was there too.

He was in the pages. In the sentences. In every comma and breath and pause.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe that was all he had left.

He’d debated confessing before. So many times. Long before he became the Sentry. Long before he became a weapon. Back when he was just Bob, and she was just the girl who always picked out the marshmallows from her cereal and let him sleep on her floor when he was too drunk to remember where he lived.

But he never did. Because he knew — he knew — she didn’t feel the same way.

Not because she didn’t care. She cared too much. That was the problem.

She saw him as something worth saving. Something broken, but fixable.

Not someone you fall in love with.

Not someone you keep.

He could have handled that. He would have swallowed it whole just to have her in his life. But then the powers came. The weight. The blackness behind his eyes that pulsed like a second heartbeat.

And everything changed.

He wasn’t just a man who loved her anymore. He was a threat to her. A danger. A possible end.

To confess now would be cruel.

So he didn’t.

He gave her books.

He gave her himself.

And in the stillness between chapters, when no one was looking, he let himself pretend.

Pretend that maybe she read a line and smiled. That maybe she knew. That maybe she looked up from the page and whispered, “I miss you too.”

He would die a thousand times just to hear her say it once.

--

The despair came in waves.

Some days, Bob could float in it, numb, like a body in cold water—arms limp, eyes unfocused, just waiting for it to take him under. Other days, it crashed into him so hard he thought he’d drown before morning. He would lie on the floor of the Watchtower, fists clenched, the ceiling spinning above him as his mind screamed with every face he couldn’t forget. But it was always her face that brought the deepest ache.

Y/N.

He had built a life around her absence. That was the truth of it. A fragile routine of restraint and silence. He watched from a distance. He wrote messages in books. He let Alexei carry little pieces of him to her like a smuggler moving contraband across a border he could never cross.

It was the only way he could be near her—and the closest he dared to come.

But it wasn’t enough.

God, it wasn’t enough.

He missed her. And not just the memory of her. Not just the idea. He missed her voice in the morning when it was still hoarse. The sound of her laugh when she was trying not to. The weight of her hand on his arm when he said something reckless. He missed the smell of her shampoo, the warmth of her sweaters, the way she hummed when she didn’t know he was listening.

His body remembered it all.

And it was killing him.

He was touch-starved in a way no one could fix. Not just for warmth, or comfort, or sex. He was starving for her. For the way her presence once made the world seem a little less heavy. For the way she looked at him like he was still in there, like maybe he wasn’t all lost, not yet. That kind of belief—that kind of grace—was more dangerous than the Void itself.

Because it made him hope.

And hope, for Bob, was a curse dressed like mercy.

Every time he let himself think, Maybe I could just see her. Just once. Just for a moment, his mind betrayed him. Because it wasn’t just Bob anymore. It was Sentry. It was Void. It was the monster and the hero and the broken man trapped in between.

And what if they took over?

What if she smiled at him—and Sentry ripped the sky open behind her?

What if she said his name—and Void answered?

What if, by standing too close to her, by breathing the same air, he doomed her?

He couldn’t bear it.

So he stayed away.

But he was so tired.

Tired of living on crumbs. Tired of writing love letters she didn’t know were letters. Tired of watching Alexei carry his heart in paperback covers while he sat alone, drinking coffee that always went cold, with no one to tell.

He thought about ending it. Not his life—not exactly. But the visits. The watching. The books. All of it.

He thought about telling Alexei, It’s over. Don’t go anymore. Don’t mention her. Don’t bring her up. Let her go. Let her be.

Maybe if he stopped seeing her face from afar, his heart would quiet. Maybe if he stopped imagining what she looked like crying, or laughing, or reading his underlined notes, he could be free of this need.

Maybe.

But then the selfishness crept in.

It always did.

Because this—this pathetic, distant, hollow little routine—it was all he had.

He had no family. No home. No future. He had fists and firepower and a mind that split into two monsters depending on the day.

But this—this was still hers.

The bookstore. The book club. The books.

The way she once tucked a note into his coat pocket when he was dope-sick and barely breathing. The way she never turned away from him, even when she should have.

That love. That impossible, unspoken love that never got to breathe? It was still alive inside him. Mummified maybe, but still intact. And giving it up felt like murdering the only beautiful thing he’d ever been allowed to feel.

So he kept the books coming.

He kept watching her from across the street like a ghost with a heartbeat.

He kept dying for her in private.

He told himself it wasn’t love. That it was guilt. Or nostalgia. Or some warped savior complex. But he knew better.

He loved her.

He always had.

He loved her from the moment she laughed at his shitty joke in chemistry class and offered to share her lunch with him because she thought he looked hungry.

He loved her through every detox, every lie, every time he screamed and she didn’t flinch.

He loved her the day she fell asleep sitting against his door because he refused to let her in, but she still didn’t leave.

And he loved her now, more than ever.

But what good was that?

What good was a love you had to hide like a weapon?

What good was a heart full of devotion if it could level buildings when it broke?

Bob wanted her arms. He wanted her voice telling him he was okay. He wanted her fingers to touch his temple and whisper, “You’re still you, somewhere in there.”

But he couldn’t have that. He couldn’t ever have that.

So he took what he could.

He underlined another sentence. Highlighted another confession. Dog-eared another page.

He gave her pieces of his soul, one book at a time, and prayed she never figured it out.

Because if she did—if she knew it was him—it might give her hope.

And he didn’t want that for her. Hope was what killed people like him.

And she was never meant to die loving a ghost.

--

The Watchtower was quiet that night. Quieter than usual.

Bob was sitting by the window in his room, legs pulled to his chest like a child who hadn’t yet figured out how to stop shaking. He’d been staring at the stars for hours, pretending they were blinking just for him—pretending they meant something. Sometimes the silence helped. Sometimes it pressed down so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Tonight, it was both.

He almost didn’t hear Alexei come in.

His footsteps were heavier than usual, but not in the theatrical, attention-seeking way. No, this was something different. There was weight in them. Real weight. Emotional weight.

Bob didn’t turn to look at him.

“Tea and cookies,” Alexei said quietly, easing himself into the old chair across from Bob, setting down a book neither of them would read.

Bob blinked, not understanding. “What?”

“She made tea. There were these little shortbread cookies. She always brings some to the club. But tonight she invited me to stay after.”

Bob felt it instantly. That subtle shift in his chest—recognition, fear, hope. A name curled on his tongue like a prayer.

“Y/N.”

Alexei nodded.

Silence passed between them like static.

“I wasn’t going to stay,” Alexei said. “Didn’t feel right, you know? She looked tired. But she offered. Said she didn’t want to be alone. So I sat. And for a while, it was nothing. Just two people eating cookies and being quiet.”

Bob’s throat tightened. He could picture it too clearly—her small, chipped mug, her socks pulled up too high, maybe a blanket draped around her shoulders. She always had trouble sitting still when she was anxious. She’d shift, fidget, adjust the books near her elbows, touch her hair.

“And then?” Bob whispered.

Alexei looked at him. Really looked. Not like a soldier. Not like a friend. Like someone about to hand you your own soul.

“She asked me if I’d ever loved someone enough to ruin myself for them.”

Bob stopped breathing.

“I told her… yeah. I did. A long time ago. And that it hurt. That sometimes love isn’t enough. That you can want someone more than anything in the world and still have to walk away.”

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Bob knew there was more in that silence than Alexei could ever say. But the words weren’t the part that undid him.

It was what came next.

“She started crying.”

Bob’s heart cracked so loud in his chest he thought it might split the room in two.

“She didn’t even try to stop it. She just let it happen. Tears down her cheeks, her hands shaking around that stupid little mug. And she said…” Alexei’s voice softened. “She said she was still waiting for someone.”

Bob gripped the windowsill so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“She said there was a man who left. And he never came back. And she knows he was broken—knows he had problems, things she might never understand. But she loved him anyway. Or maybe she didn’t even know she did. Not until it was too late. And even now, even after all the pain, some pathetic part of her—those were her words, not mine—still wanted him. Still waited.”

The tears came without warning.

Bob didn’t cry pretty. It was never cinematic. It was raw. Silent. Heaving. His face contorted as the sobs tore through him like glass down his throat.

She was waiting for him.

After everything. After all the ways he’d failed her. After the vomit and the relapses. After the bruised knuckles and broken promises. After disappearing without a goodbye, like a coward.

She was still waiting.

“Alexei—” he tried, but his voice shattered.

Alexei stood and walked over, putting a firm hand on Bob’s shoulder. “She misses you, man.”

“She shouldn’t,” Bob rasped. “She deserves better.”

“Maybe. But she doesn’t want better. She wants you.”

Bob bent forward, forehead pressed to his knees, shoulders trembling like the ceiling might cave in on him.

He could see her now—eyes red, voice cracking, wrapped in that old cardigan she used to wear when she felt small. Crying not because she was weak, but because something inside her had finally broken under the weight of everything she’d been carrying.

His name. His ghost. The ache that never left her chest.

“She said she never got to tell him,” Alexei added quietly. “That she was proud of him, even when he thought there was nothing left to be proud of.”

Bob shook his head violently, tears soaking through his sleeves.

“I don’t deserve her,” he choked. “I don’t deserve one second of her kindness. I left her. I left her.”

“But you never stopped loving her.”

Bob lifted his eyes, watery and wild.

Alexei knelt down in front of him, squeezing his shoulder. “That counts for something.”

Bob wanted to believe that. He needed to. But the guilt was too thick, too rooted. He’d buried his love like a landmine—sooner or later, someone was always going to get hurt.

But tonight… for the first time in weeks, in months, maybe in years… he had something to hold on to.

Hope.

Alexei wasn’t the kind of man who usually gave pep talks. He broke bones, not hearts. But that night, something in the room shifted. The weight in the air was different. Bob sat hunched on the floor again, as he often did when his thoughts got too loud, too dangerous. His hands were clenched in his hair, tears drying on his face in the silence. It wasn’t a silence of peace. It was one of surrender.

“I can’t go,” Bob whispered. “I can’t.”

Alexei sat in the chair beside him, eyes fixed on the floor. “Yes. You can.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” Bob snapped, voice raw and thick. “You’ve seen the surface—what the Void lets you see. But I know what I’ve done. What I’ve almost done. I could’ve killed her. Just because I wanted to be loved.”

Alexei was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice like gravel and mercy.

“Do you think love is safe?” he asked. “Do you think any of us walk into it without risk? I have done worse things, Bob. To people who trusted me. To people I loved. You think I sleep easy at night? No. I just… don’t run from it anymore.”

“I never stopped running,” Bob muttered, choking on the words. “Even when I had her. Especially then. She tried so hard. God, Alexei, she tried so hard for me.”

Bob pressed the heel of his palm into his eye until stars burst behind the lid.

“Do you think…” he asked in a hoarse whisper, “that my love can undo what I’ve done? Do you think that’s enough? That just because I love her, it makes the nights she cried worth it? That it fixes the way I shattered her, again and again?”

“No,” Alexei said bluntly. “Love isn’t enough. Not on its own. But it’s a start. It’s a reason to try. And Bob—she hasn’t stopped trying either.”

Bob shook his head, lips trembling. “She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for. She thinks I’m someone worth saving.”

Alexei reached into his coat pocket.

“Then maybe you should read this.”

He held out a single, folded post-it.

It was pale yellow, edges a little crumpled. Familiar. Too familiar.

Bob stared.

He didn’t reach for it at first. Didn’t trust his hands not to crumble it in disbelief. But Alexei held steady, offering it like an answer.

Bob finally took it.

He didn’t even have to open it. He knew the handwriting. Slanted, careful but with bursts of impatience in the curls of the letters.

And he knew the words.

“I’ll come back. For you. Always.”

And he remembered it again—the worst nights. The ones he could barely piece together through the fog. The clatter of the bathroom door, the stench of vomit, her hands trembling as she wiped his face with a warm cloth, whispering things he couldn’t hear but felt in his bones. No disgust. No anger. Just… tired love. Quiet devotion.

And the guilt that came after—so thick, it coated his skin. He stopped opening the door. Stopped letting her see him like that. She’d still come, knock softly, wait longer than she should’ve. And when he said nothing, did nothing—she’d slide a little post-it under the door.

“I’ll come back. For you. Always.”

His breath hitched.

“This—this is—” He stared at the note like it was the most sacred thing in the world. Like it could breathe.

“She gave it to me tonight,” Alexei said softly. “Slipped it into my book. Didn’t say anything. Just smiled. I think… I think she wanted you to know that she’s still there. Still waiting.”

Bob folded in half, pressing the note to his chest like it could stop the bleeding.

“But how—how would she know—?”

Alexei chuckled under his breath, and it wasn’t unkind.

“She’s not stupid, Bob. She knew from the beginning. From the first book.”

Bob lifted his head, dazed.

“She told me tonight. She recognized me right away. She remembered me from the photos. And the first time I brought a book with your handwriting in it? She didn’t say a word. But her whole face changed. Like a light she didn’t expect. Like a ghost she thought she’d never see again.”

Bob’s lips parted. “But she never said—”

“She didn’t have to. She knew you were talking to her. And she answered. She let it happen until she was ready.”

Bob’s mouth quivered.

“Every time she brought a specific book to the club. That was for you.”

He was silent.

“She chose them for you, Bob. You weren’t the only one using me to speak. She was doing it too.”

Bob broke.

"You know what Bob, I've had many experiences in life, but seeing two people love each other while thinking the same unrequited love bullshit it's the most frustating thing I've lived through."

--

The book club had ended hours ago.

The chairs were stacked, the lights dimmed except for one hanging low over the back counter where the tea kettle still hummed. The scent of old paper, lavender, and stale sugar cookies lingered in the air.

Alexei lingered too.

He never stayed this late, usually offering a polite farewell and a practiced smile before retreating into the night like he had somewhere else to be. But tonight, he hesitated, eyes trailing to the table where Y/N stood quietly, tidying up a few leftover napkins like she wasn’t just waiting for something—like she wasn’t bracing herself for it.

“I should go,” Alexei said, half-hearted.

She didn’t look up right away. “One second,” she murmured.

And then she turned to him, slowly. In her hand was a tiny yellow square of paper, slightly curled at the edges like it had been held too many times. There was no name on it. Just handwriting—familiar and aching and soft in its certainty.

“I’ll come back. For you. Always.”

Alexei froze.

His blood stopped.

He hadn’t seen one of those in years. Not since—

Y/N stepped forward and gently pressed the post-it into his hand.

“Please give this to Bob.”

Silence.

Alexei’s mouth opened, then closed. His eyes searched hers, stunned, confused—exposed. He thought he had been careful. Thought the quiet drop-ins, the vague discussions, the books marked with gentle nuance and wordless confessions had been subtle enough. He thought he’d played the messenger without giving himself—or Bob—away.

But she had known.

She had always known.

“...You knew?” he asked softly, barely breathing.

Y/N gave a tired smile, the kind that looked like it hurt to wear.

“Since the first book,” she said. “The underlined sentences. The margin notes. The way you looked at me when I laughed, like someone had told you a joke days ago and you were just now getting it.”

Alexei blinked, overwhelmed. “You never said anything.”

“I didn’t need to.” She let out a breath, bitter and sweet all at once. “It was the only way I could hear him again. I didn’t want to break it.”

She stepped away then, folding her arms as if trying to hold herself together. Her shoulders trembled.

“But tonight… I just needed him to know,” she whispered.

Alexei’s grip tightened on the post-it.

He didn’t know what to say. How to tell her that Bob had read every word she spoke, that he lived in the seconds she laughed, that he measured time by the days she showed up with her hair down or a new sweater or a different tea. That Bob was starving just to be near her. That every night he watched from the shadows was both punishment and penance.

But he couldn't say those things.

Because they weren’t his to give.

So he just stood there, useless in his stillness.

And then she broke.

“Why didn’t he come back?” she asked, voice crumbling like wet paper. “I waited. I waited, Alexei.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks in slow, silent rivers. Her hands trembled at her sides.

“I was angry. So angry when he left. I hated him. I told myself I did. But then I’d go to the places we used to go. I’d drink the same coffee. Sit on the same benches. And every time the door opened, I thought it might be him.”

Alexei swallowed hard, chest tightening.

“I’m not asking for an apology,” she continued, voice rising with the dam of grief. “I just want to know why. Was I not enough? Was I… was I too much?”

“No,” Alexei whispered, pained. “Y/N, no.”

“Then why did he leave me like that?” Her voice broke. “Why didn’t he come back like I always did for him?”

She sank into the chair beside her, covering her face with one hand, wiping at tears that kept falling no matter how hard she tried to stop them.

Alexei stepped forward but hesitated.

He couldn’t tell her everything. He couldn’t say that Bob had been dragged through every layer of his own personal hell—had been broken, drugged, used like a weapon, haunted by the very love he didn’t think he deserved. That every time he thought about her, it wasn’t with joy, but with agony, because he believed he’d poisoned every beautiful thing in his life.

He couldn’t say that Bob cried in his sleep.

He couldn’t say that he never went more than three days without watching her from afar, just to be sure she was alive.

He couldn’t say any of that.

Because those words were Bob’s to give.

But his voice was soft as he spoke.

“He never stopped thinking about you.”

Y/N let out a small, helpless sound, somewhere between a sob and a breath.

“I just want it to be over,” she whispered. “The waiting. The not-knowing. I took the first step. Again.”

Alexei knelt beside her, gently placing the post-it in his coat pocket.

“I hope,” she said through tears, “I hope this is the last time I have to.”

And then she wept.

Not quietly. Not daintily.

She cried like someone who had carried too many sleepless nights in her chest. Like someone who had waited at every metaphorical door, only to find them locked. Like someone who knew she had loved without boundaries and had bled for it.

Alexei didn’t say anything else.

He just sat beside her, listening to the sound of her heart breaking again—for someone who had never stopped holding it.

And in the quiet, somewhere between sorrow and forgiveness, the post-it in his pocket burned like a lighthouse finally being lit after years of storm.

He would give it to Bob.

And for the first time in years, Bob would understand:

He could hide, protect her all he wanted, run away from her from years on end. She will always find a way to make him come back. Even if it made her rot from the inside out.

"If I had someone fight for me this hard and I still made them doubt the value of their presence while living with that thought day after day Bob. Maybe that's why you will never be happy. No family, no friends, no hope, for years its was just her. What even made you think you could stay away when you're just as miserable as her?"

Bob looked up to Alexei.

Part of him confused, she wasn't miserable she was living, he saw her.

But...if that was the truth for her, what has she been thinking all this time seeing him.

It was kinda funny. How could two people who only had one another no so little of each other's mind.

Both seemed happy. Both were dying for each other.

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Reverse Bloom (Yandere Batfamily x Neglected! Poison Ivy‘s Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 3

A/N: oki this one got looonngggg. But it’s the first time where we get more flashbacks and one of the brothers relationship dynamic with her. What do y’all think?:) - poppy

Wayne Manor had always been quiet, but lately it was a different kind of silence.

Not the calm kind—the heavy kind.

The kind that pressed into the ribs.

That made even the floorboards feel like they were holding their breath.

No one said anything outright, but the Batfamily could all feel it. In the halls. At the breakfast table. Between patrol rotations.

Something had shifted.

Dick was the first to notice it.

She didn’t sit next to him anymore.

Didn’t linger in the kitchen.

Didn’t poke her head in while he was doing push-ups just to say hi.

She still smiled when she saw him—but it never reached her eyes.

Tim noticed the pattern change.

She didn’t leave flowers on his desk anymore. Didn’t ask about his tech.

Didn’t thank him when he opened the door for her. And he couldn’t explain why that made his hands clench every time he thought about it.

Damian didn’t say anything out loud.

But he watched. Watched her in the mornings as she walked past him in the hall without greeting him like she used to. Watched her sit alone in the library and never asked to watch him fight.

He told himself it didn’t bother him.

It did.

Cass, when she visited, tilted her head every time she saw YN.

Her body said what the others wouldn’t: She’s walking differently. Holding herself like she’s shrinking. Or hiding. But no one really knew why.

Unbeknownst to them, it wasn’t anything they had done recently.

It was everything they hadn’t done.

Because Y/N had stopped trying.

Stopped trying to fit into a space they’d never made for her. Stopped smiling for the sake of keeping peace.

Stopped running after them like the sweet little sister they hadn’t earned.

They had all been used to her giving.

And now that she had stopped?

The silence felt louder than ever.

⸻

Rain tapped at the window.

The digital clock on her nightstand blinked at 12:31 AM. The light from her laptop cast soft shadows across her blanket. The screen was full of browser tabs—open rentals, part-time jobs, temp agencies, and fake ID generators she could barely understand.

She was fourteen.

There weren’t many options.

She’d searched every “rooms for rent” listing within city limits. Most were in Crime Alley or the Narrows. One was near Gotham Heights, overpriced and probably fake.

She chewed her nail, eyes tired, mind aching.

I don’t need much. Just a place to exist. Somewhere no one’s watching me like I’m about to shatter. Somewhere I can breathe. Somewhere I can survive.

She hated thinking this way.

But she hated feeling like a unwanted guest in her own house more.

A knock.

Not on the door. On the window.

Her breath hitched.

She turned slowly, heart already knowing.

Jason.

Only he ever used her window.

She closed the laptop quickly and slid under the covers, flattening her breathing like she used to when she pretended to sleep after nightmares.

But the knock came again.

Not urgent. Not loud.

Just… persistent.

She knew that knock. He always knocked like that—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be let in or forced in.

Her heart squeezed tight.

Jason had been the brother she got along with best.

Not because he was kind. Not because he was warm. But because he was real.

He never lied to her.

Never sugarcoated anything.

He spoke in anger and silences, and somehow that was easier to understand than the fake smiles from the others.

He was never really around.

Not after he came back.

Not after everything broke.

She remembered the mess.

The shouting.

The day Bruce stopped looking anyone in the eye. The way the whole house smelled like grief and sweat and smoke.

She had been just a kid— barely being able to talk when he died.

She thought Bruce was depressed.

She thought everyone was.

Until Tim showed up.

And then she realized…

Bruce just didn’t want her.

⸻

When Jason came back, it was like watching a bomb walk on legs.

Angry at Bruce. At Gotham. At the world.

And her.

He didn’t say it, not at first.

But she felt it every time he looked at her—like her very existence reminded him of all the things he hated.

Especially her blood.

Especially her mother.

He had shouted once—just once—and it had cracked something in her forever.

She never smiled at him after that.

After that, their relationship had slowly stitched itself into something fragile and strange.She never asked questions when he used her window. He never asked why her eyes were always tired.

It worked.

And now?

Now he was back like always. Like nothing happened. But something did happen, happen to her.

⸻

A third knock.

She sighed softly and sat up.

Her feet padded across the room quietly. She unlocked the window.

Jason was crouched on the ledge, still in his Red Hood gear, helmet clipped to his belt, hair wet with rain.

His eyes met hers.

“You’re not asleep.”

She rolled her eyes and moved aside without answering.

He climbed in, boots dripping, and stood in the center of her room like he’d never left.

She crawled back into bed, not looking at him.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

“You used to let me in after only a minute.”

“You used to be gone for weeks.”

He paused.

The tension stretched between them like a thread.

The rain slid gently down the window now, streaking light across the walls as Jason shrugged off his jacket and dropped it onto her desk chair without asking.

Same as always.

YN sat cross-legged on the bed, arms wrapped loosely around her knees. Her laptop was tucked, closed and quiet, under her pillow. The web of open tabs still buzzed in her head—cheap apartments, fake ID services, under-the-table jobs—but now she had to pretend none of it existed.

Jason stood for a minute, hands on his hips, looking around the room.

“You changed your sheets,” he said at last.

She blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded toward the bed. “I remember the old ones. Ivy-patterned. These are white.”

“People change,” she said lightly, too lightly.

Jason arched a brow but didn’t press it. Instead, he walked over and dropped onto the floor beside her bed with a grunt. His back hit the side of the mattress, arms sprawled out. He looked up at the ceiling like it had something to say.

“It’s weird being here again,” he said.

For her it has been years since he visited her. For him it has been a month or two.

Y/N hummed.

“I mean, the last time I came back from patrol and crashed at the manor, I think Tim was still using dial-up and Bruce didn’t hate me this week.”.

A tiny smile tugged at her mouth before she could stop it.

Jason heard it in the silence.

“Hey—look at that. You do still have facial muscles.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she muttered, but not unkindly.

“Don’t tempt me. It’s a skill.”

They sat like that for a moment—him sprawled out, her curled in, both listening to the rain.

It was an unusual silence.

“You used to ask me more questions,” Jason said without looking at her.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

He rolled his head back against the mattress to look at her upside-down. “About patrol. Or the city. Or my bike. You used to sit here like a baby detective and quiz me about what it’s like being the black sheep.”

Her throat tightened.

“You used to talk more,” she deflected. Her tone was calm and almost collected and void of any emotion.

Jason smirked. “I still talk. You’re just not asking anymore.”

She didn’t reply.

He sat up slightly, one arm hooked over his raised knee. “So what gives, Little Bloom?”

She flinched at the name.

Jason didn’t miss it.

He frowned. What was up with her?

“I’m just busy,” she said, too fast. “School. Life. You know.”

“You’re fourteen.”

“Exactly.”

He studied her. There was something in her voice—an edge, dull and tired. Something older than fourteen. Something she shouldn’t have.

“You’re acting different.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“You’re quieter. Colder.”

“I’m growing up.”

Jason’s gaze lingered on her, hard to read.

“Guess we all missed it,” he muttered. “You growing up.”

She looked at him then.

Something fragile flickered behind her eyes.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t remember.

Didn't remember how she died because of them.

None of them did.

“Maybe you weren’t looking,” she said softly.

Jason blinked, caught off guard by the foreign sharpness in her voice—too subtle to be cruel, too quiet to be innocent.

The silence between them stretched, thick and full of all the things that hadn’t been said in years. YN shifted under her blanket and leaned her cheek against her knee, staring past him.

Jason didn’t know what else to say. And it hit him, sharply, that maybe that was the problem.

He had never really known what to say to her.

She used to make it easy. Bright-eyed, curious, always asking questions. “What was it like out there?” “Is it scary?” “Do you have a favorite safehouse?” “What’s your favorite kind of bullet?”

Now? She didn’t ask.

She just avoided looking at him, like she didn't want to be near him.

He sighed and stood up, stretching his back. “Alright. I’ll get out of your hair.”

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t say goodnight.

Didn’t ask if he’d come back with pleading eyes.

Jason lingered for a moment longer, then walked toward the window, grabbing his jacket from the chair.

“You know,” he said without turning, “for the record, I always liked those blueberry muffins. You should tell Alfred to make them again sometime.”

She didn’t say anything.

He left before he saw the pained look on her face.

⸻

Downstairs, the kitchen was dark except for the faint under-cabinet lights Alfred always left on. Jason padded across the tile, opened the fridge, and leaned in without thinking.

He expected to see a plate of something sweet on the second shelf.

A tray. A box. A little note with nothing written but a tiny, flower-shaped doodle in the corner.

But there was nothing.

Just leftovers. Steel containers. An empty ceramic plate where something had clearly been taken out.

Jason frowned.

“Huh.”

He opened a few cabinets. Checked the breadbox. Even glanced into the oven.

Nothing.

Weird.

He’d never really thought about it before—he just assumed Alfred made the muffins. The cookies. The lemon bars.

Now it was all gone. And he felt a strange… emptiness.

Like something had been quietly taken away. But he dismissed it. Maybe the old butler had been busy with one of Damian’s tantrums again?

He grabbed a beer, leaned back against the counter, and cracked the tab open.

Took a long drink.

Frowned deeper.

Something’s off.

He didn’t know what yet.

But for the first time since he’d come back to the manor, he felt it wasn’t just the house that had changed.

It was her.

And maybe… it had been for a long time.

He just hadn’t been looking.

Jason didn’t dream much. Not really.

But some nights, the garden bloomed inside his head like it had been waiting for him.

It was always the same—ivy along the railings, fresh grass underfoot, the faint scent of rain and cookies and Alfred’s cologne. And her.

Tiny. Toddlersized. Sitting on a patch of sunlit moss with a flower crown slipping over one ear.

He couldn’t even remember her name the first time he met her.

Bruce had just brought her home. She was two—maybe younger—and barely able to form words, let alone keep up with everything that was happening around her.

He hadn’t been angry about her, though. Not then. Not yet.

He remembered standing in the hallway, boots still muddy from patrol, when he first saw her toddling out from behind Alfred’s legs, all wide green eyes and a stuffed elephant in one arm.

She saw him—and blinked. Then smiled.

Like he was the sun.

“Hi!” she chirped, stumbling forward on chubby legs. “Juh-son?”

He blinked at her. “…Yeah?”

“Hi, Juh-son!”

Alfred had chuckled behind her. The butler clearly adoring her. “She’s been practicing your name, Master Todd. Quite determined.”

“Juh-son!” she squealed again, arms up like she wanted to be picked up.

He stared at her. Then laughed—genuinely laughed—and crouched down. “Well, hey there, trouble. You always this loud?”

She hugged his neck like she’d known him forever.

And in that second, he remembered feeling something he hadn’t felt in months.

Warmth.

Purpose.

Something good.

Something worth protecting.

⸻

But the warmth didn’t last.

Not for him.

(Post-Jason’s Death)

She remembered it all wrong.

It was supposed to be the kind of day where Alfred made lemon scones and Bruce let the sun touch his office windows.

But instead, the manor went silent.

The kind of silence that felt wrong—like something had been cut out of the world.

She was small. Too small to understand what “he’s gone” meant. Too small to grasp death.

But she knew something was missing.

Jason’s jacket was still in the hallway.

His boots, still at the door.

The gun holster he never used—left behind.

She remembered knocking on Bruce’s study door.

Tiny fists. A flower in her hand.

“Daddy?”

No answer.

“Daddy…?”

She waited. Knocked again.

The door didn’t open.

She sat there for two hours before Alfred found her curled up on the floor.

Bruce stopped speaking much after that. Not that he did it much before that.

Stopped looking at her.

Stopped noticing.

She’d go days without hearing his voice.

And when she finally did, it was always for someone else—Tim. Dick. Patrol.

Not her.

When Tim showed up, she remembered being confused.

He was nice. Smart. Kind in the polite way strangers are kind to children.

But that’s when she realized…

Bruce wasn’t just sad.

He was replacing Jason.

And keeping her far away from it.

⸻

When Jason came back from the dead, he wasn’t the same. Everyone knew it.

His memories were jagged. His rage, unfiltered.

He didn’t feel warm anymore. He felt like gasoline.

And every time he looked at her—bright-eyed, hopeful, still sweet—he wanted to scream.

Because she had what he lost.

She had the love he never got back.

The affection Bruce never gave him after the resurrection.

The softness he had buried under gunfire and ash.

She was everything untouched by the world.

And he hated her for it.

It happened one night after a fight with Bruce. The kind that left Jason shaking, fists bloodied from a punch he’d aimed at a wall instead of his father’s face.

He stormed down the stairs.

Every breath was acid.

And there she was.

Eleven. Barefoot. Hair in a braid with a ribbon tied at the end. Holding something she’d baked—banana bread, maybe—and walking up toward him. With a goddamn smile.

“Jason!” she chirped, eyes bright. “I—I saved you a piece! I heard yelling so I thought—”

“Don’t.”

She froze.

He hadn’t meant to snarl it. But it came out like a snarl anyway.

She blinked, uncertain.

“I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” he spat.

Her eyes widened. Her hands gripped the plate a little tighter.

“You think I want anything from you?”

“I—Jason, I just wanted to—”

“To what? Be the good little daughter? The perfect little Wayne?”

Her lip trembled.

“You think you’re not like her?” he hissed, voice full of venom. “You’re just like your mother. Ivy’s little weed. That’s what you are. All sweetness on the surface and rot underneath.”

Her eyes welled. “I’m not—”

“You think a few cookies and smiles make you clean?” His voice cracked. “You’re just like her. Evil. Dirty. Manipulative. Bruce should’ve left you where he found you.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t cry.

She just set the plate down on the stairs.

And walked away.

Jason would never remember the exact words. He buried them somewhere deep.

But she never baked banana bread again.

He never apologized.

Not properly. Not with the words she deserved.

After that night—after he spit venom down the stairs and shattered something he couldn’t name—he just stopped talking.

And then, weeks later, he showed up at her window again.

Midnight. Rain. Bruised ribs under his jacket. She opened the latch like nothing had ever happened.

She didn’t bring up the hallway. Or the banana bread. Or the name weed.

She just let him in.

And sat beside him while he muttered about patrol and crime bosses and stupid decisions Bruce made.

And she listened.

Always listened.

Asked about his nights. Asked if he’d eaten. Asked why he never stayed longer.

But she never talked about herself.

And he never asked.

He told himself it was fine.

She was fine.

She baked again eventually. Left muffins in the fridge. Cookies in Tupperware. Pies on the cooling rack when she knew he’d be back.

And he took.

He always took.

⸻

Tonight, standing alone in the kitchen, it finally hit him.

There was nothing on the counter.

No muffins. No pies. No scones. No glass containers waiting in the fridge with a sticky note bearing a tiny hand-drawn flower.

And worse—

The houseplants were gone.

Not dead.

Just… gone.

The little pots she used to water every morning. The vines that used to curl around the cabinet handles. The single white lily that always sat in the corner by the coffee machine, just because she liked it there.

All gone.

The windowsill was empty. Bare.

The air didn’t smell like jasmine or lavender anymore—it just smelled like… air.

Jason stared.

He couldn’t explain it, but something tightened in his chest. Something low and wrong.

He opened the fridge again.

Still nothing.

His hands curled around the edge of the counter.

It wasn’t just about the food. It was never about the food.

It was her.

He stood there for a long time.

In the middle of the kitchen, hands still braced on cold stone, staring at nothing.

Trying to figure out why his chest felt tight.

Why his breathing had gone shallow.

Why the air felt heavier now than it had during any firefight.

He didn’t know what it was.

He didn’t know that it would get worse in the next few days.

Much worse.

____

It was rare for the manor to be this quiet in the middle of the day.

Dick had dropped in without warning, like always—straight from Blüdhaven after wrapping up a double-night stakeout, sore from sleeping on rooftop gravel and a little guilty for how long it had been since he’d set foot in the house.

He hadn’t seen Bruce, not properly.

Hadn’t seen the others in weeks.

Cass had texted something vague and cryptic about “things changing.”

And Alfred had responded to his check-in with a brief “We miss you, Master Richard. Some more than others.”

He assumed that meant Jason or Damian had started another round of drama.

Typical.

The house had smelled the same—lemon polish, faint smoke from the fireplace, something deeper buried beneath. Maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe not.

He passed through the library, the sitting room, Bruce’s study—

Empty.

But Bruce had clearly been there recently. The chair was warm, the coffee mug half-full. A thick, overstuffed folder sat on the edge of the desk, one word scribbled on a post-it stuck to the cover.

Y/N.

Dick didn’t touch it. Just glanced at it, vaguely thinking Bruce was probably updating school records or something—maybe another evaluation of her “involvement” in family business, which Bruce had always firmly kept her out of.

He didn’t question it.

He didn’t question much when it came to her.

He hadn’t thought about her in… he couldn’t even remember.

God. How long had it been since he last saw her?

What did she look like now?

How old even was she?

Twelve? Thirteen? No… wait. She was younger than Damian, right?

That realization hit like a quiet slap.

He didn’t even know.

⸻

He wandered upstairs, lazy steps drawing him through parts of the manor he barely remembered.

It wasn’t until he reached the east wing—the forgotten hallway, tucked behind the third landing—that he paused.

The dust here was thicker. The air colder. The lights overhead flickered faintly. There were no paintings on this side. No signs of family. Just cobwebs.

And one slightly open door.

Something pulled at him. A flicker of memory. A tiny voice calling him from years ago.

“Dicky! Dicky, look! I made you a flower crown—see? See? You have to wear it or it’s bad luck!”

He pushed the door open.

⸻

The room was small—too small for a Wayne.

Not much bigger than a closet with a window.

But he knew immediately.

It was hers.

There were flowers everywhere. Hanging vines along the walls, potted plants clustered at the window, tiny wildflowers peeking out of chipped ceramic cups like they’d grown there on their own.

They hadn’t.

She had done this. Like she always had.

Like his Little Flower always did.

The nickname struck him so hard it nearly buckled his knees.

He remembered her as a toddler. Barely talking. Always clinging. Always with a drawing or a dandelion in her hands, trying to shove it into his palm like it was treasure.

He’d called her that once.

Little Flower.

And she’d giggled so hard she fell over.

He hadn’t said it in years.

He hadn’t seen her in years.

And now?

The room didn’t look like it belonged to a child.

It didn’t look like it belonged to anyone.

The bed was neatly made, sheets no longer the soft pink-and-green florals he half-remembered. Now they were gray. Plain. Clinical.

The drawings were gone. No family stick figures. No bright crayon hearts. No mess.

It was clean.

Too clean.

Lifeless.

⸻

Dick stepped inside slowly, fingertips brushing along the bookshelf where little paper crafts used to sit.

Empty.

He moved toward the desk—stopped.

There were old impressions on the wood.

Shapes from frames that had been moved.

Photos that had once stood there.

And were now gone.

Something twisted in his gut.

He didn’t know what it was.

But it felt wrong.

This felt wrong.

The girl he remembered would’ve had plants climbing the ceiling by now. There would’ve been glitter on the floor. A pile of flower crowns made from weeds. Scribbled notes taped to the wall. Half-burnt candles that smelled like vanilla.

But this room?

It felt like someone had been erasing themselves.

Dick exhaled shakily.

And for the first time in a very long time, he realized—

He couldn’t picture her face anymore.

Not as she was now.

He could only see the toddler version. The one with dirt on her cheeks and stars in her eyes. One he had not seen in a while.

And he hated that.

taglist: @justwannabecat @c4xcocoa

@charlenexoxo1

@galaxypup

@exactlynumberonekryptonite

@runaaclou

[thesweetestofdreams]

Homesick part 2

poly!marauders roommate au 2.6k (part 1)

I apologize for the wait. I'm officially the worst, but here she is!

Your roommates were nice, too nice. It was a suffocating drowning feeling. James, Remus and Sirius were nice, and all you could do was shrink around it. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, just the way it was. 

They believed the lie that you still hadn’t unpacked your coat, and James gave you one of his. You walked to work trying to ignore that his smell still lingered in the fabric. It was the closest thing you’d had to a hug in a long time. It made you miss them. 

You were ready to live off of stolen saltines from work. Working at a cheap diner was far from glorious, but it was the first place to hire you when you needed it. The last few weeks your tips had been shitty and the customers shittier, but somehow your roommates always made too much for dinner. So last night you ate the best pasta you’d ever had trying not to choke on your own guilt. 

It was never that you disliked your roommates, the opposite, really. You liked them too much; you could just never seem to bridge the gap. They were like an opulent display in a store window. You felt like a kid pressing up against the glass but never opening the door; you couldn’t afford any of it anyway.

You'd already been two weeks late paying rent last month, saving up tips. Your roommates of course, were nothing but obliging. It just made the guilt worse. Remus tried to pull you aside once to tell you it was okay if you couldn't, but you quickly brushed him off. You knew they were already charging less than they should.

So you found yourself stealing glances, watching from the hall as Remus came home and Sirius took his bag before he was ever fully inside. You saw them pile into the same bedroom as you brushed your teeth, soft whispers and laughs coming from the door. 

Last night was no different, you peeking into how they were with each other from the kitchen doorway. James was making the pasta from scratch and there was flour in his hair, on his nose, the rim of his glasses. Sirius was hugging Remus from behind while the latter used the sleeve of his sweater to clean James’s glasses. You can’t recall ever being that comfortable with someone. Sometimes you’d think about it as you fell asleep, stealing the ghost of their warmth to lull your eyes closed. 

Now as you flipped the open sign to close, you found yourself stuck there. Stuck in the kitchen doorway haunted by the golden light in the windows and the unwarranted thoughts of what it would feel like to be any one of the three of them. 

“Hey, my boyfriends here and he hates waiting on me, you don’t mind if I run, do you?” Stephanie asked, smacking her gum between her teeth. 

You shook your head despite yourself.

“Thanks you're the best,” she said already out the door. Great now you’d have to close by yourself. 

You finally got done at eleven and the darkness that greeted you on your way home was cold and sticky. You’d left James’s coat at home because you’d been in a mood, too stubborn to accept any help even if it was just a stupid coat. Now you were just stupidly cold, but at least it was something. Every day you felt more like a crack in the sidewalk, weeds growing from between your ribs, only to be crushed underfoot, so just feeling cold was a nice change of pace. 

It was a somewhat peaceful walk until you felt the first raindrop plop onto the top of your head. Before you knew it rain was coming down in fat droplets soaking you from your head to your sneakers, your socks were already wet. You picked up the pace, cursing yourself for taking the long way home. 

“Hey,” you heard the voice before noticing the car slow beside you on the road. You felt your blood run cold. “You need a ride,” the man hollered over the rain. You looked but didn’t stop. Two men were in the car, matching your speed and creeping dangerously close to the sidewalk. From the drooping of their eyes you could tell they were probably drunk. The one closest to you had long hair that kept falling in his face. 

“No, thank you,” you practically squeaked, far from intimidating if even believable. 

“It’s raining,” he said, a hand waving out the window. “Don’t be like that, we're just trying to be nice.” 

“I’m alright.” You offered a stupid smile, like a stupid sheep smiling at snarling wolves. The pit in your stomach did a full turn. A voice in your head told you if you got in that car you wouldn’t end up anywhere nice. 

“Come on,” the man said he was practically through the window and you felt a hand close around your wrist. You used all of your body weight to pull away from him, stumbling back a bit as you did. You backed up as far as possible before running as fast as you could. By the time you made it to your apartment you were crying, hot tears mixing with cold rain. 

You slipped through the front door hoping your roommates had gone to bed. Three pairs of eyes were on you as soon as the door clicked shut. James was the first to get up. 

“I had no idea it was gonna rain, not like that," he said, glancing out the window. “I’m sorry I was here, I could have gotten you from work.” Now he was looking at the kitchen, “Are you hungry? I made Indian food. Do you like-” 

“James,” Remus said softly, a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asked, brow wrought with concern. 

Your eyes were wide looking between the three of them. Your chest rattled with uneven breaths, puffing past frozen lips. Sirius held out a towel for you, you hadn’t noticed him leave. “You’re shaking like a leaf, doll,” he said it like a secret, like he was cluing you in to Remus’s concern. 

“Did something happen?” James asked, and then it was quiet and you felt your eyes burn as more tears welled. 

“I’m fine.” You attempted a smile, but they saw your lip quiver. There was no way for you to know how much it broke them. “I’m not very hungry,” you lied around an empty stomach.

Remus gave you a sad look, “Are you sure, because if you want to talk, we’re here.” 

“God Remus, can you just get off it. I said I was fine.” It came out harsher than you meant to, a knife laced with the edge of panic you couldn’t seem to shake. It was too much, all three of them looking at you like some child, like something about to break. 

Why should anybody care if you were okay, as long as you said you were then that was enough. Why couldn’t they just leave you alone? Everything was so much easier to do alone, it always had been. 

You pushed past Sirius to get to your room. He was giving you a look that cut right through you, like he could see all of your insides, everything you tried to hide. 

You didn't need anyone's pity; in fact, you didn't need anyone's anything. You made sure of that. It was you against the world, just you. Remus, James, and Sirius, for all their niceties, all their warmth towards you, could never truly understand. They had each other, closer than anyone you'd seen.

You didn’t sleep the rest of the night, not until the sun rose and your tears had dried up. 

-

Thank goodness you didn’t work the next day. You woke up with a shiver down your spine curling into an ache in your back. Of course you’d be sick, it was just your luck. Either way the hunt for a new job couldn’t wait, so you trudged into the kitchen. 

In front of the coffee pot, sat a chocolate bar with a sticky note stuck to it. In curly writing it said that James had saved you leftovers in the fridge. It made your chest ache. You just couldn’t understand why they cared so much. 

“They’re too nice for their own good sometimes,” a voice from the kitchen doorway made you flinch. “That’s from Remus by the way, although if you ask me he shouldn’t be the one apologizing,” Sirius said trailing in with mussed hair and a crooked tank top. 

It stung to remember last night, but Sirius wasn’t wrong. You shouldn’t have snapped at Remus, but how were you meant to fix it?

“I get it you know,” he said, reaching around you for the coffee pot and filling two mugs. 

“Get what?” you felt backed in a corner but nowhere near the panic of last night. Somehow you knew if you really wanted to leave Sirius wouldn’t stop you, but you had to hear what he had to say. 

“Saying you’re fine when you’re not. Getting mad when people care.” He poured a mountain of sugar in his coffee and handed you the milk for yours. 

“I don’t…” you trailed off. 

“It’s fine, if that’s the way you want to do things, but you’ll have an awfully hard time trying with those two around.” He leaned against the counter, hair falling over his cheeks. “And a secret, it feels so much better when you stop doing everything alone.” 

“Yeah thanks Sirius,” you said, trying not to fold in on yourself until you disappeared. 

He swayed off the counter, heading back out of the kitchen. He stopped before fully leaving the doorway. ”I’d eat that chocolate. Remus gave it to you to make you feel better, just,” he sighed, “give it a try, doll.”

You grabbed a tylenol from the bottle on the counter. You stood for a minute staring at the chocolate bar, you finally took it as you returned to your room. 

The next day you were plagued by Sirius’s words. You’d tried to apologize to Remus, he’d just asked if you liked the chocolate, and James well he was still James, bright, loving, perfectly James. It seemed like maybe you could try, that was until your fever took a turn for the worst. 

It was time to go back to work and you couldn’t afford to call in. You’d spent half your time trying to ignore being sick and the other half trying to sleep it off. The ache in your back had spread to the rest of your body, worst of all being your head. Your head felt like a weight on your shoulders and your eyelids felt perpetually heavy. You managed to get dressed in your work uniform but by then you felt on the verge of collapsing. You convinced yourself you could make it. You just needed to bring your fever down and then things would be fine, the tylenol would kick in and you could manage. 

You wet a cloth in the bathroom sink and sank to the floor, just fifteen minutes, cool off and then leave. 

-

“Sometimes things just take time James,” Remus said, dropping his bag at the hall tree next to the front door. “We’ve had years to get comfortable together, she’ll come around.” 

“Maybe we could write her a letter,” James said, earnest in his suggestion. “I just don’t want to be doing something that makes her uncomfortable.” 

“You’re not doing anything wrong, Prongs,” Sirius said, sliding a hand across James’s back. “Promise. Moony is right, she just needs time.” 

“If you say so,” James said, feeling somewhat defeated. He just wanted you to feel comfortable in your own home. He wanted to fix it, just like he wanted to fix everything. He was at least going to write you a note, but on his way to the bedroom he noticed you through the open bathroom door. 

“Shit.” He rushed into the bathroom. He knelt down next to you, calling your name. “Are you alright?” 

Your head bobbed off of the side of the bathtub as you woke up. “James,” you said, utterly confused. You’d just closed your eyes for a minute. When did he get here?

“Hello love,” he said, a hand coming to your forehead. “You’re boiling.” 

“Oh my god what time is it?” you said, a slur of words all mushed together in your tired panic. 

“James, Remus wants takeaway. What do you-” Sirius’s words died at the sight before him. 

“C’mon let’s get you off the floor,” James said, taking the brunt of your weight as he pulled you up. 

“Here I thought we had talked about this,” Sirius said, braced at your other side. 

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to will the shaking out of your legs. 

“Right and I’m the queen.” Sirius laughed to himself a small exasperated thing, nothing at all like his normal laugh. 

Remus finally saw you as you sat in a heap on the sofa, he exhaled your name. “Thank goodness you didn’t go to work. You’re burning up.” He pushed hair from your face, tsking in the soft concerned voice usually reserved only for James and Sirius. “I’ll make tea. Pads, the tylenol, please.” 

You let your head fall into your hands as you felt James pulling off your shoes. “I’m so fired,” you sighed, voice full of tired frustration.

“Seemed like a shit job anyways,” Sirius said, turning for the kitchen. 

“Do you mind if I?” James started a hand toward your neck.

You gave him a pained, inquisitive look, but he didn’t wait. He pressed his fingers to the side of your neck. Despite yourself you leaned into the warmth. He was counting to himself.

“Just wanted to make sure you weren’t in any distress.” He kept his hand still for a moment. “You’re not, just a nasty fever. You can have a blanket but I say lots of fluids, rest, and a cold compress to get that fever down.”

“Thank you Dr. Potter,” Sirius said, returning with an assortment of medicine bottles. Remus was quick to follow with tea in hand. 

“Does your throat hurt? I added honey,” Remus said, holding the mug out to you, but you didn’t take it. It felt like you couldn’t.

Three expectant pairs of eyes landed on you, and that’s when the seams ripped. “I just…” you caught on the word, breath hitching, “Why are you being so nice to me?” 

“That’s the fever talking,” James said, rocking onto the couch next to you. Remus and Sirius looked like they weren’t so sure. 

“No, I- I’m mean, and I don’t let you help. I’m always telling you no, or going off somewhere. You shouldn’t be nice to me.” 

“I believe that’s for us to decide, thank you,” Sirius said. 

Remus sank to his knees in front of you, pressing the mug into your hands. “Despite what you may want to think. We want you here. We like you. And sometimes people need help and that’s okay.” 

“Remus and Sirius are right, love. We’re selfish,” James flashed a mischievous grin, “let us take care of you. We want to.”

“If I may have a moment alone with our patient,” Sirius said, a nudging look in his eyes. Reluctantly the two stood, James already planning a healing soup for this very occasion. 

“I hate to say I told you so, but-” Sirus started.

“You love to say I told you so,” James and Remus said almost in unison near the kitchen. You felt a tired smile creep on the corners of your mouth. 

“Okay fine, but what I’m trying to say is, let us help you. It feels so much better than running yourself ragged all alone. I know because I tried, and this,” he gestured around him, to the sight of Remus and James cooking in practiced turns through the kitchen door, “this is exactly what I needed.” 

[trainer-from-unova]

summer of love

Ⓢ english ao3 Ⓢ spanish ao3 Ⓢ masterlist Ⓢ

ship: robert reynolds x afab!reader

summary: it's summer and bob's birthday is around the corner so the new avengers convinced val to give them a weekend to celebrate his birthday party at the beach. because of your feelings and your strong friendship with him you're the one who organised everything and the one who gifted him more gifts, and one of those gifts it's helping him lose his virginity

au: for plot reasons bob goes to missions but I didn't specify whether he uses his powers to any extent or as a soldier trained by the others

c/w: road and weekend trip, beach and pool episode vibes (from an ecchi anime lmao), topless at the beach, domestic fluff, birthday party, alcohol, drinking games / questions, birthday sex, unsafe piv sex, bob has an oral fixation, biting, nipple play and licking, cunnilingus, face-sitting, masturbation, gentle and rough kissing, virgin!bob, submissive!bob, needy!bob, horny thoughts, praise kink, edging, dacryphilia I guess, multiple orgasms, orgasm control, creampie, friends to lovers, friendship so strong between them that they can joke and laugh during foreplay, third pov, use of y/n (like a lot)

a/n: virgin!bob and face-sitting was a request, and needy and nervous submissive!bob was another one, so I decided to mix them with my ideas: beach episode and birthday party / sex. I don't have experience writing (nor reading) virgin men nor face-sitting nor submissive men / dominant women soooo I tried my best and hope you all like it, also english isn't my first language and for more notes and tags check ao3

word count: 9290

Bob's birthday was around the corner, and pretending they had forgotten to surprise him wasn't an option. ______ knew firsthand how important birthdays were — a before and after, a new beginning. And it wasn't just a celebration of getting a year older, it was a celebration of staying alive. Bob's birthdays (and those of anyone on the team) may not have been joyous in the past, but now he had a family that was glad to have him to celebrate them with.

______ had organised everything weeks in advance, and she was so excited it almost felt like her birthday, but she couldn't help it because she was in love with him. After a lot of begging they managed to get a weekend off all at once, and since it was summer they decided to rent a mansion in the Hamptons on the beachfront for a change of scenery, celebrate Bob's birthday and relax on the beach. Also, since they would probably need them to get around, they decided to go in cars even though going by helicopter or private jet would be faster: ______, Bob, Yelena and Fanny went in one and Bucky, Ava, John and Alexei in another, listening and singing along to the Spotify playlist they all shared, with songs they had all chosen and sometimes also played in the tower while training or doing other things. After about four hours of driving they arrived at the address, were greeted by the owner and took the suitcases out of the cars.

"Be careful with this one, please," ______ asked Bucky as he took one of her suitcases from the boot of the car she'd been in, parked in the courtyard while Bob and the others explored the inside of the mansion. They were probably on the first floor, choosing their bedrooms.

"There's no physiological need to bring so much stuff," said John, nonchalantly hefting some suitcases over his shoulders as they all made their way to the open door to go inside.

"Most of them are presents for Bob," she said in a whisper, slightly embarrassed.

"What did you get him?" asked Alexei, also carrying suitcases on his shoulders.

"The question is, what didn't she buy him?" said Bucky, carrying the suitcase she had indicated as if it was a princess in his arms.

"A little bit of everything, really... I may have overdone it a bit, yeah..."

Maybe then Bob would feel in a bind, wanting to pay her back when it was her birthday, but when it came to thinking and buying the presents she felt they weren't enough, especially considering that being an Avenger she now had plenty of money to spare.

But inside some suitcases she had a lot of snacks, drinks and even ingredients (and Yelena had obviously taken Fanny's feed as well). So they wouldn't have to waste time shopping there, she would make the cake there too, and so as not to waste time cooking they would order food and go to restaurants.

It was around six o'clock on Friday evening when everyone was settled, suitcases unpacked and everything in place, so it was time to start baking the cake, and considering it was a summer Friday the sooner they ordered the better as the food was sure to take a long time to arrive.

"And I'll have a pepperoni pizza," Yelena said finally while Bucky wrote down everything in his mobile phone notes, so that Alexei, who was the one who was going to order by his phone, wouldn't forget anything.

They were all around the kitchen island, and upon hearing his daughter's order Alexei nodded and withdrew with his mobile in one hand and Bucky's mobile in the other to make the call more calmly. Bucky went behind him in case the screen of the mobile was blocked, to unlock it with his fingerprint.

"So who's going to help me bake the cake?" asked ______ as she opened the fridge. There were basic things, like milk and water, that the landlady left for her guests or that others had left before them, so luckily there was no need to go out shopping to make it.

"Me," said Yelena as she went to the drawers in search of utensils.

"And me," said John as he went in search of the aprons where the landlady had said they were.

"Cake?" asked Bob. "Really?" he asked resignedly, since he'd had that conversation with her before and didn't think he needed to repeat it, but deep down he was glad that she was paying so much attention to him for several reasons, among them and above all because he was in love with her. Deep down he couldn't help but smile, a smile that he passed on to the organiser.

"Are you seriously asking me if I'm really going to bake you a cake for your birthday?" She asked the same question as she slammed the fridge shut, holding a huge brick of milk in her hands.

"I said I didn't need to," Bob said as she set the milk down on the counter, next to the utensils Yelena was pulling out of the drawers.

"Shhhh, shut up," she said putting the index finger of her dominant hand in front of her lips as she laughed.

"It's not a proper birthday party if there's no cake, is it?" Ava asked, surveying the scene hunched over the counter while John pulled on an apron.

"If you don't eat the rest of us will eat for you, don't worry," John said half-jokingly but half-seriously as he handed aprons to the girls.

"Yeah, especially him," Ava said to Bob referring to John, since John and the others (including him, even though he was playing hard to get with the cake) were eating like crazy because of their serums.

"Well, then let me help too," said Bob.

"You're the birthday boy, you can't help make the cake," said Yelena as she tied her apron.

"Exactly!" exclaimed ______. "Go to the beach, enjoy yourself," she said to Bob. "Take him," she said to Ava while pointing to the open door towards the beach, and seeing Alexei and Bucky approaching again, she asked them. "Take him."

"Come on, let's go change," Bucky said to Bob, putting his arm around him to walk him towards the stairs. Bob craned his neck to look at ______ resigned but laughing, and she looked at him the same way. Ava and Alexei followed behind them, apart from Alexei reporting that the pizzas would take almost two hours to arrive.

They stood there preparing the cake with a recipe that ______ had saved on her mobile phone, and then the others went downstairs in their swimming costumes with towels in their hands to go to the beach. They decided to make two to make the most of the ingredients, so they wouldn't have to return with them to Manhattan or leave them there, and also so that none (of the men) would go hungry. Luckily it didn't take long, and she and John were left to decorate one of the cakes while Yelena took Fanny for a walk. When they finished they put them in the fridge and then went upstairs to change clothes to go to the beach with the others during the golden hour. When the pizzas arrived they had a picnic dinner on the sand while they watched the sunset overlooking the ocean.

"Can we have cake?" asked Alexei as they packed up and headed into the house for the night.

"The cake is for tomorrow," answered Yelena as they started walking across the sand to the mansion.

"He's not going to blow out the candles" said ______ referring to the birthday boy, in the same position as Yelena, "with the cake in pieces."

"But there are two," reminded Bucky. The truth is, like Alexei, he too wanted to try the cake for once.

"What if I'm in the mood now, too?" asked Bob, trying his luck as he joked, "Can't I even do it?"

"You said you didn't want to," she said playing along in the same tone.

"I said you needn't bother to do it."

"Ohhhh," she exclaimed smiling sideways. "Well... If you want to," she added resignedly. "Only if Bob gives you permission," she said to the others, "they're his cakes."

And then they all looked at Bob, and he gave his approval. They ate the cake they didn't decorate and watched a film of Bob's choice, and then Yelena walked Fanny one last time and they went to bed, because it was still a working day and they had got up early that morning.

The next morning they woke up early as usual, even if they didn't have their alarms set. Their bodies were used to waking up at a certain time, but this way they could take the opportunity to go to the beach early and get a good spot on the shore. Everyone congratulated and hugged Bob on seeing him, Yelena took Fanny for a walk, and Alexei and Bucky went to buy alcohol and more snacks.

It was still early and the day was going to get better in ways he could only imagine in his wettest daydreams, but for the moment the best gift Bob got was the sight of _______ in her bikini. And then, as they settled into their chosen spot on the sand, she took off her bikini top to apply sunscreen to her breasts, as she intended to sunbathe but didn't want to get the bikini mark on her skin or get sunburnt. Part of him didn't want to look, or at least he didn't want to be noticed looking (particularly by her), but he couldn't stop even if he tried — if he didn't look at her bare breasts then his eyes went to her inner thighs. For better or worse John nudged him as he applied sunscreen as well, getting his attention — for a moment he thought he had been inadvertently hit as he rubbed the cream into his skin, but seeing his facial expression he realised it was a predetermined act. With the look he gave him, along with a little smirk, he didn't need telepathy to know what he was thinking. "Look carefully, man." Bucky caught his eye too, he looked the same as John, but he offered him a pair of sunglasses. He knew he wasn't just offering them so the sun wouldn't bother him.

"Thank you," he whispered, embarrassed and blushing as he took them and put them on.

"Aren't you guys going to put sunscreen on?" Ava asked as she put some on as well, looking at Alexei and Bob.

"I want to get a tan," Alexei replied as Ava asked John to help her put it on her back.

"What you're going to do is get burned," Yelena said as she approached him with her jar of cream in hand. "You can also get tanned by putting cream on your back. That's what we do."

While Yelena helped her father cream his back and John did the same with Ava, and correctly assuming that it was only a matter of seconds before ______ asked someone to help her cream her back, Bucky went to the shore with the excuse of testing the water temperature so that the only option at that moment was Bob. He also assumed correctly that even if they didn't know he had done it on purpose they would be grateful with him.

"Can you help me, please?" she said looking at Bob, offering him the cream.

"Uh- Yeah, sure," he replied approaching her, taking the jar in his hand as she turned her back to him.

He poured a good dollop of cream into the palm of his dominant hand, and for a moment he didn't know what to do, or rather where to touch first. If it were up to him he would pull her closer to him, hug her from behind and put his hands on her breasts while spreading her thighs with his leg, but he had to settle for rubbing the cream gently over her back. Good thing he was wearing his sunglasses, and especially good thing she he was on her back, because he couldn't stop staring at how well his hand was gliding down her bare back, from her shoulders to dangerously close to where the only article of clothing she wore was.

"What about you?" asked ______, wondering why he didn't intend to cream himself. "What's your excuse?"

"I have the feeling that the sun can't burn me anymore," he answered.

"But what if it does?" Ava asked.

"The burns are very uncomfortable and painful," said John, "being from Florida you should know better."

"And I'm sure Valentina won't discharge you two for it," said Yelena, including her father.

"You don't lose anything by putting cream on you," said John, "let ______ help you putting it on your back."

Now it was time for them both to be grateful to them, and it was also time for her to rub cream on his back, so when he said he had finished (unfortunately for him, for if it had been up to him he would have been touching her for longer) he handed her back the cream and they changed positions. Even if it was only on his back he loved the feel of her hands on him, and she loved sliding them over his muscles even more.

"It's cold," Bucky warned as he climbed out of the water when he saw Bob approaching the shore.

"Just what I need," he replied as he mindlessly waded into the ocean.

"Yeah," said Bucky, laughing, "it's too hot."

"Thank you again," he said as he turned to watch him walk away to where the others were, and he held up the fist and thumb of his flesh hand.

They spent most of the day there, drinking beers and eating snacks and pizzas from the day before, which they heated up in a moment in the house's oven and microwave. It was in the middle of the afternoon that they went back inside, to wash up and get ready for dinner at a nearby burger restaurant, since that was Bob's favourite food (and if they ordered it out, it was impossible for it to arrive hot and for them to reheat it themselves).

They would have dessert at home, which was the cake that was decorated with a heart and his name, and on it two candles in the shape of the numbers of the years he was celebrating, stuck like the arrow shot by Cupid that he had in his.

Being sung Happy Birthday made him a little nervous, but to him and everyone else because what are you supposed to do during it? Besides all the attention, but at least it was genuine attention from people who did love and care about him, and he was very grateful to have them in his life. He loved them all dearly, but he had a favourite.

"Don't forget to make a wish!" she reminded him, grinning from ear to ear as she recorded it on her mobile phone. He looked at her smiling, then blew out the candles as everyone cheered and clapped.

When everyone went to get their presents he was surprised to see her appear with a pile of presents in her arms, she could hardly fit them and was careful not to drop any of them on the floor.

"Why did you buy me so many?" he asked as he watched her leave them on the table where he was sitting, also confused.

"Oh and wait," said Alexei, "there's more on the first floor."

"I don't know," she laughed nervously and blushed slightly as she unstacked the pile on the table, "I felt there weren't enough of them and I didn't really know what to get you, so I felt that the more I got you the more chances you'd like one of them. Hold on a second," she said holding up the index finger of her dominant hand, "I'll be right back," she said as she turned to head for the stairs to get the remaining ones.

"We're going to be here for half an hour," Ava said half jokingly and half seriously after Bob had opened everyone else's presents first, when it was time to open ______'s presents. Already the table and floor was littered with torn wrapping paper.

"Sorry," she said embarrassed, "you don't need to be here if you don't want to be, so take your drinks out to the swimming pool."

They may not have realised that the other was reciprocating their feelings, but everyone else knew it — it was obvious to the outside eye and they knew that they would rather be alone if possible, even if it was for something like opening presents. Still they all looked confusedly at each other and at Bob, seeking his approval.

"Yeah, no problem guys," he replied.

"Okay," Yelena replied.

And he opened each gift with her sitting next to him, telling her in detail why she had bought him that particular gift, why she thought he would like it or find it useful. He listened delightedly, marvelling at how well she knew him and enjoying her attention and affection.

"It's amazing- You're amazing, I don't know how I can ever repay you for all this."

"Oh don't worry," she said shyly, ducking her eyes to take a quick glance at the two small gifts on her thighs.

Among all the gifts, torn paper and the tablecloth had been easy to hide. She wanted those gifts to be the last ones because they were the most personal. It was a letter and some friendship bracelets that she had made herself, and surprisingly she was more embarrassed to give him the bracelet than the letter, because even though she had written him a cheesy letter it wasn't a romantic declaration of love (although she thought about it, but she didn't feel quite sure and didn't want to steal his protagonism on his birthday).

"Okay, the one I'm going to give you now is the penultimate one... It's stupid, you don't have to wear it if you don't want to for some reason, it's silly, but..." she shrugged, and he obviously realised how nervous she was and wanted to calm her down.

"Don't worry, I'm sure I'll love it," she smiled apologetically as well as warmly, and then took his bracelet and raised both fists, making him have to choose. He touched her left fist with the index finger of his right hand and opened it, revealing an empty palm. Then she hid her hands again and did the same a couple more times, not opening her hand even if he got it right. "Oh come on," he laughed.

"Okay, okay," she laughed. "Here you go," she said opening her fist where she had his bracelet, also taking hers on her thighs with her free hand at the same time. "They're friendship bracelets," she said as he took the one she offered him and as she showed him hers.

"Ohhh! It's so cool!" he said as he looked at his, and he wasn't lying or exaggerating. "Let's see yours?" and she held it up to him so he could get a better look. They were both beaded bracelets of various shapes and colours, but Bob's had his name in beads of various shades of yellow and blue and hers had her name in other colours. "What if... I wear yours and you wear mine? I think that makes more sense," he said shyly as he shrugged his shoulders, "so we'll always be there for each other."

"Oh," she said without thinking as the proposition took her by surprise, but she loved the fact that he wanted to wear a bracelet with her name on it and she wanted to wear one with his on it, "yeah, of course," she replied enthusiastically, and they exchanged bracelets and put them on. Bob's was a little big on her, and his was a little small on her, but it was bearable.

"I've never had anything like this done to me before," he confessed with a touch of tenderness as he looked at the bracelet on his wrist.

"I'm glad I'm the first," she said with a smile on her face as she looked at him.

"Really, thank you so much," he thanked her now as he looked at her in the same way he looked at the bracelet on hia wrist, "for everything- Wait- You said it was the second to last one."

"Yeah... It's another cheesy one," she said as she took the envelope on her thighs and handed it to him. "But I don't want you to open this now," she said as he took it.

"Oh come on," he said slightly annoyed again and disappointed as he was looking forward to seeing what it was.

"It's embarrassing," she replied.

"Well... Okay."

"Come on," she said as she stood up and picked up the wrapping paper lying around to roll it into a ball and throw it in the bin, "let's go to the swimming pool with these."

"Well, all right," he said resignedly, and helped her pack up. They took his gifts up to his bedroom, put on their swimming costumes and went downstairs with the others. "Look what ______ made me," he said showing off the bracelet as they approached the others, sitting on sofas and armchairs in the courtyard.

"Ohhh," exclaimed Yelena, "it's very cute."

"In theory he was supposed to wear one with his name on it," she said showing the one she was wearing, "but he thought of swapping them," which surprised no one.

"Probably my favourite- of her presents," the birthday boy quickly clarified, not wanting to make them feel bad, "I still have one left to open."

The swimming pool was bright thanks to the lights and warm from all the sunlight that had hit it throughout the day, but even so, since it wasn't so hot anymore because it was night time, the swim wasn't so pleasant, so between that and the fact that they felt like drinking again, they didn't last long in there. When they had dried off with their towels they sat down again on the sofas and armchairs, this time all of them, and started drinking and chatting. But there comes a point when you run out of topics of conversation, especially considering that they literally do everything together as co-workers and housemates, so they started to play drinking games, asking each other personal questions. At this point it was John's turn to ask Bob.

"Mmm... I don't know," he said as he tried to think of a question. "I don't know," he said with a shrug, "body count?" he said not particularly interested in the answer, it was obviously the first thing that popped into his mind and he settled for it.

"Um... I don't keep count..." he answered shyly, and completely gained everyone's attention, but especially ______'s, who jealously clutched the cup she was holding in her hand tighter without realising it.

"Really?" asked Bucky in surprise.

"Are you a fuckboy?" asked Alexei as ______ raised the cup in her hand to her lips. "And when?" he asked in surprise as they used to keep Bob under control in every way and he didn't get out of the tower much. They didn't generally visualise him being obsessed with girls.

"Wait, fuckboy?" asked the birthday boy in confusion. "I thought you meant assassinations on missions," he said looking at his blond male friend.

"What? No!" said John, "I meant how many people you've fucked."

"Oh, well... None, or at least that I remember," he replied, surprisingly calmer than when he said he didn't keep track (of the murders), but still a bit shy about telling something so sexually intimate (in front of the girl he was in love with), and then, hearing that answer, ______ couldn't help but cough and spit some drink out of her mouth, stealing the attention from Bob and deciding to spit the drink into the soil of a flowerpot she was standing next to.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking totally embarrassed, "it went the other way," and she wasn't partly lying.

They spent some more time there but went to bed early, or at least to lock themselves in their bedrooms. Bob was anxious to open the envelope ______ had given him, and he opened it sitting on his bed by the light of one of the little lamps on the bedside tables beside. When he saw that it was a letter (quite long) he lay down to read it quietly.

By the middle of the letter his eyes were watering, and by the end tears were running down his sides and into his ears, and he wept with joy as he read how much she appreciated him. He read it three times, and even if it wasn't a romantic love letter (although it was rather ambiguous), it was in fact a love letter through and through. He couldn't believe his luck, that day and in general. He had (almost) everything he wanted, and he couldn't wait to express his gratitude, so he put the letter aside and reached for his mobile phone under his pillow.

Bob: You're probably asleep and you'll see this tomorrow

Bob: But I just read your letter

Bob: And I want to thank you

Bob: Right now

Bob: I'm speechless

Bob: If I loved you less maybe I could talk about it more

Bob: I mean

Bob: I'm not implying that you love me less for all that you've written me

Bob: On the contrary!

Bob: Look, I don't know

Bob: You know me

Bob: And I'm really glad you're in my life too

Bob: I wish I could hug you right now

Bob: I love you too

Bob: I love you very much

Bob: Although I feel that those three words alone are not enough to express how much I love you

Bob: Maybe I should write you a letter too

And then he thought that maybe he was already saying too much — he was too emotional and like everyone else he let his guard down emotionally at night (but he couldn't blame it on the alcohol he had drunk earlier, because thanks to the serum it didn't affect him anymore). He wanted to delete the last two messages, but unfortunately it was not possible in that app. And to make matters worse, he saw the "Seen". Instantly he dropped the phone as if it was burning in his hands, leaving it on the mattress and putting his hands to his mouth as he did when he saw John fall down the lift shaft the day he met them. When he saw "Typing..." he quickly removed his hands from his mouth to exit their chat room at the same speed, seeing the messages in the notification bar.

______: I'm glad you liked it

______: 🥹🥹🥹🥹

______: I want my hug 😤

______: Right now!!!!

______: I'm going to your room

______: Give me 30 seconds

He wasn't expecting that, but he wouldn't complain either because it was just what he wanted: to see her, to hug her, to feel her. He quickly wiped his tears and got out of bed and headed for the door, trying to calm down and act as if nothing had happened, and just as she had indicated in the message, in thirty seconds she was there, tapping twice on the door. He opened it and there she was, wearing only a huge shirt (with clearly nothing underneath holding her breasts in place) and a huge smile that infected him. Then she took a few steps forward into the room and closer to him, standing on her tiptoes as he curled up to embrace her once and for all.

"I love you so much," he whispered in her ear, trying not to sound too romantic or desperate, though it didn't really help the way he was holding her: wrapping his arms around her as if his life was at stake, gently yet tightly.

"I love you too," she said tenderly, hugging his bare chest in the same way. He was only wearing a swimming costume because it was clearly hot, but instead of the balcony being open, it was all closed up and the ceiling fan was on full blast.

"Did I wake you up?" he asked worriedly when they parted.

"No, I had my mobile on silent mode and it's impossible for me to fall asleep so quickly, besides I'm not sleepy yet."

"Me too, actually."

And the same idea came up in both of their minds, only she was quicker to formulate it.

"Can I stay here for a while?"

"Sure," he replied as he stepped aside to let her pass, and as she went into the room he closed the door.

"Did you have a good time today?" she asked as she climbed into bed, taking the liberty of lying on her side.

He couldn't help noticing how the pose emphasised her curves and the folds of her shirt.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked as she did the same in the same position.

"I want to hear it coming out of your mouth," she answered with a smile, and as usual she spread it to him.

"I had a great time today, thank you very much."

"Cool. Thanks to you."

"Thanks to me for what?" he asked with a laugh.

"For existing, I don't know," she replied shyly as she laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

He knew that at that particular moment she wasn't thanking him for not killing himself in the past, but he knew that in general she was, and that made him happy. Looking at her with tenderness and with his eyes starting to water again another idea popped into his mind, and he dared to formulate it.

"Can you hug me again?"

"Sure," she replied, "come here," she said as she stood up a little to make herself comfortable. Seeing that he didn't really know how to stand she decided to help him with directions. "Put your head on my arm," she said, referring to the arm she (and seconds later he) was using as a pillow. He did as she instructed, bending his right arm and resting his hand on her arm, and shyly placing his left hand on her waist. "Come closer," she said as she did as she had just indicated him, pulling her neck closer to his face and entwining their legs a little.

"Aren't you hot?" he asked, mingling concern with confusion, unintentionally tickling her neck with his voice. That question caused one of her eyebrows and the corners of her lips to rise.

"What do you mean?" she asked now with a small smirk on her lips.

"Because I'm too hot."

"Don't worry," she said as she began to run her fingers through the strands of his hair with the hand on the arm she was using as their pillow, causing the birthday boy to relax, closing his eyes and feeling even happier and calmer.

It wasn't awkward or uncomfortable, few things were between them. They were great friends and she was generally a loving person in every way, she hugged him often and they had no problem telling each other that they loved each other despite being in love with each other, but this was the first time they had cuddled like this, late at night and almost naked.

"Bob," she said after a few minutes in comfortable silence.

"Mm?"

"I have... one last present for you," he broke away from her, so that she could see his confused expression and look at her as she spoke. "You can refuse if you don't want to."

"What is it?" he asked, getting more and more confused.

"Sex," she replied. The idea had been on her mind for a little while, but she hadn't had enough alcohol to show complete bravery or make the idea seem crazy the next morning, so her nerves got the better of her as she was brought back to her senses by her friend's surprised facial expression. "I mean- For a moment I thought it would be a good idea because I assumed you'd want to lose it for good and that you'd feel more comfortable doing it with a friend, but seriously," she said nervously, "if you don't want to, it's fine and I understand, no hard feelings."

"Are you sure?" he asked surprised and confused. He was happy too, but it seemed like he was living a dream, and if he really was, he'd rather not wake up.

"Yeah."

"But do you really want to fuck me?"

"Uh- Yeah Bob," she answered, blushing and holding back a nervous laugh.

"Why?"

"Because you're really hot, honestly," or not quite, because she still didn't dare to confess that it was also because she was in love with him, and this wouldn't be a good time to do it if she dared. At that moment she could make the excuse that she just wanted to help a friend having sex with him without having to risk her feelings not being reciprocated, which was partly true, but not entirely. "And because I want to help you and make you happy."

"You don't mind that I'm inexperienced?"

"Of course not," she said confidently, placing the palm of her right hand on his cheek. "In fact," she said, smiling and blushing, "I'm glad to have the chance to be the first," she said stroking his cheek with her thumb. "It means you won't forget me."

"I'm going to need your help...." He said, and instantly felt her rub her knee against his cock, which began to harden as he cuddled with her. "A-And.... I don't know if I can last long..." He said nervously and ridiculously excited, it was already showing in his voice and breathing.

"It's okay honey," she said smiling warmly as she brushed his hair out of his face, "don't worry."

You could say that kissing was like signing the agreement, getting down to business. It was she who moved closer to him, leaning in and breaking what little space there was between them. She didn't know if she was his first kiss too, but she liked to think she was, it made her feel even more special. She took pity on him kissing him slowly, and he played along until they started to get hotter and hotter. Although he moaned as much or maybe even more than she did to her surprise he wasn't a bad kisser, maybe it was beginner's luck.

"Do you want to do it with the light off or on?" She asked with bated breath as they broke apart for lack of air.

"On, I want to see you," he dared to answer in the same state, which brought a smile to her face.

Then she told him to sit on the edge of the bed, getting up to take off her panties and then her shirt in front of him, who watched her in astonishment.

"Aren't you going to undress?" she said pointing to his swimming costume with a clear erection as she approached him, raising an eyebrow and smiling playfully.

"Oh, right," he said nervously as he stood up and pulled down his swimming costume, dropping it to the floor and releasing his erection. Now the only thing they had on were their bracelets, and obviously he felt her eyes on his crotch, her eyes went there as his eyes went to hers and her breasts again.

"Good size."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it's perfect," she said to flatter and soothe him (but she wasn't lying) as she moved closer to him, standing on tiptoe and putting her hand back on his cheek and the other on his shoulder, motioning for him to lean in for another kiss, this time more sweetly than passionately. "And all for me," she said before kissing him.

Then she motioned for him to sit on the edge of the bed with his legs spread, and he complied, resting his hands behind him. He assumed she would sit on top of his cock, but he shuddered all the same as he felt her sit on his right thigh as they settled in, feeling her wet lips on his skin and her thigh rubbing against his cock in the same way her hard nipples rubbed against his muscular torso. And then, as if that wasn't enough, she began to rub herself against him as she gave him a hickey on his neck and brought her hand to his cock. He tensed unconsciously as he felt her hand wrap around it, and she slowly but firmly stroked up and down and then down and up.

"Oh God-," he moaned without thinking, his breath hitching and his voice trembling. After a pause to try to get used to the sensation he asked, "W-What do I do?"

"Nothing right now, just relax, okay? Let me know if you feel like you're going to cum," she said as she moved to his lips to kiss him again, this time more passionately than before.

He whimpered as his voice choked in a sloppy, hungry kiss. His desperation was palpable, his cock was hot and throbbing. He whimpered at the slightest caress on it and on his thigh, adding some nonsense when their lips were parted, apart from watching hypnotised how her hand move.

Her left hand clung to his right shoulder and wrapped around his back like a normal hug, and he also wrapped his right arm around her waist. Her breath hitched as he did as she slid more and more easily up his thigh as she became wetter and wetter. Also, as she kissed him, she increased the speed of her hand even more as their arousal grew, until he groaned and told her he was close.

"That was... incredible," he said, his breath coming in ragged gasps, resting his forehead against hers.

"Well, it's only just begun," she replied, laughing softly as she stroked his chin with her fingers. "Tell me something you've always wanted to do, some kink you have, I'll fulfill it."

"Uh- I don't know..." He said hesitantly as he pulled away from her, resting his hands shyly on her waist.

"Oh come on, everyone has kinks, and it probably doesn't scare me," she said in an attempt to calm him down. "I don't judge either."

"I'm a little ashamed to say it..." he said shyly.

"I'm not afraid to do a footjo-"

"What!?" he asked confused and surprised, but laughing at the same time. "No, it's not that! Why do you think it's that!?"

"Fuck, isn't it?" she asked surprised but also holding back her laughter as she put her hand to her mouth to cover it.

"No, why do you think that?" he asked again, now desperate to know the answer as he laughed.

"It's like- the most common weird fetish among men," she replied as she shrugged, still with her hand in front of her mouth trying to hide her laughter. "But don't change the subject and tell me, come ooon," she said putting her hands on his shoulders and trying to shake him.

"Okay," he said trying to sound more serious, "but please don't laugh."

"Okay," she replied, and when she was silent she made direct eye contact with him, but her lips were trembling as she tried to hold in her laughter. It felt like when at school the teacher said that the next person who laughed would be punished, you tried to be serious but you'd look at your friend holding in your laughter and it was all fucked up, but this time Bob was both the teacher and friend. "If I laugh it's not because of that!" She hastened to add in her defence as she laughed, her laughter rubbing off on him as he dropped his back onto the mattress. At least thanks to that moment he was already calmer, both emotionally and sexually.

He stretched out an arm to grab a pillow and put it over part of his face. She could see him giggling, but as the smile faded, she, still sitting on his thigh, knew he was getting ready to confess what he wanted to do to her, or rather, what he wanted her to do to him.

"I want you to sit on my face and ride it."

"Oh," she exclaimed, trying to hide her astonishment as she hadn't expected that, but she didn't dislike the idea either, "interesting. Is that why you put the pillow over your face?" She dared to joke, "To get used?"

"Have mercy on me, please," he said as he laughed, half joking and half serious.

"I will," she said more seriously now as she settled herself, sitting on his waist and leaning forward to pull the pillow away from his face, "no problem," she said resting her hands on his shoulders, nodding and with an encouraging smile that she wanted him to see. "And it's nothing to be ashamed of or weird, a lot of men like that too," she said quietly.

"I'm beginning to worry that you know so much about men's kinks," he said again half joking and half serious.

"I had some curious experiences, yeah... But who hasn't?" she asked without thinking.

He. He didn't have any, and when she realised what she had said, which fortunately was quick, she put her hand quickly to her mouth again.

"Fuck- Sorry," she said embarrassed.

"It's all right," he said laughing resignedly as he rubbed his forehead with his fingers.

"So... Are you sure you want to?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"You're going to find it hard to breathe..." she warned.

"It's not like you can kill me."

"That's fair," she said smiling sideways, "all right then," she said leaning down to give him a short but sweet kiss on the lips. "But warn me if you need to stop, okay?" she said as she pulled away from him to change positions, and he nodded.

She was honestly embarrassed to find herself putting her knees to the side of his head and settling down to bring her pussy closer to his face, it was the first time she had ever done such a thing, but she was glad to experience what she was experiencing and to be able to say that in a way he had been her first time too.

But she didn't want to sit down dropping her weight — she was afraid of hurting him with her weight, though she knew that (as well as choking him) was impossible. She made eye contact with his pleading eyes, eyes that were so kind to her that they soothed her, and at the same time also excited her. And all he could see was her, but mostly he only had eyes for her.

He swallowed, taking a deep breath as she slowly sat on his face, slowly adding more and more weight until she was completely on top of him. He began to fuck her with his tongue, straining to move his tongue quickly and do his best. The instant she felt that along with the tip of his nose against her already sensitive clit she moaned and clutched at his scalp, partly for stability as she began to rub herself against him.

The moans of one excited the other, although his could barely be heard as he was crushing the lower half of her face with her pussy. Nothing but the moans of both and the sounds of his tongue licking inside him filled the bedroom (along with the ceiling fan, the only witness in there to what they were doing and which was doing nothing to quench the heat they were feeling). That made her move harder and faster against him, and the more she rubbed his nose against her clit. She felt a little guilty because she knew he couldn't breathe, but she also knew she had nothing to worry about thanks to his powers. And she was close, feeling hotter and hotter inside her, and she desperately rolled her hips on him, showing him no mercy in that regard.

With her head thrown back, her lips parted as she moaned, she arched her back and clenched her toes as the heat building in her belly surged down her body, and she unconsciously tried to pull away from him through the spasms of pleasure she felt in her clitoris. Bob held her thighs tightly in his hands, large palms that shyly and slowly slid to her buttocks, squeezing them needily when they reached them.

When she pulled away from him he felt her orgasm slide down her entrance and drip into his mouth, and then she lay defeated beside him as he wiped his face with his right arm.

"So did I do well?" He asked anxiously for the answer, turning his neck to watch her catch her breath at the same time he did, but with his eyes closed. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah yeah," she moaned, still with her eyes closed, not noticing that his eyes were fixed on her breasts. "And you? Are you all right?" She asked as she opened them and craned her neck, moving her arm towards him for physical contact.

"Oh yeah," he replied with bated breath, nodding his head. "Better than ever, thank you," he said laughing nervously and blushing.

"You're welcome," she replied also laughing. She had to laugh, the situation was surreal but she was loving it.

"Um- Can I touch your tits...?" he asked shyly, trying to look her in the eyes and trying to avoid looking at them, but failing in the attempt.

"Touch anywhere you want honey, I'm all yours," she said smirking. "Come here," she indicated with her index finger, and he obeyed putting his knees at her sides and sitting on her, careful not to drop his full weight so as not to hurt her. Trembling he brought his hands to them, at last touching what he had wanted to touch all day and for months.

"Oh God," he said in awe, his breath hitching as he squeezed them, "they're so soft... And so beautiful..." he said mesmerised as he leaned down to get much closer to them, and as an idea popped into his mind he looked up, "Can I suck them...?"

She didn't even answer, she just grabbed him by the back of the head with her dominant hand and put his face in them. He rubbed his face against them and in the cleavage, and then, while squeezing one he did everything with the nipple of the other: kissing, biting and pulling, licking and sucking... — not necessarily in that order, he just did what he felt without thinking, moving from one action to another when he got tired of one, and the same from one tit to the other. Now that he had the chance to touch her exactly where he wanted to he wasn't going to waste it.

"Bob..." she moaned as she lifted his chin, wanting to get his attention and make him look at her. Their hungry gazes connected, even though his hair was falling messily down his face and saliva was running down his chin. "Kiss me," and as usual he obeyed, and their lips met again, as did their saliva and tongues. "What else do you want me to do?" She asked when they broke apart for lack of air.

"Fuck me, ride me," he begged, "please," he said as he pulled back from her and lay down on the bed.

He watched nervously but anxiously as she settled down on top of him and took hold of his cock to finally push it slowly inside her. Bob really wanted to see his cock disappear inside her, he had daydreamed about it many times, but the instant he felt its tip enter her wet entrance he had to throw his head back, whimpering and clutching at the mattress as if his life depended on it, clutching even tighter and panting with every inch he entered her.

"Are you okay my love?" She asked as she sat fully on top of him, not because of the weight but because of his condition. Bob's was a little big on her, and she was a little small on her, but it was bearable. She knew he could handle it, but she wanted to make sure.

"Yeah-" he moaned, loosening his grip on the mattress.

"Yeah," she said smirking, "you look very good..." she said as she scanned his muscular abdomen, the same one she'd longed to touch in the morning as she placed her hands on his lower half.

"Oh fuck-!" he moaned as he felt her start to move, and even if it was slow he gripped the mattress tightly again as she held the index finger of her dominant hand in front of her lips where she had a playful smile, meaning that it was better if the others didn't hear them. "Fuck- Sorry- But you feel- God-"

"Don't be sorry," she said still smiling in the same way, "I love to hear you like this," she said as she grabbed his hands and put them on her waist. "Touch me like you're creaming me again," and he obeyed trying to do his best while trying to stay sane and silent, watching in front of him her tits with his saliva traces and his hands sliding up and down and up and down, from her tits to her buttocks.

"Fuck- You feel so good-" he moaned, trying to keep it to a whisper. "Both inside and out... I-I don't think I'm going to last long..."

"Not yet honey, come on," she moaned, "you can do it, I know you can. Do it for me, okay?" she pouted as she wiggled. "Be a good boy and cum when I tell you to."

"P-Please..." he whimpered, tightening his grip on her buttocks. It was definitely going to leave marks, but she wouldn't complain and would wear every bruise and scratch like badges of honour.

"Wait, I assure you, it's better to cum at the same time."

Surprisingly he obeyed again. She thought that by picking up the pace he would cum instantly, but he endured it well, and clearly let him know it by saying that he was taking her very good. Luckily for him she didn't have long to go before she was at the same point as he was — it seemed like his cock was made for her, and to be honest, it was making her too hot to see how he was on the verge of tears as he felt so much pleasure thanks to her.

Hearing her moan his name between compliments as they made eye contact while bouncing on top of him was the last straw, literally. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, thinking it would stop the sobbing, the moaning, and above all the orgasm coming out of him, but it was no use. He didn't have time to warn her, but neither did she. The sensation of her wet walls pulsing around him, just as his cock throbbed inside her as he filled her was too much. Unconsciously, as he felt both his body and hers go into spasms he gripped her waist tightly again as when she was on top of his face.

There was no turning back now, she could proclaim his virginity and what was the best orgasm of his life. Although he knew it would feel better than using his hand he didn't imagine it would feel that good. He was thankful he was lying down, because he ended up exhausted (although he guessed correctly that he would soon recover all his energy, also thanks to the serum). And he wasn't the only one, but she still slowly rocked her hips back and forth, wanting to enjoy him until the last few seconds before she was separated from him.

"God," he sighed, "that was... wonderful," he said as he let go of her hips and she stood up, pulling away from him, "thank you so much. Uh- Did you have fun?" he said as he craned his neck to watch her, watching as she sat in the gap between his legs and let out his semen mingled with other fluids.

"Bob, I've cum twice," she said pointing to her entrance, and as he heard her answer and saw all that came out of her he blushed, but most of all he felt happy and proud of himself, "what do you think?" she asked smirking, a smile that infected him.

"I wanted to make sure," he answered as she approached him awkwardly, her knees giving out from riding him so much one way or the other.

"But you didn't cum when I told you to," she said as she dropped down beside him, laying on her side as she was at first.

"Did you? I think you were more busy cumming on my cock," he said as he got into the same position as her, and the instant she heard that she gasped and had to hold a laugh at the same time.

"How dare you...!?" she asked totally surprised. "I'll have to punish you for double," she said playing along.

"Whenever you want," he said, and they both leaned in for a kiss, short but sweet as their smiles relaxed. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You already are."

He would take that as a "Yes".

"Um... Your letter is very romantic, and always but especially this weekend you've been very... attentive and affectionate with me," seeing where he was going the young woman's face became more serious, "and I was wondering if... you're in love with me, because sometimes I get that feeling but sometimes I also think I'm delusional..."

"What makes you doubt that? Apart from the obvious," she said referring to his low self-esteem due to his depression and traumas.

"I remember a few months ago I said I liked short skirts and soon you started wearing a lot of them, but it could also be because it was getting hot," he said smiling nervously but hopefully, and now he was the one who spread the smile to her.

"It was because of you," she laughed defeatedly, nodding slightly with her eyes closed. She could no longer escape or deny it, but after what they had done she felt hopeful and it wasn't a bad time to confess it once and for all. "It's all because of you, Bob," she said as she opened them, looking up at him with a tender gaze.

"You make me the happiest man in the world," he said grinning from ear to ear as he rose to get on top of her, kissing her face full of kisses as she giggled with a blush. "I love you."

"I love you too," she said as she laughed and placed her hands on his cheeks before kissing him again.

"I can't believe the candles' wish came true so fast," she said as she put her hands on his shoulders.

"Was it me?" she asked surprised but happy.

"Yeah, you — to have you all to myself once for all."

© trainer-from-unova / alicent burton | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

post credit scene:

"Hey, now that I think about it, what kinks do you have?" Bob asked when the room was quiet and dark after taking a cold shower, trying to sleep once and for all.

"Good night my love," she replied with a laugh.

[fic-girlie]

What if... the family went to Pedro's shootong set (maybe fantastic four) and the kids has to see him kissing his costar and they immediately get VERY VERY possesive of Pedro...

Just acting

Pairing: dad!Pedro Pascal x actress!mom!reader Summary: The kids catch Pedro in a kissing scene and aren’t having it—because only Mommy gets to kiss Daddy. Warnings: pure fluff and jealous kids

The flight to London had been a whirlwind of snacks, iPads, and whispered schemes in the dark of the cabin. Mateo, nine and a planner like his father, had plotted the surprise with you in the back of the car weeks ago. Lucía, seven and wildly expressive, nearly spoiled it a dozen times before you even got to Heathrow. But somehow—miraculously—they’d kept the secret.

Now, as you walk hand-in-hand through the polished soundstage corridors at Pinewood Studios, their eyes are sparkling with anticipation. Mateo keeps straightening the hem of his hoodie like he’s about to walk into a press junket, and Lucía clutches a stuffed Grogu to her chest like it might offer her strength.

You squeeze both their hands and lean down slightly.

“Remember,” you whisper, smiling, “quiet until we get the signal.”

They nod solemnly, the way only kids who are about to do something very exciting can. It’s a thrill in their little bones, this mission. You’re all here to surprise Pedro.

You haven’t seen him in nearly three weeks—your own filming schedule kept you locked in Prague, while his Fantastic Four shoot kept him here. The longest the four of you have ever been apart. FaceTime helped, but it never quite makes up for the warmth of his hand resting on your hip in the kitchen, or the quiet way he rubs circles into your back at night when you can’t sleep.

The set PA guiding you through the back lot smiles knowingly. She’s young, maybe early twenties, with a clipboard in hand and a mic in her ear.

“He’s shooting a quite romantic scene right now,” she says, leading you into a dark hallway that opens into the back of the soundstage. “We’ll keep you behind the monitors until they cut, then you can surprise him.”

Lucía scrunches her face. “Romantic?”

“Probably just a hug,” you whisper quickly, not wanting the mood to change. But as you draw closer, you hear the sound of Pedro’s voice—low, magnetic, and pitched into that dramatic hush he uses when in character. And another voice, Vanessa Kirby’s, softer, responding.

Then—laughter from the crew. Someone calls for quiet. You’re close now, standing behind a screen with the kids, peeking through.

Pedro is standing in the centre of the set, dressed in his costume—white tank top  and sweatpants but with that signature Pedro swagger in every move. He’s leaning into Vanessa, one arm around her waist, her hand pressed to his chest. There’s a pause… and then he kisses her.

It’s professional. Polished. Choreographed.

But none of that matters to the two small bodies beside you.

Lucía gasps audibly. Mateo’s eyes go wide.

“Ew,” Lucía hisses, backing up into your side like she’s been personally betrayed. “Why is that lady kissing our daddy?”

Mateo doesn’t say anything. His brows furrow. He’s calculating, evaluating—just like Pedro when he’s considering a script.

You try to explain quickly. “It’s just acting, baby. Like when Mommy pretended to be married to that French guy inone of my movies.”

“That was different,” Lucía says with a dramatic pout. “You didn’t look like you liked it.”

Before you can stop them, both kids march forward. Past the screen. Past the chairs. Onto the set.

“Cut!” someone calls, but it’s too late.

Pedro turns just in time to catch a blur of dark curls and righteous indignation flying at his legs.

“Daddy!”

He stumbles, arms catching Lucía mid-run as she slams into him like a missile.

“Whoa—what the—?” He breaks into a laugh as he lifts her into his arms, the shock melting instantly into joy. “Lulu?! What are you—? Mateo?!”

Mateo is slower, his arms crossed like he’s not quite ready to forgive this whole betrayal just yet. But he’s coming closer, dragging his feet dramatically.

Pedro’s face is lit up, his whole body alive with love. He presses kisses to Lucía’s cheeks as she wraps her arms tightly around his neck.

“I missed you so much,” she says, voice suddenly small, pressed into his shoulder. “You were kissing a stranger.”

Pedro looks up, alarmed. “Oh, cariño—it’s not real. That’s just part of the movie.”

“She’s not even pretty,” Lucía mumbles, pulling back to glare in Vanessa’s direction. “Mommy’s prettier.”

From across the set, Vanessa Kirby chuckles warmly, waving at you. She’s already walking off-set with grace and zero offense, mouthing “adorable” before disappearing behind the curtain.

You make your way over now, catching Pedro’s eye.

He beams at you. That beams at you from across a room full of people look that never gets old.

“Hey, hermosa,” he says softly, shifting Lucía to one hip as you come to stand beside him. “You’re here?”

You nod, trying not to cry. “We missed you.”

“Mommy says three weeks isn’t even that long,” Mateo says pointedly, glaring up at Pedro like he’s got something to prove.

Pedro crouches down, bringing himself to Mateo’s level, hand still firm on Lucía’s back.

“Three weeks is forever, mijo,” he says seriously. “I missed you guys so much I almost quit.”

Mateo considers this. “You didn’t really almost quit.”

“No,” Pedro admits. “But I wanted to. Because nothing’s more important than you two. And your mom.”

You blink fast, warmth rushing up through your chest.

Lucía tugs on his beard. “So no more kissing fake girlfriends.”

“Only Mommy,” Mateo adds.

Pedro nods solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. “Swear on Grogu.”

Lucía presses the plush doll between them like she’s bestowing judgment.

“Okay,” she decides. “You’re forgiven.”

Pedro scoops both kids up in a giant hug, his arms enveloping their little bodies, your own hand finding its way to his shoulder. He leans up and kisses your cheek, softly, lingering.

“They really didn’t like that scene,” you whisper.

He laughs under his breath. “Guess I’m gonna have to put a warning label on this movie.”

—

You end up staying on set the whole afternoon. Pedro pulls some strings—well, actually he just whispers something to the director and suddenly the schedule opens up like magic. You all have lunch together in his trailer, cramped and warm and full of laughter.

Lucía insists on sitting in Pedro’s lap the entire time, refusing to let go of his shirt collar.

Mateo asks a thousand questions about the Fantastic Four powers, poking at props and learning all the behind-the-scenes secrets.

Later, while the crew resets for a nighttime shoot, Pedro pulls you aside, into a corner near the wardrobe rack where it smells like leather and old coffee.

“You really brought them all the way here just to surprise me?”

You nod. “They missed you. I did too.”

His expression softens, fingers threading through your hair. “You’re amazing.”

“And you,” you murmur, “have some very protective children.”

He grins, looking over your shoulder at the trailer where Lucía is now pretending to direct her own movie with a headset on.

“They get it from their mom.”

You lean into him, his arms wrapping around your waist, and whisper, “Next time you do a kissing scene, you might need a security detail.”

He laughs, low and quiet into your neck. “Next time, they can be on set. Right between me and whoever I’m supposed to be kissing.”

You smirk. “That’ll go over well with Marvel.”

“I don’t care,” he says, and kisses you properly—slow, warm, full of all the things you’ve both been missing. “You’re the only one I want to kiss anyway.”

Mateo’s voice cuts through from behind the curtain. “We can see you!”

You break apart, laughing. Pedro calls back, “Good!”

Lucía adds, “And keep it private!”

You laugh again, your forehead resting against Pedro’s chest as he shakes with silent laughter. His heart beats under your palm, steady and strong, right where it belongs.

Home. Family. Yours.

Always.

[sacred-coffin]

This will probably be a long post. but trust me, I think it's worth it. Here is how I feel/interpret ghost canon

Each Papa/era was like a soft reboot. and that's fine! Tobias didn't intend for the band to have a story when he started out, and only later started making one up. It makes sense that when he started crafting a story for this (which he had to do while he was actively performing this story) that he probably didn't have every detail ironed out the way he wanted them to be, and had to make retroactive changes later.

I think it would be really interesting to write speculative canon stories from the perspectives of each papa, where the canon information established in their era is the canon that we stuck with going forward. Maybe someday I'll do that.

So, let's walk down and discuss canon through the eras, based off the information presented during each era.

Primo.

arguably the LEAST consistent "canon" of them all. There wasn't really a "ministry." The band was spreading the word of the devil, and was just one facet of many influences across the globe. They were sinister, Papa was probably a living corpse, he performed possessions on people, hell they kidnapped interviewers. They were the very picture of an evil satanic band. Primo said implied he would invade Poland. he said he'd hit a panda in the face for 1 million lira (which was already an obsolete currency), or roughly 400-500 euros. They were just plain evil.

Secondo.

Things really changed here. It seemed to be heavily implied (or even directly stated) that Papa was just a hired musician. He knew his time as Papa had a deadline, and it wasn't his death. There still really wasn't this idea of a "ministry," but they were less sinister now. In fact, Secondo made comments about how he likes to "be there for the children", and how he enjoys the way they look up to them like priests "without the guilt, violation, and corruption." (thank u radley for grabbing these quotes for me). It became a bit more obvious that they were against the way Christianity has hurt people, and there was this idea of them being their own religion, but it still felt like they were just one small mouth piece out of many. Papa wasn't a leader of any church, just a lead singer carrying the message.

Terzo.

Ok so there was a MAJOR shift in the religious aspect here. This is when we meet Sister Imperator, and we seen the ministry as a physical place. Sister Imperator talks more about how they have a mission of spreading the word of the devil, and even goes so far as to say that Terzo is like, a mouthpiece for the devil. But she also makes it clear that he's not a leader, either. Something else I think is noteworthy is how Sister Imperator at one point says that the ghouls' masks are made in the image of their gods, so like, we're REALLY getting into this religion thing. Which is ironic, because Meliora is about men in the absence of god...

We also find out that Terzo & Secondo are brothers, which brings the idea of a blood line into the mix. It's not stated that they had to choose Terzo next, but it also seems pretty coincidental for your next lead to be the half brother of the previous lead, right? Terzo however drops hints that he has a dad that we will meet someday, and then we meet Nihil after they yoink Terzo.

Cardinal Copia.

Lore REALLY picks up here. There's apparently a bloodline for the papas, the band was originally started in the 70s before it fell off due to some conflict between Nihil and Sister Imperator, but the ministry seems to have been established...for a long time, perhaps? Nihil's father, his father's father, and so on were Papa, apparently. And Cardinal Copia is just some guy, he's not even Papa, he's just another lead singer. Nihil is acting Papa for now. The ministry kills off the past three papas so that they can continue to be of some use to the ministry (instead of playing Uno all day). Also, clearly there's a lot of power behind the ministry, since they literally got away with murder.

And then we find out that Cardi has secretly been Sister Imperator & Nihil's son this whole time! So this bloodline thing still feels significant, but it's also still apparent that Papa... doesn't have any power over the ministry. He's a mouthpiece. Sister Imperator & Mr. Psaltarian (and the nameless other clergy members perhaps?) are the ones who make decisions. There's so much mystery!

All of this to say: the canon has always changed and had retcons. I feel like it will probably have less retcons going forward, and we might be heading towards the "one true canon," or at least the story Tobias really intends to tell. But that doesn't mean the things in the past are lies, they're truths left behind in favor of something new.

Sister Imperator Comics/Perpetua.

Now this doesn't really change TOO much to the previous canon, but there are a few significant differences. for starters, the band was just an idea Sister Imperator had one night with Nihil. There was no "ministry" behind it (and we have yet to see the beginnings of this Ministry, can not WAIT to see this last comic). The band was established to be anti-religious abuse, spreading a message for people to come to them from love not fear, etc. Not really any focus on the devil here, aside from perhaps symbolically (which is very in line with Tobias's own beliefs. Sister Imperator really feels like a self insert, or even mouth piece, for Tobias sometimes lol) We find out more about how Sister Imperator's relationship with Nihil unfolded, and how the ministry actually has a background in... the circus. Nihil was a circus boy. Cardi was raised by his adoptive circus aunt. We still don't know how the twins got split up, but we're starting to have some more solid foundations and questions answered...even if some of the questions seem to have changed. EDIT: almost forgot to add. Primo, Secondo, and Terzo might be Nihil's brothers now? It's only been mentioned twice and I don't think it was a slip up; I expect we might learn more with the next comic & as time goes on.

[girlywhooooops]

-Watermelon, Sugar!

Third-Year Suguru! who goes through each day on autopilot. Exorcise, Absorb and Repeat. Sunken cheeks, bleak and lifeless eyes and a smile plastered on to convince the world, and himself that this was okay. He was okay.

Third-Year Suguru! who gets sent to a mission to shadow the chirpy Second-Year student whose optimism is nauseating. The same Second-Year student who waved at him, covered in blood, one hand pressed to her stomach in a vain effort to stop the bleeding after a mission. Grinning from ear to ear she says "You should see the other guy!"

Third-Year Suguru! who doesn't know whether to laugh or to tell her off. Luckily, he doesn't have the time to ponder as Nanami drags her away while making it known how stupid she was for stopping to have a conversation when she's minutes away from collapsing due to blood loss. "But I wanted to look cool!" He heard her whine.

Third-Year Suguru! who lets her lead, watching as she swiftly pins the Grade-I down. "Make sure not to exorcise it, I'll absorb it later." he calls out. The girl salutes him and is promptly thrown off by the curse. "Oh, it's on now." He thinks if the angry emoji was a person, that would probably be her now.

Third-Year Suguru! who waits for her to incapacitate the curse before exorcising it. As he's about to absorb the curse, he notices her scrunched up, disgusted face. "I really hope that tastes better than it looks." He chuckles at that, "I can assure you that it tastes worse than it looks." He sees her face fall at that. "Do you have to eat it? Can't you just store it in your belt or something? Like Pokeballs?"

Third-Year Suguru! who actually laughs at that. Pokeballs huh? The sentiment weirdly made him feel better. The feeling didn't last as the wretched taste came back to haunt him. The girl who saw everything in black and white, saw him grimace slightly at the taste. It was faint enough that if you weren't watching him as intently as her, you'd miss it.

Third-Year Suguru! who's left dumbfounded as the girl shoves her scythe into his hands, telling him to stay put as she ran off to god knows where.

Third-Year Suguru! who doesn't know how to react when she returns and hands him a small brown baggie, grinning like a child who got all the alphabets right. He peeks into the baggie with a raised eyebrow only to see the most brightly coloured candies shaped like watermelon slices. "Although they look like watermelons, they are strawberry flavoured. The artificial flavour is powerful enough to takeover all your senses, so much so that you'd wish it was the curse you'd eaten instead".

Third-Year Suguru! who tries one and is shocked at how accurate her description had been. The flavour was so disgustingly overpowering that it managed to mask the wretchedness he resigned to live with. "Was today so bad that you've resorted to torture?". She gasps, hands grasping her chest dramatically, "I wouldn't dare!" she says. "These are but the finest watermelon treats that a broke student's spare change can offer." She bows while offering up the rest of the candies. "I hope you enjoy them well!".

Third-Year Suguru! who mirrors her smile as he takes the candies from her. He looks at her cherry tinted lips wearing a satisfied smile. "You know," he begins as he steps closer, cupping her cheeks with one hand, squishing them lightly causing her lips to pucker. "If you were so worried about the taste.." he leans in "I can think of finer treats you could've offered".

Third-Year Suguru! who doesn't move as she stutters out something about reporting to Yaga and runs off, trying in vain to hide the blush she's now wearing. He looks at the candies in his hand, something so overpoweringly sweet to make his life a little less bitter. He smiles at the thought.

Third-Year Suguru! who sees the same candy filled bag next to her mangled corpse later that week.

[moody-alcoholic]

Cross My Heart

Chapter 1 - Self Preservation

Summary: poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers.

You're a smuggler working for whoever pays trying to survive in the war torn Urzikstan.

On what should have been a routine job for Konni you end up becoming entrapped by a mysterious SAS unit.

They need your help and maybe you need theirs too.

Original abridged version HERE

---

CW: Mention/description of injuries.

Masterlist coming soon™

AO3

Enjoy <3

It was late evening when Ivan called you for a meeting. You walked into what Ivan has started calling the ‘war room’ to see a group of older looking men lined up against a wall. They look different from anyone else you’ve seen, these must be the people he wants you to smuggle. 

Ivan is leaning over the table talking to whoever is on the other end of the call. You can hear a russian voice but you don’t recognise it. There is also another man sitting at the table who you don’t know as well. You lean against the opposite wall with your arms crossed, they’re going over the plan. As per usual you’re not listening to specifics. 

Your attention turns back to the three guys, they look older, the walking is going to be hard on them. From what you’ve gathered there’s not even a swap, just dropping them off at an Al-Qatala munitions place about 30 kilometers inland. You watch as Ivan walks around the table with his arms crossed. 

He looks better, gave himself a makeover by the looks of it, got a haircut, new suit and vest. He looks good for once-or at least better than his usual get up, it’s a shame he’s trying too hard to copy Makarov. The people you’re supposed to be smuggling look scared as shit, they’re not soldiers, they’re not POW’s, something else, all you were told is that they’re specialists.

“You fucking listening?” Ivan snaps at you. You stand up off the wall letting your hands drop and go over to the map on the table. 

“I’ll take the normal route, 30k shouldn't be too slow, get them there by tomorrow morning.” You say pointing at the map. 

“No. Farah’s moving north.” Ivan says, you sigh, raising an eyebrow at them.

“Alright, I’ll take the longer route, stop off at a safehouse if I need to.” You say.

“You should do it in one night. It’s risky stopping off at safehouses right now.” Ivan says, you know he’s not saying it for your sake. This is precious cargo, you look over at them standing against the wall. They’re not Russian, or at least they don’t speak Russian. They keep exchanging confused glances while they watch you. 

“Can your smuggler handle the ULF?” A voice through the phone asks. 

“I can handle myself.” You snap back, you don’t need strangers doubting you.

“Make it as far as you can before looking for shelter. If you’re lucky you will make it there by tomorrow morning.” Ivan says. You sigh, that was going to be the plan. But of course you can’t have all the glory, Ivan needs to earn his role so you let him think the plan is his. Besides, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. 

“Fine.” You say, nodding and standing up. You look down at the new markers on the map, it doesn't seem like much has changed since you were last out. This is your first big job in a while though. 

“Good.” The other random guy says, you don’t recognise him but he’s definitely Russian. Probably someone higher up in Konni, here to keep an eye on Ivan, it is his first time running a base for them. A big one too, on the Russian-Urzikstan border. You want to be proud of him but you really don’t care. 

You look out the window crossing your arms again. It’s early evening, you should leave when it’s dark it will give you the best cover. 

“What do you know about Farah? Why is she moving north?” You ask. 

“No idea, Al-Qatala are monitoring it. Besides, you’re friendly right?” He says. 

“Friendly’s a loose term. I don’t think she would be happy with me sneaking people to Al-Qatala.” You say. 

“You’ll be fine, you know what you’re doing.” Ivan says. You nod, sighing. 

“I’ll get what I need, leave as soon as it gets dark.” You say, turning to leave the room. 

…

You walk over to the prison wing, although it’s barely a prison. The whole base used to be a school or a college. Konni took it over a few years ago, the prison wing used to be the art department or something based on the plain concrete walls and floor. It’s the most secure building, there’s an old cold war bunker directly under it. 

You’re looking for Calab, you need a cigarette and a chat before you leave. It's the first proper job you’ve had in a while. Other than some simple intel runs for Konni, this is the first time you’ll be back in your home country in over a week. 

Not that you miss it, not like there's anything there for you.  

“Heading out already?” Calab calls over. You smile walking over to him and accepting the cigarette he’s already holding out for you. 

“Thought you'd be off duty already.” You smile, lighting it. You take a deep breath in letting it calm you and warm your lungs. 

“Too early for that, besides think I’d miss waving you off?” He chuckles. 

“Big package.” He says pointing over at the people you’re smuggling. 

“Konni to Al-Qatala.” 

“Look at you, big leagues.” He says, you can hear the sarcasm in his voice. 

“Big pay too. Maybe I'll take you out for dinner.” You smile nudging him. 

“How much is the split with Ivan?”

“60/40.” 

“He’s screwing you.” You laugh, blowing out a lung full of smoke. 

“In multiple ways.” You say sighing. One of the soldiers calls you over. 

“Got to go, should be back late tomorrow.” You say patting him on the shoulder. 

“Give me another?” You ask, holding your hand out for another cigarette. 

“You need to buy your own packs.” He chuckles, handing you two. 

“I don’t smoke.” You smile back at him, flicking the butt on the floor. 

“Hey!” He calls, you turn to look at him. “ULF’s heading North.” 

“Yeah, I know.” You say holding a thumbs up. You watch as the soldier shakes hands with one of the people you’re smuggling. You won’t bother learning their names, the less you know about them the better. 

“Long trek, need anyone to escort?” One of the soldiers says, you shake your head. You don't know who he is, you’ve only been using this base since Ivan got moved here. Easy to sneak people over the border when you’re literally on it. These people are a nice gift from Makarov, get them to Al-Qatala and then get back. 

“Do you speak Arabic?” One of them asks, you nod. They seem nervous, nothing like most of the people you smuggle. Your plan is to make it to a ULF safehouse you know will be empty, or at least you hope it will. If the ULF are moving north you have to hope they’ve not come this far north. 

“How long will it take?” One of them asks.

“Couple of hours, but we’ll be stopping off half way.” You reply, leading them over to the main gate.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” He asks, you turn to look at him and raise an eyebrow. 

“I don’t really feel like walking 40 kilometers in one go.” You say, smiling at the soldier who’s standing at the main gate. You offer him one of your cigarettes. 

“Heard the ULF are moving north.” He says, you sigh, taking it away before he can accept it. He scoffs and goes to open the gate. 

“There’s a rumor marines landed a few hours away.” You smile offering the cigarette again. 

“Americans?” 

“No fucking idea.” He says. 

“Landed where?” You frown letting the others go through the gate before you. He puts the cigarette in his mouth. 

“Russia.” He says as he lights it. You nod and walk through the gates. 

“Did you at least fuck Ivan?” He asks, closing the gate behind you. 

“No.” You smile walking away. 

“Fuck, he’s going to be in a bad mood.” He says, loud enough for you to hear. 

“Not my problem.” You call back walking past the 3 people you’re smuggling and putting the cigarette in your mouth. 

“Do any of you smoke?” You ask, switching to Arabic and looking around them all. One of them nods, you smile, lighting the cigarette. “Good.”

_____

When you make it to the safehouse you can already see it's still empty. You pop the lock on the door and walk in. 

“Where are we?” The older one asks. He started complaining about his feet hurting a few kilometers into the walk. You thought you were going to have to stop even earlier, but you forced them to push through it. There’s no way the ULF are this far north and even if they were they wouldn't use this safehouse. 

When you get in you feel the ache in your legs, you could use a rest too besides on the way back you won’t be stopping off. You shouldn’t sleep but you’re already feeling the first 20 kilometers and you know the people you’re escorting are feeling it worse. 

“There’s MRE’s in the crate.” You say. “Don’t drink the water from the taps, there should be water jugs in the garage.” 

They’re still looking at you bewildered and confused. You sigh, rubbing your forehead. 

“It’s safe here, the ULF doesn’t come this far north. If Konni or Al-Qatala show up, call me.” 

“Where are you going?” One of them asks. 

“To get a few hours rest. You should too, one of you needs to stay up though, as a lookout.” You say. 

“You’re the one with the gun.” The one with the glasses points at your hip. 

“If the enemy comes knocking, my gun’s not going to do shit. So wake me before that happens.” You say sighing and walking up the stairs. You’ve never been caught short before, you’re not going to let it happen now. You still check all the upstairs rooms just to be safe, the place is clear. You pick one of the rooms, pulling your pistol off your hip and putting it on the bedside table. 

You take your jacket off but leave everything else and lay down on top of the sheets. You should get a few hours rest, or at least try. You could use another smoke but then you definitely won’t be able to sleep. You can get a few hours here and then still make it by the morning if you pick up the pace a little. 

You sigh and close your eyes, it doesn’t take long for sleep to pull you under. 

____

A light flicks on and your eyes snap open. 

Something’s wrong, you can feel it. You look round the room, your eyes immediately land on a man holding a pistol at you. He’s sat on a chair, decked out in full military gear. There’s a bigger weapon slung over his back. 

“Not a good idea to be sleepin’ when you’re alone.” He has an accent you can’t quite place. Not American though. You look at the patches on his vest, Union-Jack, O-Positive. SAS, fuck . 

“I had lookouts.” You say swallowing the nerves. 

“Yeah, ‘bout that.” He sighs, your heart is pumping rapidly in your chest. They’re most likely dead-innocent people, dead. 

“What do you want?” You ask, your eyes flick over to your pistol on your night stand. The man sees it, his eyes follow yours. 

You have to act now. 

You reach out for the weapon. The man is on his feet in an instant, the pistol in his hand comes down hard on your wrist. 

You yell out in pain, your weapon falling to the floor. The door to the room fly's open, there’s another man now. He makes you jump, training an AR at your head with a scary looking skull mask covering his face.

There’s no point in fighting.

The man next to you picks the weapon up off the floor, unloading it and throwing it to the side. You swing your legs out the bed.

“Don’t fuckin’ move!” He shouts. You hear the safety click off his gun, your breath catches in your throat. You hold your hands up, you’re unarmed, there’s nothing you can do. 

“What are you doing in a ULF safehouse?” The man in the doorway asks, you keep your eyes trained on the person holding the pistol to your head. The other man’s accent is different. 

“You’re injured?” There’s blood on his vest, it’s a long shot but better then nothing. “I’m a medic. I can help.” It’s a lie but all you can think about is getting out here alive.

The man looks to the doorway, you keep still. Even if you could tackle him to the ground his friend would finish you off. 

“We’ve got one injured, think you could help?” The man in the doorways asks. 

“What happened?” You ask, trying to hide your nerves. Your mum was a nurse, your dad a doctor before. Before the war, you could help, maybe that would buy you your freedom, or at the very least make sure they don’t shoot you right away. 

“GSW.” That’s all you’re given, that could mean anything. 

“You work with the ULF?” The man in front of you asks. You shake your head. 

“Al-Qatala?” You shake your head again. 

“Who?” The man in the doorway asks again. This time you turn to him. The mask on his face is splattered with blood. He’s bigger, taller and wider than the guy in front of you. He has the same patches though, Union-Jack, SAS.

“Does it matter, you said you had injured? You’re not going to find a hospital around here. It’s all Al-Qatala controlled territory.” You say. Self preservation at its finest. 

“Can you help then?” The man in front of you asks. You turn to look at him, your hands still in the air. 

“The longer we wait the less chance I have. Gunshot wounds can be unpredictable.” You say swallowing the nerves. Confidence is key, that's what you learnt once. The man in front of you puts down his weapon, grabbing your arm and pulling you to your feet. 

“Try anything and we fuckin’ kill ya.” He says through gritted teeth. 

You make it down to the ground floor as their hostage, it doesn’t take you long to see the blood stains on the floor. The uneaten MRE’s and open jug of water. The man with the mohawk is walking down first, the man with the mask is behind you, the barrel of his AR digging into your shoulder blades. 

You can see two other people, they’re dressed in similar gear. At least one of them is, the other is laid out on the couch. The man standing turns, he brings a pistol up pointing it at you. 

“Easy Gaz. She’s a medic.” 

“Doesn’t look like one.” The man-Gaz-says lowering his gun looking around at the people escorting you. They walk you over to the sofa, you step around the coffee table, you can see an open first aid kit, it’s one of the ones from the safehouse. It should have some things that could help you. The man on the sofa looks clammy, pale skin and sweat on his forehead, his top is soaked too, a mix of blood and sweat. 

You don’t know what you’re doing, you didn’t think you could make it this far. They’ve taken his vest, belt and boots off. It’s just his shirt and trousers, his shirt has been pulled up to his chest, they’ve been trying to stop the bleeding. You’ve seen wounds like this before, you’ve seen people die from wounds like this. 

You try to think about what you remember from your parents and spending countless summers and holidays in the hospital. 

“You said you could help him. What do you need?” The voice snaps you out of your head, you look over at him. He seems the most reserved, dark skinned brown eyes, he has a cap on, he’s stood on the other side of the sofa his hands still on the weapon slung over his chest. 

You have no idea what to do. 

“Clean water, and bandages. Sterile if possible.” You say, you can’t tell if that sounds professional or not but they exchange glances and the mohawk man moes from behind you into the kitchen. You take another step over to the sofa. You need to know if the bullet has gone through or not. 

“Not another step.” Gaz says, raising his weapon. You hold your hands up again, holding your ground.

“I can’t help him if you don’t let me check him.” You say, gritting your teeth.

“Stand down Gaz.” You hear the voice behind you say. Gaz shifts gripping the weapon in his hands tighter. 

“You won’t hurt him?” He asks.

“Cross my heart.” You say looking in his eyes, you keep your hands up until he lowers his weapon. You look down at the man on the sofa. There’s so many things you need to check, he could be bleeding internally, you can’t see any other wounds but there could be others. 

You remember the basics, seemingly pointless stuff like ten-second triage and CABC. You could name every organ and what it does. Maybe you could stitch him up, you’ve had enough practice in the labs with fake skin. You know how to do an ultrasound and an x-ray but it’s not like ULF keeps stuff like that in a safehouse. 

You lower your hands but take it slow, bending down by him. Your hand brushes over the bandages. They're thick and it hasn’t bled through. You want to pull them back, look at the wound but if it’s not bleeding he's stable. 

“I got water. Ghost, Gaz. Check your medkits for sterile bandages.” It’s the man with the accent, you turn to see him bringing over a bowl of water. 

Ghost. He must be the man with the mask. Gaz and Ghost.

He puts it down on the coffee table behind you. 

“What's his name?” You ask, swallowing the nerves you need them to think you can do this. Maybe you can do this, or maybe he’ll die and they have someone to blame. 

“Is that important?” Gaz asks. 

“No, I'm just used to asking.” You pull the bandages back slowly, blood pours out and you take a clean bandage mopping it up. You should clean the wound, asses the damage and get then fuck out of here. Or at least do enough for them to let you go. 

“What's his blood type?” You ask. 

“Oh-positive.” The Ghost says. 

“Do you think he needs blood?” They guy with the accent asks. You look up at Gaz putting the bandages back down. 

“I don’t know. How bad was the bleeding?” You ask. 

“Bad I guess, bled through a few bandages before we got it under control.” Gaz says.

“Can you help me roll him on his side? I need to know if there's an exit wound.” You ask, turning to the guy with the accent, you still don’t know his name but he seems the nicest out of all of them. 

“There’s no exit wound.” Gaz says, you believe him and the less you have to move him the better, especially if the bullet is still in there. You nod looking back at the bandages and gauze they’ve managed to collect.

You replace the bandages with gauze, homeostatic gaze, the good stuff you've only seen once or twice. The bleeding already seemed under control but you’re trying to buy time besides there's nothing you can do to make this worse, or at least you hope so.  

You try to remember things you’ve picked up from your parents. He’s breathing, responding to pain even though he's barely conscious. His pulse is as rapid as his breathing, again you don’t know if that's good or bad. 

In the medkit there’s a blood pressure machine and a thermometer. His blood pressure is elevated,  if he was bleeding out his BP would be low or at least that's what you assume. His temperature is normal, so no fever which means no infection right? 

You pick up one of the rags from the kit and dump it into the bowl of water. You ring it out and use it to mop up the sweat on his face, before resting it on his forehead. People do this in movies, maybe it will help, maybe it will get some kind of response from him. 

If he dies they’ll kill you. There is always someone behind you, you can hear them shuffle as they move their weapon from hand to hand. If you tried to make a run for it they would kill you. Your best chance is to save this man. Save the enemy. 

If he’s breathing, you’re safe. If he’s not bleeding out, you're safe. 

You continue to make yourself look busy. Patting his forehead, keeping pressure on his wounds. He doesn’t seem to have any other injuries, just a gunshot to the abdomen. There’s no swelling or rigidness in his bowel. You remember hearing from an ED doctor once that everything from nipple to the navel is no man's land. 

“When were you going to tell us huh!?” It’s Gaz, he's loud and angry. There’s a hand gripping your shoulder and you’re pulled away from the man on the sofa. You turn to see Gaz with his weapon in his hands, the barrel pressed to your head. 

“What’s going on?” Ghost asks even though he’s bought his own weapon aimed at you. 

“She’s Konni.” The man with the mohawk says. You look up at the man with the gun pressed to your head. You didn't even get a chance to get to your feet. 

This is it. This is how you die.

The barrel is cold on your skin, you’re holding your breath, his finger is on the trigger. 

“Explain yourself.” A deep voice asks. You swallow hard trying to keep as still as possible.

“I’m a smuggler. I work for whoever pays. The people you killed, I was supposed to get them to Al-Qatala. Konni pays me to smuggle people or weapons over the border. It’s easy to use ULF safehouses up here as a stop off point.” It’s desperate, you feel like you’re talking too fast. Maybe they won’t understand you with your accent. Maybe they won’t believe you. 

“You Russian?” The man with the mohawk asks. 

“Does it matter?” You almost spit back at him. 

“What about Al-Qatala or ULF you done jobs for them too?” 

“If they pay, yeah. You’d be surprised  how desperate people can get.” Adrenaline pulses through you, you’re not going to back down even if it is your final stand. 

“Gaz, stand down.” You see a hand land on his shoulder. You swallow again, looking up at him, his eyes are scrunched together, there’s real anger behind them. The gun moves from your head, you let out a sigh of relief, sitting back on your legs, you keep your hands up.

“What do Konni pay you to smuggle?” Ghost asks. 

“I don’t ask. The less I know the less I’m a liability. I’m good at what I do, that's all that matters.” The man with the mohawk scoffs. Gaz moves back to stand with him. 

“You don’t even get a little curious?” Gaz asks. 

“POW’s, chemicals. High ranking members of Al-Qatala, mostly for meetings with Konni, sometimes with Makarov himself.”

“What about the ULF?” Ghost asks. 

“General supplies, the odd civilians, favors for Farah. It’s harder to cross the other borders. Russia is easy.” 

“So you’re not a medic. Can you even help him?” Gaz asks. You turn to look at the man on the sofa, you can’t tell if colour has come back to his face or not. 

“My mother was a ED nurse, my father was a doctor. I was on track to go to med school too.” You say, you’re not sure what’s going to happen now. You probably know as much as they do, they’ve most likely have more medical training then you.

“Where are your parents now?” Gaz asks.

“Dead, killed in the conflict. Like almost everyone I know.” There’s sadness in your voice, you try to hide it. 

“You didn’t pick a side?” Ghost asks. 

“I did, in the beginning. Farah’s message was a popular one. It was the ULF who came to our aid when our town was attacked.” You pause looking round at them all. “It was the ULF who carpet bombed the hospital killing my father. A week later my mother was killed by Al-Qatala when they raided a ULF base.” 

“I’m sorry, about your parents.” The mohawk man says, Gaz tuts. 

“Why become a smuggler?” Ghost asks. “Put your hands down.” 

“It was by chance. I managed to gather enough money to flee, and pay someone to get me over the border. We got talking, he offered me a job instead.” You explain lowering your hands. 

“Where is he now?”

“Probably dead.” You say as a matter of fact. You haven’t seen him in over a year. In the beginning he was like your mentor, teaching you the best routes and how to use ULF and Al-Qatala safehouses. Who to mention to get people to leave you alone. He vouched for you, got you jobs then when you were ready then he just left. 

Or maybe he fucked up and he was killed. 

No one is saying anything. 

“Your friend’s gunshot is not a through and through, that means the bullet is still in there. Pulling it out could kill him, I don’t have the equipment to check where it is or if he has any other injured organs. He needs a hospital.” You say urgently. 

“CASEVAC?” Gaz asks.

“Not from here.” Ghost replies. There’s silence again. You squeeze your eyes closed, sighing.

“There’s an abandoned vets in the next town, east of here. It will have the supplies I need to sew him up at least. Make sure he’s stable enough to move.” They could think you’re lying. They’re exchanging glances, you can almost see them thinking. It seems like Ghost is the one incharge, he shifts on his feet. 

“Okay.” 

“What about Farah?” Gaz asks, your head snaps over to the mohawk man, you need to get his name at some point, and figure out where his accent is from, he doesn’t sound like the other two.

“Nothing but radio silence.” Ghost replies. 

“How did you end up here?” You ask before you can stop yourself. You’ve been honest with them, maybe they’ll be honest with you.

“That's classified.” Ghost snaps, you nod. You expected that. 

“I heard Farah’s forces are moving north. We’re close to the Russian border. Maybe it’s best you wait?” You say offering up the only info you have on ULF’s movements.

“How do you know that?” Ghost asks. 

“I was warned they were on the move when I picked up this job.” You say. 

“By Konni?” Gaz asks, you nod. You hear Ghost sigh then mutter under his breath. 

“In your opinion, how bad is he?” Ghost asks, taking another step towards you, you hold your ground. 

“I don’t know. Moving him is risky, but there is no way to tell if the bullet is already doing any damage internally.” You explain. “It’s 50/50 either way.” 

“And you know how to sew him up?” The mohawk guy asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’ve had plenty of practice.” You explain. It’s a long shot, but right now it's about keeping yourself alive. As long as you’re useful you’re safe.

There are collective sighs around the room, glaces and nods of heads. Ghost lowers his weapon taking another step towards you. He opens his mouth about to speak but a groan from behind you cuts him off. 

You turn to see the man on the couch trying to sit himself up. Gaz rushes past you and you move out the way getting to your feet to give him room. The guy with the mohawk grabs your arm pulling out the way. 

“Price, don’t move. You’re okay.” He says. Price, so that's the name of the man on the sofa. His eyes blink open and he looks around, you can feel the barrel of a weapon digging into your back. 

A gentle reminder they don’t trust you.

“Where are we?” Price slurs followed by a groan, you almost miss what he says.

“Urzikstan, ULF safehouse just across the border.” Gaz explains. They came from Russia, what were they doing in Russia? You remember what the guard told you, there were marines landing in Russia. Maybe this is them and he got it wrong. Or there are still people out there and you’re about to have marines and SAS to worry about. 

“Shit, what happened?” His voice is less slurred now. Gaz is keeping him pressed down, his hand stroking his arm. 

“Convoy was ambushed, we had no choice.” 

“Alex?” Price asks.

“MIA, we lost track of him when you got shot. I made the order to fall back.” Ghost says but you can hear the strain in his voice. 

“Shit.” Price says, dipping his head.

“It’s okay Cap, we’ll find him.” So there are more people with them. Someone called Alex, and they’re missing. They had a convoy, most likely for the ULF. 

“Who’s she?” Price asks his gaze landing on you. You smile at him, it’s mostly nerves but you don’t know what else to do. 

“Not sure.” Gaz says, Price looks over at Ghost. 

“Smuggler.” The mohawk guy says. 

“ULF?” Price asks, no one says anything for a few seconds. 

“Take her out to the hall.” Ghost says. 

“C’mon.” The man behind you says pulling you out of the room and to the entrance hall. The door is closed behind you and he lets your arm go leaning against the wall. You don’t say anything leaning against the opposite wall. 

You could take him, you wouldn’t have to do much just surprise him, give yourself enough time to run out the house. Maybe if you knock him hard enough you can grab his weapon. He’s not even holding a weapon at you, his arms are crossed. 

You’re quick, you don’t know if you’re quicker then him but his pistol is just sitting in his holster. 

It’s been at least 10 minutes you’d wager. They’re deciding your fate. It makes you restless, you pick at your nails while you hear their muffled voices on the other side of the door. You look over at the man in the room.

“See something you like?” He asks.

“Why join the army when your country is not at war?”

“Why not pick a side when yours is?” You scoff, shaking your head. Like he would understand what it’s like. Just like the Americans, there always has to be a good and a bad. 

“You’re not british?” You ask. 

“Scottish.” He replies. You didn't think you were going to get a sincere reply, you smile. He looks over at you and you look away, back to the door.

“Ever think about what’s going to happen when the war ends?” He asks. You laugh, you don’t really mean it, it just seems like such a stupid question. 

“I’ll be long gone before that happens.” You say crossing your arms and shifting your weight. You’ve dropped the idea of escaping it seems. Maybe you can get more info from them, useful info. A Lot of people would pay good money for SAS intel.  

“Really? Where would you go?” He asks like he’s interested all of a sudden.

“America, Russia. Somewhere with a fuck load of land.” 

“Why?” 

“Farming sounds like fun. Being self-sufficient, that kind of thing.” You say. He raises an eyebrow like he doesn’t believe you. 

“What about you? Got any dreams or are you planning on dying for your country?” You ask bitterly. What makes him think he’s any better than you? Because he took an oath? Fuck him. 

“Who knows, might do. What’s better though a quick fulfilled life or a long unfulfilled one?” He says. You frown at him. What the fuck does that mean?

“What? Were you a therapist in another life?” You ask, looking away. He chuckles, you ignore him. You both stand there in silence for what feels like ages. You can still hear mumbling, they’re still talking. They could be deciding to execute you. You’re the enemy, they don’t even need to make it look like an accident. Boom bullet in your head job done. 

You just hope it’ll be quick. Or maybe they’ll decide to torture you for intel, not that you know much. 

“What’s your name?” You turn to the man. 

“Soap.” 

“Soap? Like what you wash with?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. He nods, you scoff, shaking your head and looking away.

Soap, Ghost, Gaz and Price. What a fucking mess you’ve got yourself into.

The door swings open, it makes you jump. You both stand up but you wait for Soap to move first.

“He wants to talk to you.” Gaz says, he barely looks at you as he moves out the way of the door. You nod swallowing the fear rising in you. You walk back into the room. Price is sat up on the sofa now a hand pressed on the bandages on his stomach, there’s an electronic tablet by his side. That probably has a lot of expensive intel on it. 

Ghost’s stood behind the sofa with his arms crossed. You look at him quickly then to Price as you stop in front of him. He looks round you, he still looks clammy, at least there is some colour back in his face. That’s got to be good, at least whatever you did didn't kill him. 

“You said you could pull the bullet out?” He asks. You look round the room not quite believing what you’re hearing. 

“No, I said you needed a hospital.” You cross your arms. Price smiles leaning back on the sofa, his face winces in pain even though he tries to hide it. 

“I want you to pull it out.”

“Price!” You hear Gaz say. “That's not what we discussed.” 

“I’m sorry. Even if I could just pull it out, I don’t have any equipment. No sterile field, an x-ray.” You stop throwing your hands up. “I could kill you. I don’t exactly want the blood of a SAS soldier on my hands.”  

“I could die anyway?” 

“You’re still talking, moving, breathing.” You’re getting frustrated, there’s no way you’re going to do this. If you kill him they’ll blame you, it’s a death sentence. 

“Which means the bullet probably missed anything vital.” He says as a matter of fact. You look down at the wound, his hand still resting on the bandages. The bleeding is under control, he seems fine other than the hole in his stomach. 

“Maybe. I don’t know but I'm not doing what would essentially be surgery on you in a shitty safehouse.” You say squeezing the bridge of your nose. “Like I said I don’t even have the tools.” 

“The vets in the next town over, will it have what you need?” You stop pinching your nose. You don’t say anything. There is no way this is happening.  

“You’re crazy.” You scoff, throwing your hands up in the air in disbelief. You look round at everyone. No one is saying anything, Price has a smile on his lips you just want to slap off. 

“C’mere.” He says moving and gesturing for you to step closer. You just stand there gawking at him, no one is saying anything. You look up at Ghost, his eyes are digging into you. You swallow again, taking a step over to him. This time everyone does move, ever so slightly but enough for you to notice. Price’s hand reaches out to press on his side. 

“Feel that.” He says. You look up at him unsure what to do, he nods at you. You shake your head for a second letting out a sigh and press where he instructed. 

Holy shit, it’s hard just under his skin. It’s the bullet. You could pull that out no problem, then you could stitch up the rest of his wounds.

“Still don’t think you could get it out?” He asks as you stand back up. Your eyes flick back up to Ghost. You press your lips together thinking, you could do this.

“What’s in it for me?” You ask. Now it’s negotiation time. You hear Gaz scoff. 

“We let you walk out here alive.” Gaz says, there’s anger in his voice. You turn to look at him. He’s definitely the most reserved out of all them, he held a gun to your head. He would kill you, all he needs is an excuse. You look back down at Price. 

“Your life for mine.” He says. 

“Dramatic.” You scoff. You hear Soap chuckle behind you. 

“I want asylum, in the UK.” You say, crossing your arms. It's not America but it’s a start.  

“Fine.” Price says. You look at him shocked. 

“Just like that?” You ask frowning, it’s almost too good to be true. 

“Just like that. You need to get us into Russia though. Quietly, you said you’re a good smuggler, we’ll even pay you for it.” Price says. Now you really don’t believe him. It’s a challenge though, you can see it in his eyes. 

“I would need to go to the vets for the supplies.” You say.

“Ghost will go with you.” Price says. This is risky, they could be lying. They could kill you as soon as they’re done with you. If they want you to take them over the border you could hand them over to Konni. Makarov would probably pay you enough to retire if you handed him 4 SAS soldiers, fuck it he’d probably give you a mansion somewere in Russia. 

“How do I know I can trust you?” You ask.

“How do we know we can trust you?” Price says back, tipping his head. Touché. You smile. 

“Okay. I’ll help.” You hold your hand out, he shuffles uncomfortably but leans forward to shake your hand. 

You don’t trust them, but they don’t trust you. No way you’re going to let them betray you though. That’s your job.

Banners by plum98

[iluvbuckets]

loving the shorter fics as well 🥰

omg i love u here's one just for u

just a friend

paige bueckers x fem!reader 

summary: you and paige are just teammates until one drunken mistake changes everything

warnings: angsty, mentions of smut

word count: 1.6k

notes: this is kind of a draft i wrote half of it 2 weeks ago and just finished half rn even tho it is 8am and i have not slept yet

✷✷✷

it was a mistake.

at least, that’s what you were telling yourself.

it was a one-time thing between two people who were way too drunk on shots and buzzing with excitement at the new season approaching.

you and paige bueckers had been friends for the last four, now five, years you had been at uconn, and maybe even longer than that from playing for usa basketball. you had never been super close, at least enough to call yourselves anything similar to best friends, but you were definitely still friends. 

and you knew she was attractive. anyone with eyes could see that, but you had never really thought anything of it before that night. you had never really felt anything for her beyond friendly, and you had never considered treading over the line of friends to friends with benefits. and you knew that this was mutual from her side. 

so what had possessed you that night? 

the bar had been packed with students, all celebrating being together again like your team was. between the amount of voices and the loud music pounding through the speakers, it almost felt like you couldn’t even hear yourself think. you were catching up with paige after spending three months apart, and you were taking turns leaning in close to talk directly in each other’s ears. while it wasn’t ideal, it was much better than trying to shout and read each others’ lips. you had never been any good at that anyway. 

honestly, you don’t even remember what specifically lead to it. one moment, you were talking and laughing with each other. the next, her lips were on yours. you didn’t even fight it, you didn’t want to in the moment–the alcohol lowering your inhibitions. neither of you could even bring yourself to care about someone seeing. 

then in the uber back with kk and ice, her body was pressed against yours. every time someone said something to make her giggle, her head would fall onto your shoulder like she couldn’t hold it up. you didn’t think anything of it at the time because you were just as drunk and she was known to be cuddly while wasted.

someone had mentioned something about an afterparty in paige’s dorm, so it didn’t feel that strange that you had ended up following her back. not that she didn’t want you to. while you were walking on the sidewalk and into the building, she was hanging off you like you were magnetic and she couldn’t get away.

at some point, when everyone was laughing about a dumb joke that probably wasn’t even that funny, you noticed paige had snuck away and was no longer in the living room. for some reason, you decided it was your job to make sure she was okay. you managed to slip out of the room without anyone noticing and back to her bedroom. the door was open, and she was rummaging around in her closet for god knows what.

“what ‘cha doin?” you said in a sing-song voice, sitting on her bed like you owned the place. 

she turned around with a smile on her face, “waiting for you, baby.” 

she walked over to the door to close it softly so that no one in the living room would notice. then, she started toward you, immediately grabbing your face to kiss you and push you back onto her mattress.

the morning after, you had woken up naked in her bed. her arm was lazily thrown over your stomach, mouth hanging open in her deep sleep. the sun was barely risen, a hue of pink from the night still visible, so you must have not been asleep very long. you blinked, rubbing your eyes to make sure you were seeing things correctly. you figured those few details you could recall were just drunken dreams from way too much tequila. but it wasn’t a dream. there she was, hair messy and naked, peacefully sleeping. you stared at her for a few moments trying to figure out what the hell was going on, and you came back with no explanation. 

you did your best to carefully and quietly move her arm off you, but she didn’t even stir. it didn’t take you long to throw on your clothes from the night before and slip out like you were never there, somehow managing to not be seen by her roommates. 

you didn’t know how the night ended like that to end up in that position, but what you did know is that it was definitely a mistake. 

it obviously was, or else paige wouldn’t be ignoring you like you were mortal enemies. 

everyone noticed too. you had tried to ask ice about why paige suddenly wouldn’t acknowledge you a few days later, playing dumb to her so she wouldn’t suspect anything, but she had given you a weird answer. she was awkward and tried to get out of the conversation as fast as she could, hurrying to change the subject and move on. same with jana, and then allie. 

you tried to ignore it, you really did, but it started to seep into practice as well. she was barely passing you the ball, not really cheering you on, and walking past you like you weren’t even there. it definitely hurt your feelings way more than if she had decided to pretend it never happened and continued as normal. actually, you would’ve much preferred that option over any other ones. 

by the end of the third week of silence, you were seriously going back and forth between leaving it how it was and confronting her. if you left it, you probably would be miserable and have terrible statistics on your WNBA stock, but at least you wouldn’t have to have a hard conversation. if you confronted her, it could cause a rift between not only you, but other teammates as well. they could take sides and it would throw the whole team chemistry off.

even though you didn’t want to, you knew that confronting her was probably your best option. despite the possibility of it affecting your team as a whole in a negative way, it could also establish common ground and improve the current atmosphere. you just had to wait for the right time, but you kept finding excuses to put it off.

that is, until there was a knock on your door at 2 in the morning. 

you almost ignore it. like, who the fuck shows up uninvited that late at night? well, you weren’t sleeping anyway and your roommates were gone, but still. for some reason, you had a gut feeling to get up, though, so you did. you shuffle to the door trying to contain your annoyance, rubbing your eyes to the sudden bright light in the hallway. 

you didn’t know who you were expecting to be standing there, but it definitely wasn’t paige. 

she had a big hoodie on with the hood pulled over her head, her arms crossed over her chest, and a pair of baggy team sweats with socks and nike slides. her eyes were rimmed red and glassy, and there were tear streaks on her face like she had been crying for a while; you didn’t miss the way her bottom lip trembled as she stood there.

“i’m sorry,” was all she said. her voice was raw, so quiet it was almost a whisper. 

you nod, stepping aside in a silent gesture to invite her in. she takes it, immediately walking forward into your living room. she stops in the middle of it, the door clicking behind you as you turn around the face her. you don’t move closer though, not really sure what to do. 

“i can’t–” she chokes her words, “i can’t pretend what we did means nothing anymore.”

“paige–” you sigh, but she interrupts you.

“i don’t want to. i-i can’t stop thinking about you. i thought i could pretend, but i can’t. it meant something to me, i just–” she shakes her head at herself. “never mind, i shouldn’t have come here.” 

without even thinking, you reached out to grab her arm and stop her from leaving. “wait. please, i want to talk about it.”

she chewed on her lip for a moment, seemingly nervous to be vulnerable, but nodded anyway. neither of you made a move to sit as you sat in silence, waiting for someone to begin the tough conversation. ultimately, you were the one who decided to break the silence.

“these last few weeks have been rough. i understand why you thought it was your best option, i do, but it hurt my feelings. i don’t usually hook up with people like that so it was really hard to just be ignored like that,” you confessed. truthfully, you didn’t really care about holding back. paige had already seen all of you and then proceeded to give radio silence, so what could be worse than that? besides hurting your ego, of course, but that didn’t really matter.

“i got scared because i don’t really do it either. i was afraid it would ruin everything,” she said softly. “it made me realize that you may not be just a friend to me.”

“is this you confessing your love to me?” you joked with a small, lighthearted small.

“alright, relax,” she smiled back. “maybe not quite yet.”

[never-rxne]

— "dream brother,"

character study. post canon. a letter sevika wrote to vander. || 1k words

"don't be like the one who made me so old don't be like the one who left behind his name 'cause they're waiting for you like i waited for mine and nobody ever came." —Jeff Buckley. "Dream Brother"

Vander, 

It’s Sevika. 

I’m the Zaunite Councilor now. The only one. You are dead and the war is over. For the first time in my life I have time to sit down and think. Never thought this is where it would all lead— never thought I’d end up writing a letter to you. 

This is the first time I am speaking to you since I changed sides. 

If you could read this, I know what you’d probably be thinking. 

You were never that hard to read, you know that? 

I won’t apologize for what I did. You know me well enough to understand. Or you don’t. It doesn’t matter either way. 

I’m not writing this to defend myself. I’m not writing this to make you feel vindicated or guilty. You always said everyone in the Undercity had a story behind them. 

Let me tell you mine.

You and I both knew what the city was like before the uprising at the bridge. We’ve both lost too much to forget—no matter how good we had it after, no matter how quiet things became. 

How to say this? 

Do you know what it’s like to join a fight on the losing side? To watch the people around you slip away without being able to do anything about it, to watch the city lose a little bit of its soul every day? 

You do. Better than me. 

What you don’t know is that before I met you, I was close to giving up. Going well down the same path as my old man. Letting my grief and anger sink me until I drowned at the bottom of a bottle. He drank himself to death after a few feeble kicks. Always thought I’d go the same way. 

You told me that night at the Last Drop. I had just turned twenty, remember? That as long as there was one idiot left fighting for a cause, there was still a cause worth fighting for? 

You said you were that idiot. Asked me if I was one too. 

Vander, I was never good with words. You and Silco were the leaders, and when Silco left it was only you holding the Undercity together. You had your strength, Silco had his brains, Felicia had her empathy, I had my anger. 

Let me ask you now, Vander, since everyone’s gone, who was the one idiot left fighting? 

[The next few lines have been crossed out.]

I’m not angry anymore. Don’t have the same anger as my twenty-year-old self, anyway. I used to dream of crushing Piltover. Rising up and shaking them off like a horse tramples the flies that buzz around its head. I used to believe in the strength of Zaun, that all we needed was to keep looking forward at the same goal. I was young. I was stupid. I didn’t see there was no collective goal. 

Everyone has a story behind them. 

Everyone fought for their own. 

Can’t say I understand now. Can’t say it wasn’t all for nothing, either. I watched as Vi and Powder unravelled you, and I watched as Jinx unravelled Silco. Here’s the truth, though.

Vander, if my little brother was still alive, he would have unravelled me. 

His name was Ravi. 

He was sixteen when I lost him. Cave-in at the mines. 

Do you think it’s fair? That I’m sitting up here in a Piltover office, hair going gray, wearing a new jacket, while he will be sixteen in the Undercity—forever? 

The day he died, my world went dark. Like a switch somewhere had been flicked off. I saw nothing—really nothing. Nothing ahead of me, nothing behind. Just the big empty space left behind by his death. 

Then, I got angry. 

Wanted to make the people responsible for his death pay for what they took from me. What they took from my mother. She never recovered from the loss of her only son. Neither did my father. 

I always thought I recovered. That I was the only one out of my family who crawled out of the grief, made something from it. Turned it into strength. 

I’m realizing now that I never did. 

I wanted to meet violence with violence. I never really left my twenty-year-old self. Even when I told myself Silco posed the highest bid for freedom, it wasn’t really about freedom. It wasn’t about his vision of respect, either. It was about revenge. It was about watching Piltover crumble like my life did when I watched the light go out of my brother’s eyes. When I heard his weak voice saying my name, begging me to help him, to save him—and I couldn’t. 

I heard his voice for years after in my dreams. Heard his voice in the echoes made by Zaunite kids in the streets. Saw his eyes in the Zaunite kids’ eyes. Saw his hope, his energy, in your kids. Powder and Vi. 

Powder especially. 

I think Ravi would have been friends with her. He had a tendency of making friends with everyone. My old man would say he could have been friends with a river monster, if he had the chance. 

I’m rambling now. 

I’m too tired to be angry anymore, Vander. Too old to keep fighting, too old to pass off vengeance as liberation. Nearing fifty now—I realize you were a similar age when you died. I may not live to see Zaun truly free. You didn’t. Silco didn’t. All I know is that I’ll keep working. And there are people now, multitudes, who will continue after I’m gone. Young Ekko, remember him? He’s got himself a place in the Undercity now. Leading the Firelights. 

You at rest now, Vander? I hope you are. I can tell you Vi is alive and well. They’re still looking for Jinx. Have a feeling the Kiramman girl is pulling some strings to keep Jinx just a step ahead. 

I’ll wrap this up now. There’s a meeting I have to be at in twenty minutes. If you saw me now…dressed up like this in Piltover garb, ready to argue for an hour with the same peacocks you heard me swear I’d drag out of their homes…well, I can practically hear your wheezing old laugh. 

Take care, Vander. Blisters and Bedrock. 

Sevika. 

[flixpii]

The Hunt Ends Here

| fem!reader x remmick

word count: 17.8k

Synopsis:

Seven years ago Remmick almost killed her-but made a deal instead: if he caught her again, he'd turn her. She's been running ever since, raised by people who knew how to fight back. But now he's back, and this time... he catches her. And everything changes.

A/N: Delves into the more monstrous/manipulative side of Remmick. There’s dub-con-ish undertones.

————————————————————————

The woods were swallowing you whole.

Branches clawed at your arms like hands reaching to drag you back. Your feet struck the ground too loud, too heavy, every step betraying your position. The cold night air tore at your lungs as you ran, heart pounding like it wanted out of your chest, like it knew what was behind you.

You didn’t dare look back.

The trees were thicker tonight—too thick. Or maybe that was your mind turning against you, twisting everything into something meant to trap you. The moon barely filtered through the branches, just enough to paint slivers of light across the forest floor, and you chased them like they were salvation. Every part of your body screamed to stop, to rest, to collapse and disappear into the dirt. But you couldn’t—not when he was behind you.

You could hear him.

Not footsteps. No, he didn’t make noise like that. But you could feel him, like something coiled and ready, moving just outside your line of sight. A flicker here. A shadow there. The way the air turned still, then snapped with tension. He was near. Too near.

Seven years. Seven goddamn years of hiding, of running, of never wandering the dark nights. Seven years since you made that deal with the devil in human skin. “If I catch you again, I’ll keep you.” The memory burned in your head like it had been branded there.

And now you were bleeding. You could feel it—warmth sliding down your thigh, soaking into your stocking. You’d cut yourself on something, a sharp root or a stray nail in the fence near the river bend. You didn’t have time to check. He’d smell it. He probably already had.

Panic clawed up your throat.

You weren’t ready. You weren’t ready to be caught. Not yet. Not tonight. Not like this—mud-covered, breathless, your mind a chaos of memories and warnings. You thought of your uncle’s voice, low and sharp as he handed you a carved blade with sigils wrapped around the hilt. “They don’t care who you are. They only care what you bleed.” You thought of your cousins, fists raised as they shouted promises of protection into night skies blistered with gunpowder. You thought of your mother’s hands, calloused and warm, pulling you into an embrace you hadn’t felt in years. All of it surged through you as your feet stumbled and caught against a root.

You fell.

Pain bit into your knees and palms. The earth was unforgiving, and the wind whooshed out of you like the trees had reached down and punched the breath from your lungs. You rolled onto your side and pushed yourself up with trembling hands, dirt caking under your nails, blood stinging where bark had torn you open.

And then—silence.

No birds. No wind. Just stillness.

He was close.

Tears threatened, but you bit them back. You couldn’t afford to cry. Not yet. Not while your legs still worked. You staggered forward, back into motion, into desperation. The woods twisted. You couldn’t tell where the path ended and the wild began anymore. Every direction felt wrong. Every tree looked the same.

Then came his voice.

Soft. Measured. Just behind your ear.

“You’re slower than you used to be.”

You screamed, half in fear, half in fury, and broke into a sprint, lungs ripping open with each ragged breath. You knew this game. He was playing with you. Letting you think you had a chance. Letting the illusion stretch before snapping it shut like a trap.

Your mind raced alongside your legs. Get home. Get to the warded gates. Get past the river. Don’t let him see you afraid. But your body betrayed you. You slipped again, this time catching yourself on a tree, bark splitting open your palm.

You turned—and there he was.

Ten paces away, still as the night. His eyes glowed faint in the dark, catching just enough moonlight to flash like an animal’s. His lips were parted, breath slow, deliberate. He didn’t need to chase. He never did. He was just waiting for you to give in.

Your chest heaved, your whole body trembling.

“I told you I’d come,” he murmured. “Didn’t think it’d be this easy.”

You took a step back, then another. “I still have a choice.”

Something flickered in his gaze—amusement, maybe. Or hunger. “No,” he said, “you had a choice. Seven years ago.”

Your legs moved before your mind did. Survival took the reins, and you turned from him with a raw, breathless cry, tearing through the trees like something feral. Each step jolted through your body like lightning. Blood pulsed in your ears so loud it drowned everything else—every snap of branches, every cry of your name he might’ve whispered behind you.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. If you looked, it would be real.

The trees began to thin.

You saw it through the gaps in the dark—the familiar silhouette of your house rising like a ghost from the earth. The porch light was dead, as always, but you could see the faint flicker of the candles you’d left burning on the windowsill, the sigils your cousin had etched in soot around the doorframe. Home. Safety. Just a few more steps.

Your chest burned with hope.

You hit the clearing, boots slamming through weeds and gravel. The rickety stairs loomed ahead—four wooden steps to salvation. You cried out as you reached them, hand reaching for the railing, muscles screaming with effort as you dragged yourself up, up, up—

Fingers closed around your wrist.

Cold. Iron-strong. A grip like stone forged by winter.

“No—!” you gasped, twisting, clawing at his hold, nails raking against his skin. But it didn’t matter. It never did.

In one brutal tug, your body jerked backward.

The stairs disappeared from under you. The sky spun, and for a split second, you felt weightless, breath caught in your throat like a scream that wouldn’t leave. Then—

Crack.

Your back hit the earth so hard, the pain exploded through your spine and burst white behind your eyes. The wind was knocked from you in a single blow, and you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The stars above blurred in your vision. The house was there—right there—so close you could taste the smoke from your own hearth.

But your body was still.

Pinned by fear. Pinned by gravity. Pinned by him.

You tried to scramble up, but his hand pressed to your chest, not cruelly—no, never cruelly. That was the worst part. He held you like a secret. Like something cherished and dangerous all at once.

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked bursts. Your voice caught.

“I was almost home.”

His face hovered above yours, expression unreadable in the dark, eyes darker still.

“I know,” he whispered, as if it pained him. As if it mattered. “But you didn’t make it.”

And for the first time in seven years, you had no retort. No knife to draw. No forest left to vanish into.

Just your heart thudding beneath his palm, and the sound of the worn wood of the door creaking behind you—so close. So far.

You stared up at him, your mouth parting in short, sharp gasps, lungs still struggling to remember how to breathe. The weight of his body above you felt suffocating, not because of its heaviness, but because of what it meant—because it was him. Remmick. The one thing that had chased you through your waking life and into your dreams. The one promise that had never broken.

His hand pressed lightly against your chest still, firm but not hurting, steady like he was trying to calm your racing heart rather than take it. His face hovered close—too close. Shadows framed the sharp line of his jaw, his red eyes locked on yours with something unreadable. His mouth parted just slightly as if he was about to say something, something final.

But you didn’t wait.

Your fingers had already curled around the hilt inside your coat.

It had been there the whole time—hidden in the folds of your lining, strapped flat against your ribs, warm from your body. The dagger. The one passed down through your family. Forged with old silver. Etched with the mark of the river, the same river that split the earth between your people and the blood-drinkers who thought they could erase them.

Your hand shot up.

A cry tore from your throat—half a sob, half fury—and you slammed your fist forward. The dagger, small and sharpened to a razor edge, thrust upward in a single, brutal motion.

The blade sank into Remmick’s left eye with a sickening crack.

His body jolted.

The silence shattered with the sound of him howling in pain—so loud it wasn’t human. He reeled back, one hand flying to his face as he stumbled, his curse tearing through the clearing like a storm breaking. He twisted, turning away from you, hand gripping the handle of the blade where it jutted from his eye, blood black and thick as ink running down his cheek in rivers.

“Fucking—!” His voice broke off as he staggered toward the trees, trying to tear the dagger out without severing the eye entirely. “You—little—!”

You scrambled backward on all fours, your chest heaving, dirt filling your lungs and blood smearing across your arms as you pushed yourself upright. Your ears rang with the violence of it, but you didn’t stop moving. Couldn’t. Your limbs were trembling, your skin coated in sweat and earth, but you were up. You were running again.

The steps loomed once more. Your home.

And this time, no hand grabbed you.

You bolted up the stairs, barely feeling them under your feet, and crossed the threshold in one lurching leap. As soon as your foot hit the old floorboards, a sharp snap echoed in the air—one of the sigils activating.

A low hum filled the space, deep and old. Protective. Sacred.

You turned around just as Remmick reached the base of the stairs. Blood coated half of his face. His chest rose and fell in uneven beats, hand still clenched around the dagger’s hilt, his left eye ruined.

He didn’t speak.

He just stared at you. Breathing. Bleeding.

And you stared back, chest shaking, rage and terror swirling so violently inside you that you thought you might collapse right there on the floor.

His lip curled. Not a smile. Not quite.

And then, he turned and disappeared into the woods.

Leaving you alive.

The door slammed shut behind you, and your legs finally gave in. You dropped to your knees, hands trembling against the floorboards as the weight of what just happened crashed down over your body like a wave. The house groaned softly around you. The old sigils still hummed, casting faint shadows across the walls. Safe—for now.

But your mind wasn’t here.

It was seven years ago, dragged back to a night just like this one.

The bayou air had been thick with heat and blood. You remembered the sting of sweat in your eyes, the sharp bite of branches against your arms as you tore through the underbrush. You were bolder, untrained, arrogant. You’d followed him that night. Thought you could help. Thought you could kill a vampire.

You’d been raised by revolutionaries. Your family knew the rules—keep together, keep your weapons sharp, never go out alone. But you were you—hot-headed and burning with pride. You wanted to prove you were more than just someone’s niece or someone’s granddaughter. You wanted your own story.

You got it.

He’d caught your scent before you even realized you were being watched.

The fight started in a clearing ringed with cypress trees and Spanish moss, the kind of place that swallowed sound and light. You’d struck first, lunging at him with a blade, every muscle in your body screaming do it, now. You got a hit in—sliced clean across his cheek. He touched the blood with surprise, then looked at you like you’d just made him curious.

You’d kept fighting.

You were fast, and your strikes had weight. You knew how to move, how to twist at the last second to make it count. But he was ancient, practiced, and he was toying with you.

He laughed when you cursed him.

“You’ve got fire,” he said, ducking a blow. “But fire burns out fast, girl.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you spat.

“Then you’re stupid.”

His voice was cold, but there was something else beneath it. Not anger. Not bloodlust. Something older. Something more like… wonder.

You remembered the way he moved when he got bored of playing. Fast. Effortless. You didn’t even see his hand move before he knocked the blade from yours. You stumbled back, tried to reach for your second dagger, but he was already behind you.

A sharp cry broke from your throat as he slammed you to the ground, his body a cold weight pinning you down. One hand around your wrist. One knee braced against your thigh. His face hovered inches from yours, his lips pulled back just enough to show you the tips of his fangs.

You thought you were going to die.

You thought that was it—that your name would join the list of those lost to the night.

But then…

He paused.

Your breath hitched. You stared up at him, panting, eyes wide, heart thundering beneath his hand. And his eyes—red, endless—searched yours like he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. You cursed him, whispered your grandmother’s prayer, and spit blood at him. He didn’t flinch.

Instead, he smiled. Almost softly.

“You’ve got teeth,” he murmured. “More than most.”

You hated how calm he sounded. How sure.

“So do you,” you growled.

He tilted his head. Studied your face like it was a puzzle he hadn’t expected to care about solving.

And then, slowly, he leaned down, lips brushing your ear as he whispered the words you’d never forget:

“Run. If I catch you again, I’ll keep you.”

You stared at him, confused, trembling, not moving even when his weight lifted off your chest. You blinked as the air rushed back into your lungs, and when you pushed yourself up, he was already gone—vanished into the trees like he’d never been there.

But his voice stayed.

Run.

You had.

And now, all these years later, knees bloodied, dagger-wound fresh in your memory, you were back in the same place. Still breathing. Still fighting.

But he was close now.

You could feel it again.

——

It had been three nights since you’d driven that dagger into Remmick’s eye.

Three nights since you’d slammed the door shut and collapsed to the floor, shaking and bloodstained, heartbeat echoing in your ears like a war drum. The pendant around your neck had pulsed for hours after—ancient, protective, warning.

But there was only so much protection the old spells could give you. The house was blessed, yes. Warded. No vampire could enter uninvited. The symbols carved into the doorframe were sharp with meaning, pressed from ash, clay, and blood. They held. But nothing could quiet the noise in your chest.

You hadn’t slept.

The wound on your thigh was healing, but slow. Your hands trembled whenever you pressed herbs into the gash, your mind looping back to the look on his face when you struck—how human he had seemed in his pain. The way he staggered. The way he bled.

But that was the thing about Remmick. He wasn’t human. No matter how he moved, no matter how he watched you with those endless eyes—he was death shaped like desire. And he didn’t forget.

You knew he would return.

You just didn’t expect him to return like this.

The knock was soft.

Three taps. No urgency. No rage.

Your heart nearly stopped.

You stood in the kitchen, a lantern flickering at your elbow. The air inside the house had gone still, the warmth drained from the walls. Outside, the wind had picked up just enough to rustle the trees like whispers. You moved toward the door slowly, blade already in hand.

You didn’t open it.

You didn’t have to.

His voice slid through the wood like smoke through cracks.

“You’re cheating,” he said. Calm. Even. Dangerous.

Your fingers clenched tighter around the hilt. “I crossed the threshold. You lost.”

“You were in my hands,” he replied. “I had you.”

“But I made it home.”

A pause. Then the faint scrape of footsteps across your porch.

“Doesn’t matter,” he murmured. “I didn’t say how I had to catch you.”

You didn’t speak. The pendant at your neck was warm now. Burning.

“I didn’t think you’d hide behind their laws,” he said. “Behind the door. The ash. The charms.”

“It’s not hiding,” you whispered. “It’s surviving.”

Silence again. Long. Weighty.

You thought he might vanish again, dissolve back into the woods like he always did. But then—

“I want you to come outside,” he said.

You laughed, bitter and breathless. “You know I won’t.”

“I thought maybe you’d grown bold enough,” he replied, voice a touch quieter now. “After all that fire the other night.”

You turned from the door, unwilling to play his game.

It was only a second. It was as if he vanished from behind you.

Then you heard it.

Dragging.

A low, muffled grunt.

The sound of something heavy scraping through the dirt and leaves. And then—

“Don’t make me ask again.”

You froze.

Your hand dropped from the hilt. Your pulse screamed through your body like a siren.

You rushed to the window and pushed aside the old curtain, and your breath left you in a violent gasp.

Remmick stood at the edge of the clearing, right where the light from your porch met the dark of the woods. His coat moved slightly in the breeze, the blood on his face long dried and caked around his ruined, but healed, eye. But that wasn’t what held your gaze.

It was Tony.

Your Tony.

Childhood friend. The boy who used to share books with you under the old pecan tree. Who carved your name into bark. Who once took a knife meant for you during a raid when you were both barely sixteen.

He was on his knees, bloodied and swaying, mouth gagged with a strip of torn cloth. His lip was split open. One eye swollen shut. His hands bound behind his back with rough, knotted rope.

Remmick’s hand sat lightly on Tony’s shoulder, like he was posing for a family photo.

Your stomach flipped, bile rushing into your throat.

“No,” you whispered.

Remmick looked at you through the window. Even from that distance, he could see you. He knew you were watching.

“I brought something of yours,” he said loud enough to reach you. “In case you needed incentive.”

You didn’t realize you were at the door until your hand wrenched it open. Your breath was fast, uneven, your entire body trembling. Panic blurred your vision, tears threatening to well up as the full weight of it settled over your shoulders.

He was forcing you to choose.

Your safety. Or Tony’s life.

And still—he hadn’t crossed the line.

The vampiric law held him back, like invisible chains coiled around his throat. He couldn’t step past the edge of the threshold without your permission.

But Tony had no such protection.

“Let him go,” you called, voice shaking.

Remmick tilted his head. “Come outside.”

“I’ll give you anything—just let him go.”

“You know what I want.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks. You didn’t care. You pressed your forehead to the wood of the frame and whispered, “Please.”

And Remmick, still as the dead thing he was, gave a faint, mournful sound.

“I gave you seven years,” he said softly. “Don’t cry to me now, love.”

And then he looked down at Tony.

And shifted his weight.

You stood with your forehead pressed against the door frame, your fists curled against the wood like maybe you could pray something through it. You didn’t dare cross it. You couldn’t. Your pulse was in your ears, your throat, your fingertips. Every instinct inside you screamed don’t do it, but the sight of Tony—his body trembling, his blood soaking the earth beneath him—tore at something deeper.

You glanced out the door again, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

Remmick stood exactly where he had been, hand resting on Tony’s shoulder, gaze fixed on the house like he was willing it to break its own rules. You expected a smirk. Some cruel echo of confidence. But instead—

His expression shifted.

Just for a second.

His eyes—those black, ancient eyes—flicked up past your window. And they narrowed.

The calm he wore like armor cracked.

A sharp flicker of something passed over his face—worry.

You blinked.

And he was gone.

Gone.

One second, he was there. The next, only the shadows remained where he had stood. The woods swallowed him, and the silence that followed rang louder than his voice ever had. The air buzzed with confusion and danger and something wrong.

Your breath caught in your throat.

For one long second, you stared at the spot he’d vanished from, waiting. Expecting him to reappear. To call your bluff. To finish what he’d started.

But he didn’t.

So you moved.

You practically flew.

The air outside was colder than you remembered, sharp like it resented your delay. Your bare feet slapped the packed earth, slipping slightly as you crossed the threshold. The pendant at your neck flared hot for one split second as you passed the sigil-bound doorway—then cooled, as if resigned to the choice you’d made.

You dropped to your knees beside Tony.

“Tony—Tony, can you hear me?” you whispered, frantic, already working at the ropes around his wrists. His head lolled slightly, but he moaned low in his throat, alive but weak.

Blood soaked through his shirt. The knots were tight—Remmick’s handiwork, surgical in their cruelty. You pulled your blade from your side and began sawing through the bindings, your hands shaking so hard you almost dropped it.

“I’m here, I’m here,” you kept saying, a litany, a promise, an apology. “I’m gonna get you out, just hang on—”

Then—

A cold hand wrapped around your waist.

Hard. Unforgiving.

You barely had time to suck in a breath before you were ripped off the ground.

Your blade fell with a dull thud to the dirt. Your feet kicked air as your body was yanked back, lifted like you weighed nothing. You screamed, your voice raw, animal, and instinctively reached for the dagger at your thigh—only to find it wasn’t there.

Remmick held you in a vice grip, his arm like stone banded across your ribs, pinning your arms down. Your back was flush to his chest, and you could feel the tremble in him—not from weakness, but from restraint. His mouth was beside your ear, his breath cool against your skin, and when he spoke, his voice wasn’t taunting.

It was furious.

“You stepped out of line,” he growled. “You broke the deal.”

You thrashed. Kicked. He didn’t budge.

“Let me go!”

“Not until you look me in the eyes and say it,” he hissed, his grip tightening. “Say you don’t feel it. Say I’m nothing but a monster to you. Go on.”

“I don’t feel anything!” you spat, teeth bared. “You’re a monster! You are!”

But your voice cracked halfway through.

And Remmick stilled.

His head turned slightly, his face brushing yours as he inhaled slowly, like he was trying to pull the truth out of your skin.

Then—in front of you—Tony groaned again.

His grip tightened.

You gasped, the sound sharp and strangled as the breath was pushed from your lungs. His arm coiled tighter around your ribs like a serpent, unrelenting, crushing. Your chest seized. Your fingers clawed at his wrist, nails digging into cold flesh, but he didn’t even flinch.

“Remmick—” you choked out.

But he wasn’t listening.

His focus had shifted, gaze fixed on Tony like a predator deciding how long to play with its prey before biting down. You could feel it in the way his body tensed behind you—his breathing slowing, his heart still, dead and deafening in the silence.

Your scream tore through the night, raw and guttural, as you fought against him—every inch of you alive with rage, desperation, horror. You kicked and clawed, nails digging into the cold stone of his forearm, feet thrashing against the air. But Remmick didn’t yield. His grip only grew tighter, iron around your ribs, until your vision spotted and your sobs broke into jagged gasps.

And then—he dropped you.

Your body hit the ground with a thud, knees crumpling beneath you, breath exploding from your lungs. Dirt ground into your palms as you struggled to brace yourself, already scrambling to rise—but you didn’t get the chance.

Remmick’s hand clamped around your wrist, tight and absolute, holding you in place like a tether. You were no longer his focus.

Tony was.

Remmick stepped toward him, dragging you along in a stumbling pull, your body dragged half across the earth as he moved. You tried to resist, to twist free, but his hold never faltered. Tony’s name bubbled from your throat, broken and strangled—“Tony, get up—Tony, please—”—but your friend barely moved, barely breathed.

Blood had soaked through his shirt, dark and thick and already starting to cool.

Remmick dropped to his knees before him, slow and precise.

You screamed.

“No—don’t—!”

But it was too late.

Remmick’s hand shot out and gripped the back of Tony’s neck. With a vicious pull, he yanked Tony’s battered body upward, tilting his head to the side like he was a doll—offering the throat. Your heart shattered in your chest, and you begged, screamed, fought against the wrist that held you prisoner.

Remmick looked down at Tony like he pitied him.

Then he struck.

His mouth opened wide, fangs gleaming, and in one brutal, practiced motion, he sank them deep into Tony’s neck.

The sound was awful.

A wet, cracking noise, followed by the gurgle of blood. Tony spasmed weakly in his grip, a soft, strangled moan slipping from his mouth, eyes fluttering in dazed horror. You screamed again, voice hoarse, your entire body shaking as you tried to pull away. But Remmick’s grip held fast, cold fingers locked around your wrist like a shackle.

You could see it.

See the way Remmick’s shoulders tensed. The way his throat worked as he drank. Long, slow pulls. A hunger so practiced it became ritual. Tony’s body trembled once more, then stilled. Limbs going slack. Head falling back, mouth open in a silent plea that never left his lips.

Remmick exhaled through his nose as the blood poured down his throat, his eyes fluttering closed like a man in prayer.

And you could only watch—held there, bound, powerless—as the boy who once gave you the better half of every shared meal, who once carved your name into tree bark and swore he’d protect you from anything, was emptied in front of you.

When it was over, Remmick let Tony’s body fall.

Limp. Silent. Still.

He turned back toward you, lips stained red, expression unreadable.

And his hand—still around your wrist—tightened.

A sound clawed its way from your throat, but it wasn’t a scream. It was something deeper, something cracked and feral. You thrashed violently in Remmick’s hold, your nails digging into his wrist, your feet kicking out against the earth as you fought like an animal caught in a snare.

“You killed him!” you sobbed, each word shattering against your tongue.

Remmick said nothing.

Your rage exploded—white-hot, wild, unstoppable. You twisted, writhed, clawed at the hand wrapped around your wrist with all the fury in your bones, all the pain tearing through your chest.

And then—

His hand moved.

It came up slowly, almost gently, until his palm cradled your jaw, and in one sudden, brutal shift, he pressed his hand around your throat.

Your body stilled.

Your eyes flew open wide as your breath caught. You gripped his wrist, trying to pry it loose, but his fingers curled like iron bars around your windpipe. Your chest heaved with the panic of air denied, your vision already fraying at the edges.

He leaned in close, his mouth brushing your ear, voice low and terrifying in its calm.

“I’m going to turn you,” he whispered. “And you will be reborn.”

The words sank into your skin like poison, each syllable laced with finality. There was no cruelty in his tone. No fury. Just something colder. Something ancient and inevitable.

You clawed at him, fists pounding against his arm in wild panic, but your strength was bleeding out. He stood, dragging you with him. Your legs buckled, your eyes filled with tears as your lungs screamed for mercy.

The world blurred.

Your head lolled backward, vision fractured by the creeping black at its edges. Each breath you tried to take was stifled by the iron clamp of Remmick’s hand around your throat. It wasn’t just pain—it was submission, forced and humiliating. Your body jerked away from his, but your limbs were weakening, your power leaving you with every second he denied you air.

And then—he moved.

He shifted his grip from your throat back to your waist, catching you as your body sagged in his arms. Your legs no longer held you, and your fingers twitched uselessly against his chest as he lifted you with ease—like you weighed nothing. Like you were already dead.

You barely registered the trees passing you, the blurred shapes of bark and branch and night sky overhead as he carried you deeper into the woods. His pace was smooth, unhurried, his breathing calm as if this were just a walk under moonlight and not a descent into something final.

Then, he stopped.

You felt it first—the rough press of bark scraping your back.

He dropped you against the base of a massive tree, the trunk thick and gnarled like it had been standing long before your people ever spoke the names of gods. Your body slumped for half a second before he pressed forward, using his weight to pin you upright. One hand flattened against your sternum, the other braced against the bark beside your head. You were trapped—limbs trembling, pulse roaring, mouth parted in broken pants.

And then he leaned in.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

His head tilted, his mouth passing the edge of your jaw, his lips ghosting your cheekbone before stopping just at the curve where your neck met your shoulder. His breath, cool and slow, fanned across your skin as he inhaled.

Deeply.

You shivered.

His nose dragged gently along the column of your neck, and your heart felt like it might split in two. Every part of you was tensed, waiting for the pierce of fangs, the burning rush of venom, the end.

But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

He lingered.

Sniffing.

His breath slowed.

His lips hovered so close they brushed the fine hairs at your jawline. You could feel him scenting you like an animal—slow pulls of air into lungs that didn’t need to breathe. It wasn’t just the blood he wanted. You realized that with a jolt of horror. It was you. All of you.

You let out a small, broken sound, part terror, part disbelief.

“You’re afraid,” he murmured against your skin. His lips didn’t quite touch you, but the vibration of his voice against your throat nearly undid you. “But not enough to beg.”

Your voice was a rasp. “If you’re going to kill me… do it.”

He stilled.

Then slowly—slowly—he smiled against your neck.

“I’m not here to kill you,” he whispered. “I’m here to make you mine.”

You reacted on instinct.

Your palms braced against his chest, weakk and trembling but fueled by something primal. You pushed with everything you had left—your legs shifting beneath you, your shoulders straining, your breath coming in short, desperate bursts. But he didn’t move. He didn’t budge.

Remmick stayed pressed against you like the tree itself, unmoving, unshaken. His body didn’t yield, didn’t waver—not to your panic, not to your fear, not to your will.

His hands shot up.

Fingers like steel wrapped around your wrists and wrenched them above your head, slamming them against the bark. The tree groaned behind you as your arms were pinned, your back arched from the force of it, and you gasped as splinters bit into your skin.

He didn’t speak.

His breath tickled the hollow of your throat, but there was no warmth in it. Only chill. Cold as river stones. Cold as the grave.

Then—

His mouth parted.

A slow line of drool spilled from the corner of his lips, slipping down his chin. It glistened in the moonlight, catching the silver sheen of starlight above as it dripped—hungry, obscene.

His fangs descended next.

You watched—paralyzed—as they lengthened, slicing down from his upper jaw with that horrible wet click. A row of perfect daggers gleaming white, sharper than any blade you’d ever held. His lips trembled slightly around them, as if he were restraining himself, as if the effort it took not to bury them into your neck this very second was excruciating.

Then his eyes—

They burned.

From dark and endless to glowing, molten red.

The glow filled the space between you, casting your face in a terrible light. They were the eyes of a starving thing. Of something ancient and hollow and full of endless want.

You whimpered.

Your body thrashed again—once, twice—your wrists twisting against his iron grip, your heel slamming down against the dirt for leverage. But nothing worked. You were trapped, held like prey, pinned under the weight of centuries of bloodlust.

Remmick inhaled once more, slow and deep, his nose dragging along your jaw.

Then he spoke, voice low and ragged:

“You don’t know what it means,” he whispered, fangs grazing your skin. “To be made. To be remade. But you will.”

His lips hovered over your throat.

Close enough to feel the whisper of breath he didn’t need. Close enough to feel the subtle twitch of his mouth as his fangs nearly grazed your skin. Your heart pounded like a war drum between you—loud, frantic, begging to be spared.

And then—

He stopped.

Just before his mouth met your flesh, he paused, his body suddenly too still. You felt the hesitation ripple through him, subtle but sharp, like a blade turned inward. The sound of the forest around you faded until there was nothing but the rustle of wind and the echo of your ragged breaths.

He shifted.

You didn’t move—not because you didn’t want to, but because your body was frozen in that terrible tension between fear and confusion.

Remmick’s hand released your wrist.

Not to free you.

But to reach lower.

You felt his fingers slide down your collarbone, slow and deliberate, brushing your skin as they descended. They stopped where the leather cord of your pendant met the base of your throat. The charm—the carved ward passed through generations—hung warm against your skin. Always warm when danger crept near.

His fingers closed around it.

And the moment he did, his flesh sizzled.

A sharp hiss cracked through the air like a brand to hot skin. The scent of burning rose up between you—flesh and smoke and magic. The cord of the pendant trembled against your neck as the charm pulsed with light, searing against his palm.

But Remmick didn’t pull back.

He gripped it tighter.

His knuckles whitened as the skin of his hand bubbled, blackened, cracked open in small, hissing blisters. His jaw clenched. His breath caught. But still—he held on. The pain seemed to crawl up his arm, and yet his expression was unreadable, split between torment and something else entirely.

Pleasure.

His glowing red eyes fluttered for a moment—not in agony, but in ecstasy. Like the pain fed something inside him. Like it connected him to something real in a way blood never could.

You stared, wide-eyed, horror twisting through your chest as you felt the heat from the pendant increase, the cord singeing at your throat from the contact.

“Why…?” you whispered, voice cracking.

His gaze lifted to meet yours, and in that terrible crimson light, he smiled—not soft, nuot cruel, but devoted. Like a worshipper kneeling before fire.

“Because it burns,” he rasped. “And it knows me.”

His grip didn’t loosen. His palm cracked further, split open with small rivers of smoke rising from the gashes, yet he held it like a relic. Like it was yours, and therefore sacred.

And in that moment, you didn’t know what terrified you more:

That he could endure the pain.

Or that he wanted to.

His fingers twisted in the cord.

Still sizzling.

Still smoking.

And slowly, he pulled.

The charm at your throat tightened, the leather digging into the soft skin there as he reeled you in like something hooked. Your breath hitched—eyes wide, lips parted—your entire body held in place by that one burning point of contact. The closer you drew, the hotter the pendant became, until you could feel its heat spreading outward like a brand, a warning, a plea.

But he didn’t care.

He only pulled.

Your chest met his again, and the tree behind you groaned as you were pinned tighter. His grip in the cord slackened just slightly, enough for the breath to wheeze from your lungs again. He leaned in—not rushed, not eager, but with the heavy, slow assurance of something ancient. Something patient.

His lips ghosted the line of your cheekbone, hovering just above your skin.

Close enough for your lashes to flutter. Close enough for you to feel the cold coil of his breath skating over your face. You could smell the faint copper of blood on his lips. His jaw tilted, slow, measured, until the points of his fangs grazed your skin.

The barest touch.

Featherlight. But unmistakable.

A jolt shot through you like lightning.

You sucked in a sharp breath, the sound trembling at the edges. It wasn’t pain—not yet. It was anticipation. Dread. Heat. Something alive and terrifying curling in your belly like fire waking from slumber. Your knees wavered, and your fingers twitched against the bark behind you, unsure if they wanted to push him away—or pull him closer.

And then, he smirked.

A slow curve of his lips, fangs still exposed, brushing so faintly against your cheek that it felt more imagined than real.

But the warmth that followed wasn’t.

It spread through you in a wave—low, humming, unwelcome. Like your blood was answering him. Like something inside you, buried deep beneath fear and fury and hatred, had cracked open just a little. Just enough.

“You feel it,” he whispered.

You shook your head weakly, but he tsked against your skin, a breathy sound that made you flinch.

“You can lie with your mouth,” he murmured, “but you won’t with your blood.”

The pendant fell from his hand with a faint metallic clink, landing against your chest like a closing lock. The cord, now frayed at the edges, hung limp, and though the charm still pulsed faintly with heat, its magic no longer flared between you.

Remmick’s hand lingered in the air for a moment, fingers still twitching from the burn. Wisps of smoke curled from his palm, the skin blistered, charred down to split flesh and blackened edges. But he didn’t look at it. He didn’t wince.

He looked at you.

His crimson eyes, still glowing, dragged slowly across your face. Over your parted lips. The trembling in your jaw. The way your breath came too fast, too shallow. He drank it all in with the same focus he gave blood.

And you were still pressed to the tree, your back against bark that dug into your spine like thorns, his body a wall in front of you—cold, motionless, unmoved. The world around you faded, consumed by the impossible nearness between your chest and his, your shallow breath filling the space like fog. You were caged.

But you were not small.

Your hands twitched at your sides, aching to shove him away, but paralyzed by the weight of his gaze, the heat building between you, strange and electric and thick like summer air before a storm.

“You should be afraid,” he said quietly.

“I am,” you whispered, because you were.

But not just of him.

He didn’t move, but his expression shifted—just barely. The slightest tick of his brow. The faintest tension in his jaw. Like your honesty surprised him.

His lips were stained red. His eyes, alight and alive. He was beautiful in the way a wildfire was beautiful—terrible, all-consuming. And still, his breath ghosted your skin like a secret.

“You think this ends with running,” he murmured, voice deep and unsteady, not with rage but something thicker, heavier. “But it ends with belonging.”

His hand moved again—this time, not to hurt, not to hold—but to rest beside your head, fingers curled against the bark, his body leaning ever so slightly closer. You felt the shift, the slight brush of his chest against yours, the way his knee pressed between your legs to brace his weight.

Your breath hitched.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. Lingered. Just long enough to make your lips part in response, a flicker of heat sparking across your skin, no longer born from fear but something you couldn’t name. Not yet.

“Say the word,” he murmured, voice close, velvet and grave.

You stared at him—face inches from yours, teeth still gleaming faintly behind parted lips. The fingers of your hand curled into fists at your sides. You wanted to scream. Or strike. Or shatter. But your voice betrayed you.

“I hate you.”

He smiled.

Not cruel.

Almost sad.

“No, you don’t,” he said.

He leaned in further.

His lips hovered just above yours, so close you could feel the faint cool of his breath ghosting over your mouth. His chest barely moved with breath, but yours rose and fell in quick, shaky bursts. Your back pressed deeper into the bark behind you, fingers twitching uselessly at your sides, unsure whether to push him away or hold on to something—anything—to steady yourself.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the closeness.

The electricity.

The unbearable silence between the almost and the act.

Then his lips dipped lower—closer—his mouth just a breath from yours.

Almost.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

But before they could touch, you turned your head sharply to the side.

His mouth brushed your cheek instead. Warm. Soft. Missed.

Your pulse screamed in your ears, and your teeth clenched so hard your jaw ached. You kept your gaze fixed on the dark beyond his shoulder, willing yourself to breathe, to not feel how near he still was. To not ache from the heat he stirred in places you swore had been long frozen.

There was a beat of stillness.

Then—

A low laugh rumbled in his throat. Deep. Dark.

It vibrated against your chest where his body pinned yours, the sound sliding through your skin like smoke slipping under a door. It was warm in a way nothing about him should have been—warm in a way that spread through your belly like lightning before the storm.

“Mm,” he murmured. “So close.”

You hated that your body responded. That your stomach fluttered. That your knees felt loose beneath the weight of that laugh.

He turned his head, lips still inches from your ear. “You’ll stop turning away eventually.”

You clenched your jaw tighter, refusing to look at him.

But he saw it.

The flush in your skin.

The tremble in your breath.

The way your head tilted, just slightly, even now, to track the sound of his voice.

His mouth lingered near your ear, lips barely parted, voice a velvet thread weaving into your skin.

“You’ll stop turning away eventually,” he whispered again, slower this time, like a promise.

You could feel him smirking. His presence, his body, the unbearable tension—he thought he had you unraveling. And maybe you were. Maybe part of you trembled not just from fury or fear, but something tangled in the heat and confusion of being wanted this way—by him. Something darker.

But then—

You remembered Tony.

The weight of his body hitting the ground.

The way his eyes had dulled mid-plea.

Your jaw clenched. Your eyes burned.

Before Remmick could speak again, you raised your hand.

And struck.

Your palm cracked across his cheek with a sharp snap, the sound cutting clean through the night.

He recoiled—not far, not nearly enough—but the surprise on his face was real. His head turned from the force, the glow in his eyes flickering low for just a second. His breath hitched, nostrils flaring as he absorbed the sting of it.

You didn’t give him a second to speak.

“You killed him,” you hissed, voice trembling with fury. “You drained him like he was nothing. Like he didn’t matter.”

His head turned back toward you slowly, his jaw flexing. That hint of amusement was gone.

“I hate you,” you spat, venom lacing each word.

Then—without a word—he moved.

His hand shot up and slammed flat against your chest, and your back collided with the tree in one brutal motion. Bark bit into your spine, your breath knocked from your lungs in a pained gasp. The tree shook behind you, birds scattering from the branches above as the impact echoed.

Remmick’s face was close again, but there was nothing soft about him now.

The red in his eyes flared brighter, the lines of his face sharper in the shadows. That cold control he always wore like armor cracked wide open—and underneath it, rage simmered.

“You think I did that to punish you?” he growled, voice no longer low but cutting, each word like ice cracking down your bones. “You think I did it to make you hate me?”

His other hand gripped the bark beside your head, knuckles white, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

“I did it,” he hissed, “because I warned you what would happen if you ran. I told you what I would take if I caught you.”

His lips hovered just above yours again, not in desire this time—but in defiance.

“And I did.”

Your breath came in shallow gasps, the ache in your back pulsing where you’d slammed against the tree. The cold of the bark seeped into your spine, but it was nothing compared to the fire building in your chest—rage, sorrow, grief. Still, you stayed silent, trembling beneath him, your fingers curling into the bark as you glared up into those burning, godless eyes.

And then his hand moved.

Slowly.

He let go of the bark beside your head, and instead, his fingers reached forward and cupped your jaw. Not gently—but not rough, either. His palm was cold, calloused and still singed from the pendant, his thumb pressing beneath your chin as he tilted your face toward his. His touch was controlled, invasive in its patience, like a sculptor molding something that already belonged to him.

You tried to jerk away.

His grip tightened.

“No,” he said lowly, voice pressing down on your chest like smoke. “Look at me.”

You refused.

His thumb slid along your cheek, forcing your gaze back to his.

“Look at me,” he repeated, slower now, darker. “I want you to hear this with your eyes wide open.”

Your chest rose sharply as your lungs fought to steady. The fury still burned in you—but beneath it, something else cracked open, something more dangerous than fear. He saw it. He felt it.

“There’s something inside you,” Remmick whispered, the words dragging slow and deliberate across the space between you, “something waiting. Buried. Sleeping.”

His thumb moved—traced down the line of your jaw, the edge of your throat, and back again.

“It’s not human. Not really. Not entirely.”

Your brows pinched. “You don’t know anything about me.”

His smirk returned, cold and soft.

“But I do.”

He leaned closer. The tip of his nose grazed yours. His breath—cool and bitter—brushed your lips like the kiss he never took.

“You can feel it,” he continued, voice now barely a thread. “That pull. That thrum in your blood when you’re near me. That fire curling in your belly every time you try to run, try to fight me. That’s not just survival.”

His grip on your jaw softened—just enough to make it worse.

“That’s recognition.”

Your stomach turned.

The forest around you was silent.

“No—”

“Yes,” he cut in, his lips grazing your cheek, his mouth now near your ear. “It’s ancient. It’s inside your bones. And when I turn you, you’ll feel it break open—every locked door inside you, every secret you didn’t know your blood was keeping.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you again. His gaze searched yours, not hungrily, but with something closer to awe.

Your body felt suspended—every nerve straining beneath his touch, your throat tight, your mind spinning between the horror of his words and the deeper, terrible part of you that wanted to know.

“No,” you said, voice thin, shaky. “You’re lying.”

But it didn’t land the way you wanted it to.

The word came out more like a plea than a protest—too soft, too hollow, trembling under the weight of the heat now growing between your bodies like smoke rising in a room with no air.

Remmick’s thumb dragged slow across your lower lip, and your breath stuttered, involuntarily. His fingers remained locked under your jaw, guiding your face where he wanted it—his voice still close, still terrible in its calm.

“I don’t need to lie to you,” he murmured.

Your skin prickled.

“I’ve never needed to,” he added, quieter this time, as though each syllable was a thread winding around your throat, around your thoughts, around that last splinter of resolve you held onto.

You turned your head again, but slower this time. Weaker.

“Whatever you think I am—”

“I know what you are.”

His words sliced clean through yours.

He shifted his weight, his chest brushing yours again, closer now. Every inch of him was cold stone, but the space between you was fevered. Charged. Like something deep within you had started to churn, and your body didn’t know whether to run or to open.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, your noses brushing. His burnt hand still cupped your jaw, but it wasn’t holding you anymore. It was offering.

And you hated that your body stilled.

“I can feel it,” he whispered, voice like coals turned to ash. “Buried in your blood, in your soul. That crack. That ache. That rage that doesn’t belong to any normal girl. That fire you keep stifling. It wasn’t meant for this world.”

His lips hovered just above yours, so close that even your breaths mingled—yours shallow and fast, his slow and unnervingly steady.

“That thing inside you,” he said, “it’s waiting for the moment I free it.”

“No,” you breathed again, but your voice lacked the strength it once had. “You don’t get to say who I am.”

Remmick’s smirk deepened—knowing, almost reverent.

“I’m not saying it,” he whispered. “I’m showing you.”

You shivered.

And not from fear.

Not just from fear.

The heat between you coiled tighter. Your heart slammed against your ribs as his presence pressed in, not just physically but everywhere. In your skin. In your breath. In your mind. You couldn’t tell anymore if your pulse was racing from horror or some deeper part of you—some part you didn’t want to name—that recognized itself in him.

“I hate you,” you said again, but even to your own ears, it sounded like you were trying to remind yourself.

Remmick’s grin widened, slow and dangerous.

“No,” he said. “You hate that I know you.”

His lips brushed your cheek as he leaned in, not to kiss, but to linger there—just long enough to make your knees weaken again.

“Let me finish what I started,” he murmured.

Your jaw clenched beneath his fingers.

His breath—cool and steady—moved against your cheek like a vow, like a threat, like a promise the earth itself had never dared to speak. You could feel his mouth brushing the soft edge of your skin, close enough to leave a mark without biting. Your body was taut, trembling, caught between the instinct to recoil and tthe desperate, forbidden pull that had begun to bloom low and dark inside you.

You breathed again, firmer this time. “I won’t let you.”

Your voice cracked with conviction, but only just. You hated how close you sounded to breaking. Hated the heat flooding your stomach and chest. Hated the ache that was starting to form in your limbs—not pain, not from fear, but from the confusion of wanting something that made you sick to want.

Remmick’s hand tightened on your jaw again, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he felt it too. His other hand shifted lower, resting against your waist, fingers curling there, possessive, reverent. His mouth never left your cheek.

“You keep saying that,” he whispered, “but your body’s already listening.”

That stoked the fire.

You turned your head sharply and shoved at his chest with everything you had left. He moved a fraction of an inch—surprised, perhaps—but didn’t stumble. Your palms flattened against the black fabric of his coat, and your voice cracked like thunder.

“You murdered my friend,” you seethed. “You ripped him away like he was nothing. And now you want me to what? Surrender? Let you rewrite what I am?”

A flicker of silence.

For a heartbeat, you saw something in his eyes falter—not pity. Not guilt. Something colder. Something emptier.

“No,” he said, voice low. “I want you to stop pretending you don’t feel it.”

You opened your mouth to fight again, to deny, to spit back another protest—but the words caught.

Because you did feel it.

The pull.

That dark thing curling behind your ribs like smoke, like something asleep for too long, slowly stirring. It wasn’t just fear anymore. It wasn’t just grief.

It was curiosity.

It was the heat of his breath where it shouldn’t be.

It was the unbearable tension, the ache between your thighs, the way your heart stuttered not from terror—but anticipation.

You tried to push again.

Your palms pressed harder against his chest.

But your fingers curled slightly.

And your resistance, for just one second, wavered.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

And yours—despite yourself—dropped to his.

The air between you tightened, drawn taut like the string of a bow, humming with something inevitable.

“I hate you,” you said again, softly this time, more a whisper than a war cry.

And Remmick, fangs still bared, eyes still glowing, only smiled.

“I know.”

Then your hands slipped from his chest.

And you stopped pulling away.

You cracked—just barely—but it was enough.

Enough for him to know.

Enough for you to know.

The space between you vanished.

Not with a crash—but with a surrender so slow, so taut with heat, it made your breath catch in your throat. Remmick leaned in once more, and this time you didn’t turn your head. You didn’t flinch or curse or shove him away.

Your resistance had cracked—fine as spiderweb glass—and through it, everything rushed in at once.

His breath moved over your lips like smoke, cool and steady. His hand, still wrapped around your jaw, slid lower, fingers trailing the line of your throat with the kind of reverence that felt blasphemous. You shivered beneath it, your skin prickling, chest rising against his with every trembling inhale.

There was a hum between your bodies—low, electric, ancient. It danced beneath your skin like heat before a summer storm, like a fever threatening to break. You were aware of everything: the tree biting into your back, the ache in your wrists, the blood still drying beneath your nails.

And him.

Gods, him.

Remmick moved closer, the planes of his body brushing yours. Not harsh. Not rushed. Like he had all the time in the world to devour you inch by inch.

And he would.

His lips hovered near yours, so close you could taste the metallic tang of blood that still stained them. But he didn’t kiss you. Not yet. He waited. Let the silence bloom and stretch, let your pulse thunder in your ears, let your body want.

“I can feel your heart,” he murmured, voice molten now, low and dangerous. “It wants me more than you do.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, but your voice was breathless, thinned out by the tremor in your lungs.

His smile curved, sharp and hungry.

“Say you don’t want this,” he said, lips brushing yours now, so faintly that it sent sparks dancing up your spine.

You opened your mouth—to lie, maybe. To spit, to scream, to pretend—

But no words came.

Your breath simply met his.

And then—his hands shifted.

The one at your waist slid behind you, curling against your lower back, pulling you forward until there was no more space between you. Your hips met his. The contact jolted through you like fire. His other hand still cradled your face, thumb stroking just beneath your cheekbone, and for a second—just a second—his touch felt almost tender.

That scared you more than anything.

His nose brushed yours. Your lashes fluttered.

“Say the word,” he whispered, mouth grazing yours.

But instead, you leaned in.

It was your mouth that brushed his first, not quite a kiss, not fully—but enough. Enough for him to let out a low, quiet groan from the back of his throat. It was deep, almost worshiping, and it sent a wave of heat cascading through you.

Then his mouth claimed yours.

Slow. Heavy. Possessive.

It wasn’t soft—it wasn’t gentle. It was a storm that had waited seven years to break. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that was barely leashed, and yet so precise, so intentional. He kissed you like you were a secret he’d been waiting to taste. Like he’d known the shape of your mouth long before he ever laid eyes on it.

Your fingers finally moved—first trembling, then grasping. They clutched at the fabric of his coat, pulling him closer, even as your breath hitched against him. The bark at your back was forgotten. The world outside this moment ceased to exist. Only him. Only the heat. Only the terrible realization that something inside you liked this.

That it wanted more.

The kiss deepened.

What began as a collision of breath and hunger shifted into something heavier—slower, deeper. Remmick’s mouth moved against yours with aching control, like he was savoring every second, every trembling gasp you gave him. His lips were cool, yes, but they stole your breath like fire, and when his tongue brushed against yours, a shudder surged through you so violently it felt like the earth might split beneath your feet.

His hand at your lower back pressed you closer, eliminating the last fragile sliver of distance between your bodies. You could feel the full length of him now—broad and cold and terribly solid, like a statue come alive just for you. Your chest pressed to his, rising and falling in frantic rhythm, your pulse hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it, could taste it.

And Remmick—

He was still undead, but he felt fevered.

You felt it in the shift of his body, the subtle tremor in the way he gripped you. His still heart didn’t beat, but something inside him burned. Hunger, yes—but more than that. A low, quiet heat that surged through him like old memory, like a song he’d long forgotten until your lips brought it back. He groaned softly against your mouth, and it wasn’t the sound of a monster.

It was a man unraveling.

His hands began to move.

One slid up your spine, fingers gliding along the fabric of your dress, calloused and cool against your clothed, fevered skin. You gasped into him as he gripped your waist again, but tighter this time—possessive, like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.

Your arms looped around his shoulders before you could stop them, hands curling into the nape of his neck, fingertips dragging through the strands of his dark hair. The sensation of his body, all marble and ruin, pressed flush against yours—it sent fire streaking down your limbs, blooming in your stomach, your thighs, your throat.

And gods, the heat.

It pulsed between you like something alive. No longer just tension, but something growing, blooming, consuming. The kind of heat that made your breath stick in your lungs, made your legs shake beneath the weight of it, made you want to sink into him. To wrap yourself in that danger, in that cold flame that shouldn’t feel so good but did.

Remmick broke the kiss only to move lower—his lips grazing down your jaw, your neck, pausing just at the hollow of your throat. You tilted your head back without thinking, exposing yourself. Inviting. Daring. And when his mouth opened against your skin, you swore your knees would give out.

But he didn’t bite.

Not yet

Instead, he tasted.

His tongue dragged slowly against your pulse point, his lips closing over the beat of your heart. His fangs never touched you, but their presence hovered like a storm just off the horizon. You trembled, a whimper catching in your throat as your fingers dug into his shoulders.

“You feel it now,” he whispered against your skin. “Don’t lie.”

Your lips parted—no words came.

Your body answered for you.

It arched into him.

Heat surged between your thighs, raw and electric. Your breath caught again as he pressed his hips against yours, the tension so thick now it was unbearable. And for the first time, you didn’t try to fight it.

His lips lingered at your throat, cool and barely parted, the place where his fangs could sink in—but didn’t. Not yet. Instead, he pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to the skin just above your pulse, slow and heavy, like worship. Like punishment. You felt every one of them like a brand, like the air had been lit on fire and only you were burning.

You exhaled his name without meaning to.

A tremble ran through him at the sound of it. Not weakness—Remmick didn’t weaken. But it stirred something low in him, something old and buried, something even he had forgotten he could feel. He groaned against your throat, the vibration sinking into your chest as his hand, still cradling the small of your back, slid downward.

Fingertips traced the shape of your spine.

Slow. Testing. Tasting your reactions in the way his lips and tongue had already begun to learn your skin.

You clung to him, arms looped tight around his neck now, hands buried in the dark strands of his hair. You didn’t know who was breathing harder—you, blood wild in your veins, or him, acting like your very breath was something sacred.

Then his other hand moved.

It left your jaw, trailed down your side, ghosted over the curve of your hip until it came to rest at the edge of your thigh.

There, he paused.

You could feel the tension in him—leashed, barely. Not hesitation. Permission. As though he was giving you that last flicker of choice, even now. As if one touch from you would end this, break it. Undo him.

But you didn’t move.

Your body ached too much. Your skin was too hot. The part of you that used to run, to fight, had been left somewhere back on the forest floor. Here, now, pressed between the tree and his cold frame, you could only feel.

So he moved.

His fingers slid further down, along the hem of your dress, then beneath it. Your breath hitched sharply as his hand found the inside of your thigh—cold at first, startling against your fevered skin, and then slow. Careful. His fingertips dragged upward in a firm, aching path that made your legs tremble.

You gasped when he kissed your neck again—this time deeper, wetter, lips parting fully to suck gently at the sensitive place just beneath your jaw. You clutched at his coat, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping you from dissolving.

“Remmick—”

You said it again, but now it came out as a whimper. A warning. A prayer. You didn’t even know what it meant anymore.

His mouth pulled back, and he looked at you again.

His red eyes burned—but not with cruelty. With want. With admiration.

“You’re fire underneath it all,” he whispered, his voice low and wrecked. “I can feel it. You were meant for this.”

His hand moved higher still, ghosting where only heat met his touch, and your head fell back against the tree with a faint thud, a sound caught somewhere between surrender and disbelief.

Your hips rolled forward without thinking, seeking him, seeking pressure, seeking more.

And when his lips crashed into yours again, there was nothing soft about it. It was ruinous.

The way he kissed you now was starvation.

His kisses consumed you.

There was nothing gentle about them now. No teasing, no waiting. Remmick’s mouth crushed against yours with a need that felt like it had been building for centuries—dark, starved, all-consuming. His lips parted yours roughly, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he meant to claim every breath you had left. You tasted blood, yes—his, Tony’s, it didn’t matter anymore—but beneath that was something deeper. Something electric. Something ancient.

You moaned against him, the sound caught between shock and pleasure. His hand at your thigh tightened, fingers digging into the soft, trembling flesh there as he dragged your leg upward, curling it around his waist. The position forced your hips flush together, and the contact sent a bolt of heat shooting through you so intense you whimpered into his mouth.

He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through your chest as his hands moved again—one anchoring your leg in place, the other dragging beneath your skirt, up the length of your inner thigh. Every inch he touched ignited, raw and burning. His fingers didn’t tremble. They explored you like they were learning something sacred, memorizing the way your body trembled against his, the way your pulse thudded beneath your skin like a war drum. His fingers met the warmth of your undergarments, and a spark shot through you at the motion.

Your fingers clutched at his coat, at his shoulders, at anything solid, because you were losing yourself. To the heat. To him. To the coil of pressure building deep in your core, winding tighter with every kiss, every stroke, every breath.

His mouth left yours only to descend again—to your throat, to your collarbone, to the top of your chest. He kissed like a man worshipping the altar he’d bled for. His fangs grazed your skin more than once, but still he didn’t bite. Not yet. He was savoring you. Drawing it out.

And you hated how much you wanted him to keep going.

His name left your lips again, softer this time. A breath. A surrender. You felt his mouth curl into a smirk against your skin as his fingers curled into the clothing that separated him and the heat between your legs. With a tug, the cloth ripped.

Your hips bucked.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat, and he swallowed it, catching your mouth again in another bruising kiss, drinking the sound from your lips like it fed him.

“You feel that?” he murmured, lips brushing yours, voice ragged and dark. “That’s what you’ve been running from.”

His fingers pressed in, firm, and your body arched off the tree like it needed him—like something inside you had cracked open, wide and wild and ravenous.

“You think it’s just me,” he said, dragging his mouth along your jaw, “but it’s you. This is who you are.”

Your breath came fast now, hot and broken, your thighs trembling as his fingers moved in slow, maddening thrusts, just enough to make you desperate. Your body trembled with want, with fury, with shame, with something too big to name.

You were burning. Melting. Drowning.

And Remmick watched you fall apart like he’d always known you would.

The moment swelled with heat, breath, and something primal that defied language.

Remmick’s body pressed firmly against yours, cold and unyielding, but that chill was deceptive—beneath it, something simmered. Something barely leashed. His hand cradled your thigh, keeping you wrapped around his waist, his other hand continued it’s movement beneath your skirts. Your chest rose and fell in erratic rhythm, your mouth swollen from his kisses, your pulse thrumming like it was trying to match a tempo only he knew.

He drew back just enough to meet your gaze.

And for the first time, you saw him—really saw him—not as the thing that chased you, not as the monster beneath the moonlight, but as something else. Something ancient. Something starved. His red eyes burned into you, holding a question he didn’t speak aloud.

One breath passed between you.

Then he moved.

You felt the shift in him—the subtle roll of his hips, the tension in his jaw, the way his body aligned with yours like a key slipping into a lock long hidden. The fabric between you barely separated the weight of him, and when he pressed forward, slow and deliberate, your back arched into him with a sharp, stuttering gasp.

The connection was full. Immediate.

Every nerve in your body lit up at once—sensation, warmth, pressure—all of it blooming outward from the place where your hips met his. It wasn’t just the friction. It was the way he filled the space around you, inside you, through you. The way your bodies moved together like they’d done this before, maybe lifetimes ago. Maybe in another life, beneath another moon.

Remmick held your gaze the entire time.

His hand cradled your thigh tighter, his other finding your lower back, pressing you flush to him as he rocked forward again, a slow, grounding rhythm that pulled a breathless sound from your throat. His own lips parted in a quiet, strangled groan—a sound of restraint, of hunger folded beneath reverence.

And gods, the heat between you now—

It radiated outward, pooled in your belly, licked up your spine, made your fingers curl into the back of his coat as you clung to him. He moved like a shadow—controlled, fluid—but there was weight in every movement. Purpose. He wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t claiming you like a beast. He was unraveling you, piece by trembling piece.

“Feel that,” he whispered into the hollow of your throat, where his lips dragged again, thick drool spilling from the corner of his mouth. “That pull. That ache. That’s what you are.”

You whimpered his name, half in protest, half in awe.

Your hands roamed his back, gripping tightly, grounding yourself as your bodies found a rhythm that stole thought, breath, everything. Your hips met his, again and again, slow and deep, and the tree behind you bore witness to the ruin being carved into your soul.

This was more than desire.

This was a breaking.

And somewhere in the swirl of sweat and breath and heat, you felt it—that thrum of something other rising to the surface. Something that was yours and yet entirely unknown.

Remmick felt it too.

His head dropped to your shoulder, voice a low, reverent growl:

“You’re mine.”

Your bodies moved in sync now, rhythm deep and deliberate, like waves crashing against a jagged shore—inevitable, relentless, all-consuming.

Every breath you took caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, your fingers clawing at Remmick’s shoulders, his hair, whatever you could hold on to as he moved with you, into you. Each motion dragged a fresh ripple of heat across your skin, each thrust wound the tension tighter in your core, until you thought your body might break from it.

You were burning.

You were breaking.

Your back arched against the tree, your throat exposed as your head tipped backward, and he was everywhere—his mouth on your neck, his hands grasping your hips, his hips rocking into yours with a pace that was neither fast nor slow, but inevitable. Measured. A rhythm that had no beginning and no end.

Your name escaped his lips, not as a threat, not as a taunt, but as a prayer.

And then it hit.

Your breath left you in one great shudder, your body convulsing against his as heat bloomed deep in your belly and rippled out, stealing your voice, stealing your thoughts. You clung to him as you fell apart, your body locked in place by the strength of his arms, the strength of what you’d become in his hands.

He wasn’t far behind.

Remmick let out a groan—low, feral, breaking—his body tightening against yours. You felt him falter, stilling for a breath that never came. He pressed his forehead to your shoulder, trembling with restraint, with release, with something ancient surging up through him like a tide he could no longer hold back.

And then—

He lifted his head.

Slowly.

His breath dragged against your collarbone, heavy and reverent. His eyes, glowing red and ravenous, locked onto your throat.

And you knew.

The heat of your climax still pulsed through you, your body oversensitive, undone, trembling in his grasp when his lips parted. You barely noticed his hand coming up to grab your wrists to pin above your head. You barely had time to breathe—

—before his fangs sank into your neck.

It wasn’t sharp at first—it was pressure, and then puncture, a snap of heat and pain that spiraled into something far deeper. Something blinding. You cried out, not just from pain, but from the overwhelming rush—your blood drawn from you in slow, hungry pulls as he drank.

Your back arched hard against the tree, nails digging helplessly into bark as your body spasmed in his hold. Your arms were still trapped, his grip unrelenting—no longer just firm, but bruising, like he couldn’t bear to let go of you now that he had you. His mouth stayed locked over your throat, fangs buried deep, and when he drank, he drank like he was starving.

The sound was unbearable. Wet. Greedy. Low, guttural pulls from your neck that echoed in your chest, your ears, your skull. His tongue pressed into the wound between pulls, coaxing more from you, and each mouthful felt like a thread unraveling from your core.

You felt it.

The pull.

The slow, devastating drain of your life leaving you and pouring into him.

Your heartbeat faltered—first in panic, then in weakness. The forest tilted. The stars above blurred, stretching across the sky like liquid mercury. Your knees buckled, and you would’ve crumpled to the ground had he not held you up, your limp body sagging against him like a marionette with its strings cut.

Then came the cold.

It wasn’t from the air.

It started in your lower spine, a slow, creeping frost that climbed your back, wrapping around your ribs, squeezing your lungs. Not wind, not water—this cold was inside you, born of something dark and ancient, spreading like a curse beneath your skin.

Your fingers twitched. Your mouth parted as if to speak, but no sound emerged—only a soft, wet gasp. Your lips trembled. Drool slipped down your chin. You were losing yourself—your body, your voice, your name.

Remmick pulled back.

His face was drenched in your blood. His lips—red and trembling—hung parted, chest rising and falling in shallow, reverent rhythm. He stared at you like he was watching divinity unravel in his arms. His expression was ruined. Ravished.

He let go of your wrists.

You collapsed into him, barely catching yourself on the lapel of his coat, your breath shivering out of you in panicked, broken waves. You were light and heavy all at once, every part of your body struggling to remember what it meant to be.

And then—without pause—he bit into his own wrist.

Blood spilled immediately, thick and dark, glistening against pale skin. He pressed the bleeding wound to your lips without a word.

“Drink,” he whispered, voice guttural, threaded with something terrifyingly tender.

You turned your face away, instinctively, barely coherent—but he caught your jaw, his fingers bruising this time.

“Drink it,” he snarled, voice breaking with urgency. “Or you die.”

You shook your head weakly—but your mouth opened.

And he pushed it in.

His wrist pressed past your lips, and the taste hit you all at once—rot, ancient and bitter, like ash and smoke and things meant never to be touched. Your body recoiled, tried to gag, but his hand held you steady, forcing you to swallow.

Then it shifted.

The taste changed.

The rot gave way to heat.

Fire.

A molten wave that scorched your throat and spread downward, igniting every nerve, every limb. Your spine arched violently. A scream tore from your throat, hoarse and raw, as your body locked tight in his arms. Your veins lit up like lightning. Your vision pulsed white.

You were being remade.

Torn open from the inside and stitched back together wrong—or right, you didn’t know anymore. All you knew was pain. All you knew was fire.

And still—you drank.

Because you had to.

Because something in you—some terrible, ancient instinct—wanted to.

Your heart seized.

Stopped.

Everything around you fell silent. No breath. No beat. No sound.

Just stillness.

It lasted for what felt like forever—a silence so vast it swallowed the world. No wind, no breath, no heartbeat. Not even Remmick moved. You were cradled in the crook of his arm, your body weightless, hollowed out, a vessel drained and waiting. Your lips were parted, still stained with his blood, your eyes barely open. You weren’t alive. But you weren’t gone, either.

Then it started.

At first it was subtle.

A flicker in your chest. A twitch behind your ribs. A sudden jolt of heat—low in your belly, blooming outward like kindling catching fire beneath your skin.

Your fingers spasmed.

Your head jerked back.

And then your whole body seized.

A violent gasp tore from your throat as air surged back into your lungs, not cool and clean but hot, blistering—like breathing fire. Your spine arched off his chest, your limbs kicking out, your mouth opening wide as if you were choking on something unseen, something inside you that wanted out.

You gagged.

Once.

Twice.

Your hands clawed at the front of his coat, not in fear, not in desperation—but because your nerves were screaming, your muscles flexing all at once. It felt like you were being electrocuted from the inside out. Flames danced beneath your skin, licking every vein, every tendon, every sinew. You sobbed and choked, your eyes rolling back as your body jerked uncontrollably.

The cold was gone.

In its place: pure, molten heat.

It didn’t burn like fire—it devoured. Like lightning laced through blood. Your teeth clenched so tight you tasted copper. Your body curled in on itself, then snapped straight again with a strangled cry. You could feel your bones shifting, your heartbeat returning—but not as it had been.

It was different.

Stronger. Wilder. Wrong.

And through it all, Remmick held you.

His arms locked around your bucking body, his hand cradling the back of your head as your skull pressed to his chest. His grip never faltered. Not when your back bowed like a bowstring, not when you gagged on breathless sobs, not when your hands thrashed, clawing at the air, at him, at the sky.

His voice finally came—low, quiet, meant for you and you alone.

“Let it happen,” he whispered. “Don’t fight it. You’ll break if you do.”

Your eyes snapped open.

The world around you looked wrong. Sharper. Darker. Too loud. Too bright. The night sky bled red at the edges. The trees breathed. The dirt beneath you pulsed like a living thing.

Your body sagged.

The last violent jolt of the transformation passed through you like a final wave crashing against the shore—and then receded, leaving you breathless and hollow. Your muscles trembled, twitching with aftershocks, but the burning had dulled into a low thrum beneath your skin. Something raw. Something constant.

You were still upright only because Remmick held you.

But even he, sensing the shift in you—the completion of it—slowly pulled back.

Your legs threatened to give way, but the tree was there. Steady. Rough bark met your spine as you leaned into it, head tipping back, chest rising and falling with shallow, bewildered breaths.

The forest around you was no longer the same.

Not in sound.

Not in scent.

Not in sight.

The night had sharpened into exquisite clarity. Every leaf above you quivered in your vision. You could hear the wind moving through them—not just as sound, but as movement in space. Your ears twitched at the distant flap of wings—owls, two of them, passing over branches a half mile away. You could smell everything: the moss, the damp earth, the iron-rich tang of your own blood on Remmick’s skin. You could even smell him. Sharp like frost and ash and something dark, sweet, and ancient.

Your heart—if it still beat—was quiet now. But your veins thrummed with something else entirely. Something faster. Wilder. New.

You didn’t feel alive.

You felt awake.

And then his hand returned.

Remmick reached forward slowly, like touching something sacred. His palm cupped your face, fingers brushing along your jaw, thumb tracing just beneath your cheekbone. You didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. His touch was grounding now, in a world that had been cracked wide open.

He tilted your head gently, tilting your chin so your face turned toward him fully.

And then he looked.

Into your eyes.

He stared like he was seeing you for the first time—not as prey, not as a girl running through the woods—but as what you had become. His gaze searched yours, not in hunger, but in something quieter. Something close to awe.

There was silence.

Then—

“There you are,” he said softly, like your name had finally arrived in his mouth. “Look at you…”

You blinked.

And the faintest glow shimmered back at him from your eyes—dim, but undeniable. Like fire beneath the surface. Like the first spark of something dangerous and divine.

Remmick smiled.

Not cruelly.

Not like a monster.

But like a man who had finally found what he’d been looking for.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

You parted your lips—but no words came. Only breath. And the weight of your newness pressing down on you like the first full breath after drowning.

It happened in a blink.

One breath in this new body, one flutter of those glowing eyes, and suddenly the world wasn’t just color and sound and scent—it was him.

Remmick.

Your mind opened like a gate flung wide.

You didn’t move. You didn’t have to. Because suddenly, you were inside him.

Memories poured into you—not slow, not gentle, but in a tidal wave that buckled your knees and made your fingers curl into the bark behind you. You gasped, lips parting against the weight of it, but still you didn’t pull away from his hands. They grounded you as the flood began.

Stone walls layered in moss and soaked with rain—not castles, but low, rounded shelters of stacked earth and stone. Homes built into the hills, tucked beneath the sky like secrets whispered to the land itself.

Ireland. Ireland from before.

You saw it. Felt it. The wind that rolled in from the sea, harsh and salted, tangling in tall grass and loose braids. The earth was damp and dark, the fields gold-tinged with late sun. His hands—your hands—were calloused from the ploww, dirt beneath the nails, the ache of work carried in the bones. A farmer’s son. One who rose with the sun and knelt before no one but the land.

You heard a woman’s voice.

Not soft, but strong—speaking the old tongue with the cadence of the earth itself. She hummed as she pressed herbs into linen, her green eyes the color of the forest floor. Her palm rested on your head for only a moment, and it was the kind of touch you never forgot.

You gasped again, chest tightening.

Then—blood.

Not monsters. Men.

A raid, sudden and brutal. Spears pierced through thatched walls. Torches fell. Smoke and fire danced together as people screamed. You saw Remmick younger, human, beautiful in a way that still felt innocent. Not yet hardened. Not yet taken. You felt his terror as he was dragged from the hearth. The weight of the blade that missed his heart. The press of cold water against his face as they held him under—not to drown him, but to weaken him. To break his breath. To ready him.

They didn’t kill him.

They waited.

And when he gasped back to the surface, sputtering, shaking—

One of them came forward.

Not a man. Not truly. Pale, with eyes like frozen glass and a mouth that never softened. He knelt beside Remmick, gripping his chin, studying his face as if choosing between cattle.

And then he bit him.

No ritual. No warning. Just fangs buried deep into a young man’s throat, the blood taken in greedy, tearing gulps.

You felt it all.

The fire still burning behind them. The pain. The cold. The way the blood returned to him—not his own, but other. The way his body seized. The way his scream was swallowed by the dark.

That was how he died.

And that was how he was born.

And then centuries.

Empty years. Endless nights. Family lost. Blood spilled. Cities built and ruined. All of it swept through you, blistering and fast and overwhelming. His loneliness became yours. His ache. His guilt. His fury.

But then—

You saw yourself.

Not as you remembered. As he saw you.

A firelight glow across your skin that first night in the woods. The curve of your mouth when you cursed him. The way you bled and still didn’t beg. The way your voice shook when you swore you hated him. And the way you looked just now, right now, with your head tilted into his touch and your lips parted and your eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

You were seeing it all from inside him.

His thoughts, thick and muddled with centuries of hunger, had one sharp clarity now—and it was you.

Not just your face. Your presence. The way your voice hit something he thought long gone. The way your anger made him feel human again. And the way your surrender, trembling and furious and real, had unraveled something deep in his core.

He never meant to see you.

But he did.

And that truth—like everything else—bled into you now, too.

You blinked as the rush slowed. Breath shallow. Mind reeling.

Remmick still stood before you, hands cradling your face. His eyes searched yours.

He knew what you’d seen.

What you’d felt.

And still, he didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

You felt his heart, even though it didn’t beat.

And it was yours.

The vision faded—but it didn’t leave.

It clung to the inside of your ribs like smoke, staining everything. His past. His death. His turning. His grief. All of it was in you now. Not memories told, but felt. Like bones pressed into your own. Like his voice was buried under your skin.

You felt him completely. You knew him now—not as a monster, not as the hunter who haunted you through the trees, but as something far more dangerous.

Real.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Because now you wanted him.

Not just with your body—your blood, your breath, your skin—but with the hollows in your soul that had never been filled. You could feel the pull of him like gravity, like a hunger born from the same root as your own.

Your gaze snapped to his, his hands still cupping your face, his eyes wide and searching. There was awe in him—but something softer too. Like he was relieved.

But that feeling—

That pull—

It wasn’t soft anymore.

It was fire.

And suddenly, your body moved before thought could catch up.

With a surge of strength that felt impossible, feral, you shoved him backward. His eyes widened, and for the first time, you saw something rare break across his face—disbelief.

He hit the ground hard, his back slamming into the dirt with a sharp thud, the wind leaving him in a low grunt. Leaves stirred around him. The earth seemed to hold its breath.

You stood over him for a heartbeat, the space between you charged, crackling.

Then you moved.

Fast—faster than even he expected.

You pounced.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, knees pressing into the earth on either side of his hips. The weight of you came down hard, straddling him, pinning him in place with the full strength of a newborn vampire—and for once, he couldn’t move.

His chest rose, sharp and sudden.

His hands reached up, but didn’t push.

They rested on your thighs, grounding.

Your own palms planted against his chest, now heaving slightly beneath your touch. You stared down at him, wild and lit from within, your eyes glowing faintly in the dark as your breath came hard and fast.

The hunger in you wasn’t just for blood.

It was for him.

For the pieces of him that now lived in you. The pain. The violence. The loneliness. The need. Every secret he’d buried now pulsed inside you like your own.

His lips parted to speak, but no sound came.

He looked at you like you were something divine. Something unstoppable.

And then—he smiled.

Not because he had control.

But because you did.

The tension between your bodies pulsed like a second heartbeat—deep, thudding, ancient. You straddled him, and for the first time, you were the one with the power.

Remmick lay beneath you, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that mimicked breath, even if he no longer needed it. His eyes were locked on yours—dark, molten, searching—but he didn’t move to stop you.

He didn’t want to.

Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the tension beneath the cool skin, the sinew of someone centuries old—and yet your touch lit him up as though he’d never been touched before.

Your lips parted.

And you dipped down.

His head tilted instinctively, baring his neck for you—a slow, reverent offering. You didn’t bite. Not yet. Instead, your mouth found the place just beneath his jaw, where the skin was smooth and pale and just beginning to flush beneath the closeness.

You kissed him there.

Open-mouthed. Slow. Heated.

You felt him tense beneath you.

Your lips traced a path down the length of his throat, tongue dragging across the cold skin, mouth wet and wanting. His body arched just slightly into your touch, not in protest, but in surrender—his hands still resting on your thighs, fingers twitching with every press of your lips.

And then something inside you snapped.

That rising hunger—that fire that bloomed beneath your skin since the moment your body came back to life—it surged upward in a wave of urgency and need.

Your hands flew to his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt.

And with one swift, inhuman tug—

You ripped.

The sound of tearing cloth split through the trees as the buttons popped and scattered across the dirt like shattered teeth. The shirt split down the middle, shredded under your grip, revealing the pale marble of his chest—smooth, cool, and flecked with old scars like faded constellations across stone.

Remmick let out a low, sharp breath—almost a growl—as your eyes roamed over him, your chest heaving above his.

His hands finally moved—trailing up the backs of your thighs, slow, steady, grounding. But he didn’t take control.

He gave it.

“I told you,” he whispered, voice thick with awe and heat, “you were fire.”

Your mouth descended again, dragging across the newly exposed skin of his chest, tasting him, claiming him—not with fangs, but with lips and breath and want. Your fingers raked over his ribcage, and he arched into your touch like he’d been waiting lifetimes to feel it.

And still—there was more.

The air around you thickened, weighted with heat and something darker—something not just desire, but hunger.

You dragged your mouth across Remmick’s chest, lips parted, tongue tasting the cold, smooth skin beneath you. His scent filled your nose—salt and ash and something faintly sweet, like dried heather and earth after rain. You didn’t know if it was memory or instinct, but it made your mouth water.

Literally.

At first, you didn’t notice the way your jaw tensed, how your gums ached low and deep beneath your teeth. It was a subtle throb, an echo of something ancient beginning to stir inside you. Your kisses grew sloppier, needier. Your breath came out in shaky bursts as your body pressed harder against his, your hips subconsciously rocking into his waist.

Then you felt it.

A wetness at the corner of your mouth. Not sweat. Not breath.

Drool.

Thick and slow.

It slipped down the corner of your lips and fell in a long, glistening strand onto Remmick’s chest, splattering against the pale skin just above his heart. You stared down, dazed, as the saliva pooled and slid down the curve of his collarbone.

Remmick’s head tilted back, his jaw slack, his eyes still locked on yours. He felt it. All of it.

You swallowed hard, but the ache in your mouth only worsened.

Your gums pulsed.

A throb, low and primal, building behind your teeth.

The hunger rose suddenly, sharply—not for him, but for something inside him. His blood. His essence. That crimson fire you’d only just tasted. It clawed its way up your throat, hot and cold all at once, like your body was being pulled in two directions—desire and need, want and instinct.

And through it all, your hips rolled against his again—just once. Slow. Searching.

A groan escaped him.

Low. Wrecked. Almost awed.

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, not to stop you, but to steady himself.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he rasped, breathless. “That hunger. Let it all loose, baby.”

Your lips hovered just above his throat, the skin still slick from earlier. You could hear the echo of his blood—not like a heartbeat, but like a current, slow and deep beneath still water. It called to you. Pulled at your ribs. Made your gums burn.

You didn’t realize your fingers were shaking until they pressed into his chest again, leaving faint indents where your nails bit into his skin.

The drool dripped again.

And still—your hips remained locked to his, tension humming between you both like a wire stretched too tight.

Remmick’s hands slid to your waist. He pulled you down, meeting you fully, letting the heat build and build as he whispered, “Don’t fight it. Let it take you.”

The ache in your mouth deepened—no longer just a dull pressure but a throbbing, sharp and insistent, pulsing beneath your gums with every second you held back.

Your breath shivered past your lips, the taste of him still on your tongue. Your body hovered over his, trembling from the tension that coiled through your spine like a tightly wound spring. The hunger inside you wasn’t just for his blood—it was for the completion of it.

Your fingers curled tighter into his chest. Your hips stayed molded to his waist, the heat between your bodies sparking with every small shift. You couldn’t tell where need ended and instinct began.

Then came the pain.

Your jaw tensed as your gums split—not violently, but slowly, almost cruelly. The pressure built to a blinding sharpness, and a cry escaped you as your mouth fell open, a mixture of pain and shock and relief.

You felt them.

Fangs.

Long, sharp, yours.

They fell into place with a click you felt more than heard—four perfect, gleaming weapons now seated just behind your lips.

And as suddenly as the pain had come, it vanished.

Relief washed through your limbs, hot and heavy, like your entire body had been exhaling without knowing it. The hunger sharpened, no longer vague or primal—it was clear. Focused. Your vision honed in on the pale stretch of Remmick’s neck, still glistening faintly, just beneath your mouth.

You lowered yourself slowly.

Your breath hit his skin. He stilled beneath you—not in fear, but in stillness made of complete surrender.

Your fangs hovered just above his pulse point, your lips parted, your breath catching. The scent of his blood was stronger now. Rich. Familiar. You paused there, not out of hesitation, but admiration. Your body burned with need. Your mouth watered. The world narrowed to this.

And then—

Remmick moved.

Only slightly.

He lifted his head, jaw tilted forward, and brought his throat to meet your mouth.

He offered it.

Willingly.

A soft groan rumbled in his chest at the contact—your fangs brushing his skin, your breath trembling over his pulse.

“Do it,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked. “Take it.”

And you did.

Your mouth opened wider. Your lips sealed around his throat.

And you sank.

The moment your fangs pierced his skin, the world exploded.

It was nothing like the first time.

When you fed during the transformation, it had been chaos—burning, blinding, pain laced with survival. But now… now, it was choice.

And that changed everything.

The moment your fangs slid into Remmick’s throat, a warmth bloomed across your tongue—slow, thick, impossibly rich. His blood wasn’t just sustenance. It was power. Knowledge. Memory. Emotion. It filled your mouth like liquid heat and slipped down your throat like velvet flame.

But more than that—it welcomed you.

This wasn’t a feeding.

It was communion.

Your lips sealed tighter around the wound as your fangs dug deeper, instinct driving you to hold him closer, to drink until the ache inside you eased. Each pull of blood was like drawing breath after years of suffocating. You moaned against his skin—low and helpless—because it felt good. Too good.

And then the hunger shifted.

It bloomed lower.

Deeper.

As the blood rolled down your throat, your body responded with a new kind of urgency. The heat pooled in your core, a wild, restless throb that only grew stronger the longer your mouth stayed pressed to his neck. You couldn’t help it—your hips began to move against his, slow and searching, grinding down with a rhythm that matched each pulse of blood between your lips.

Remmick groaned beneath you, his hands gripping your hips now—hard, grounding, but not trying to stop you. If anything, he was guiding you, meeting the movement with a subtle shift of his own. He turned his head just enough to let you feast fully, his breath catching as you moaned again, hips rocking harder.

The hunger in you wasn’t just about feeding anymore.

It was about claiming.

About being filled in every way.

The blood and the friction blurred together, heat spiraling through your body as you pressed harder against him, hands braced on his bare chest, your mouth still sealed to the pulse at his neck. Your thighs trembled with the growing intensity, and his voice—low, hoarse—finally broke through:

“Don’t stop.”

You weren’t planning to.

The blood still lingered on your tongue when you finally pulled away, warm and decadent, but your focus began to slip—not away from Remmick, into him.

Every inch of your skin ached for more contact, more friction, more of the pull that had drawn you to him since the beginning. The feeding only made it worse—like tasting him had pulled apart something caged inside you and now there was no putting it back.

He felt it too.

You saw it in his eyes—blown wide and dark, jaw tight, lips parted as he breathed through the rising tension between you. His hands tightened around your hips, fingers digging into flesh with a desperate edge.

Then he moved.

With a strength that made your breath catch, Remmick sat up just enough to shift beneath you. His hands gripped your waist and lifted—effortless, reverent—as if your body was something holy in his hands. Your thighs trembled around his ribs, air catching in your throat as he positioned you just above him, holding you aloft for one pulsing heartbeat.

Then—

He pulled you down.

Your body sank into his in a wave of heat and tension and slow, aching pressure. A gasp ripped from your lips, and his groan met it, the sound drawn from someplace deep and ancient. It wasn’t rushed. It was deliberate. A union written in hunger, in history, in the fire of your blood now mingled with his.

You held each other like that—foreheads nearly touching, bodies joined, breath shared. The night around you disappeared. There was only the forest watching in silence, and the man beneath you who had haunted your every step for seven years.

Now he was yours.

And you were his.

Your hips moved—slow, searching. He met you, not just with rhythm but with presence, his hands roaming your back, your ribs, your face. One found your jaw again, thumb brushing beneath your lips, smearing the last trace of his blood across your chin like a brand.

The bond between you tightened—threads of hunger, memory, lust, and something deeper.

He pulled you closer, mouth grazing the edge of yours.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice raw. “Split open on me like you were made for it.”

Every motion between you now was doubled—echoed.

When your hips rolled, seeking more friction, you felt the ripple not only in your own body but through Remmick’s. It wasn’t imagined. It was real. His nerves, his breath—what little he mimicked—it all pulsed in sync with yours. Your hunger fed his. His tension fed yours.

You didn’t just feel him.

You were him.

And he was inside you in more ways than one.

It was overwhelming.

Not painful—no, not anymore—but all-consuming. Every wave of sensation that spread through your body was met with a mirrored wave from him. You gasped, and he shuddered. He groaned, and heat spiraled low in your belly. Pleasure and pain, memory and present, it all blurred until it was impossible to know whose heartbeat—or absence of one—was pounding louder.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to draw his mouth to yours. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was deep, wild, open-mouthed and desperate. He tasted like blood and fire and centuries of withheld longing. And when your tongue met his, the bond between you snapped tighter—like a cord pulled taut beneath your ribs.

Then—

The thoughts came.

Not like before. Not like watching memories behind your eyes. This was now.

“I want you.”

His voice inside your mind was louder than his lips against your mouth.

You gasped into him, hips rocking again. The movement triggered a rush of pleasure through your core—and his. You felt the full force of it pass back into you, doubled, bright, white-hot.

You whimpered.

“Yes,” his mind echoed, shaking with the weight of restraint unraveling. “Feel it. Don’t hold back. I want all of it.”

Your hands gripped his shoulders, grounding yourself as the rhythm between you deepened. Every thrust, every grind, every shift of muscle and skin lit up your nerves and his. Your moan became his, his sigh tangled in your throat.

It was unbearable in the most exquisite way.

And beneath it all—something sacred bloomed.

Not just pleasure. Not just power.

Union.

His arms wrapped around you as if he could pull you into his body entirely, and your forehead dropped against his as you both trembled under the weight of what you were becoming—together. His hands gripped your waist again, guiding you, not just to pleasure but to connection.

“You’re mine,” he whispered aloud, voice cracking.

You met his eyes, glowing faintly, burning.

“And you’re mine.”

The rhythm between your bodies deepened, and with it, the bond.

Every motion was a thread pulled tighter, every brush of skin another spark in the fire you’d both stepped willingly into. You moved together like tide and moon—called, compelled, drawn without resistance. The forest faded, the earth beneath you forgotten. There was only the two of you, locked in something primal, eternal.

Remmick’s head fell back with a strangled breath, and you felt it ripple through your spine like a wave. His hands gripped you, anchoring you with trembling strength as your hips rolled and his rose to meet you again, and again, each motion searing into your shared mind like a brand.

You were close.

So was he.

Your body throbbed with the hunger that had taken new shape, not just blood or desire, but need. It blazed through your limbs and made your skin sing. Your mouth parted, breath heavy, fangs aching not from thirst—but from knowing.

And in that final stretch—just before the fall—

You reached for him.

Remmick looked up, eyes dark and glowing, pupils blown wide. And without a word, he offered his wrist to you.

You took it.

Your fingers wrapped tight around his arm as you brought his wrist to your mouth, fangs gleaming in the moonlight. There was no hesitation. You sank in. Deep.

His blood spilled into your mouth, hotter now, more alive than before. It tasted like memory and fire, like iron and ash and the desperate ache of longing. You moaned into it as your hips surged forward, the rush of blood intoxicating as it collided with the pleasure already flooding your body.

But then—

Remmick moved too.

He grabbed your free wrist, holding it firmly in his palm. And with a snarl softene, he sank his fangs into you.

The pain bloomed like heat, but it was nothing compared to the rush.

The moment he drank from you, it created a circuit—a loop—one that lit up every nerve in your bodies like lightning tearing across a midnight sky.

Your moans collided in the air as blood and power flowed between you, pleasure heightening to something unbearable. Each pull of his mouth at your wrist mirrored by your mouth at his. You drank each other, held each other, tethered one another in the oldest, rawest vow that existed.

You were no longer two beings.

You were one.

The pleasure surged, broke, overwhelmed. It consummed. Your body arched, his followed. You cried out—not in pain but in release. In finality. In the moment everything changed.

And when it ended—

You stayed there.

Breathing each other.

Holding each other.

Your blood in his mouth.

His in yours.

Still bound. Still burning.

——————

A/N : I took inspo from iwtv (interview with the vampire (2021) & twilight, when it comes to the transformation, and the ‘newborn vampire’ strength 🙇🏾‍♀️

[ceyanabbiolo]

PHOTOGRAPH // M.S [01]

Summary: Daphne Denoire, a 21-year-old, returns to Boston to after 3 years—but working for her brother’s best friend, Matthew Sturniolo, wasn’t part of the plan. He’s a 26-year-old multimillionaire. She’s the girl he was never supposed to feel this way about. With secrets between them and boundaries set, how far will they go for a love they never saw coming? Warnings: None. wc: 1798

Chapter 1: So long, London

It’d been a week since I landed back in Boston, but with everything going on. Work had dragged me from one meeting to the next, and even when I wasn’t working, there was the whole “catching up on lost time” thing that somehow meant more emails and calls.

Now, finally, I was here—in Noah’s apartment, the one place that still felt like home, even though we were both grown men fumbling through adulthood. 

Noah was a long-time friend, we met in middle school, at the age of twelve. My family had known him for a just about the same amount of time. He is basically family to me and my brothers. 

I tossed my bag onto the couch and sank in, letting the familiar scent of his place hit me—the mix of old leather, coffee, and whatever cologne Noah used that was too subtle to really identify.

Noah’s eyes immediately landed on me like he could see the exhaustion in my posture. “You look like you’ve been run over.”

“Feels about right,” I said, taking the water he handed me. “L.A. was brutal. Shoot after shoot, executives breathing down my neck. I’m glad it’s over.”

He laughed. “Rich people problems.”

“Shut up.” I smiled, but my mind was still tangled up in all the chaos I’d left behind.

We talked about his law school schedule, the fact that he was leaving for his final year at the end of the month. I admired him—he’d been grinding away at that degree while I was chasing cameras and deadlines. Two different paths, same stubbornness.

Then the knock came. 

I glanced at Noah, raising an eyebrow. “Who’s that?”

He got up, stretching casually as if no one was expected. “Right, I forgot to mention—my sister’s back.”

Noah’s little sister.

The last time I saw her was just before she left at eighteen. What I remember—though it’s hazy—is a quiet, painfully shy girl who always seemed wrapped up in her own little world. She rarely left her room and was almost always clutching that camera of hers like it was a lifeline. Being younger than us, she kept to herself, lost in her own bubble, while the rest of us moved on.

I was just realizing I actually didn’t know much about her. 

Noah moved to open the door, still acting casual like this was nothing new.

Then the door swung wide, she walked in. 

Daphne Denoire.

She looked different, really different. 

She looked put together—clean and polished, with a soft pink tone to her outfit that made her look both feminine and effortlessly stylish. It was obvious she had an aesthetic now, something carefully curated, far from the quiet girl who used to hide behind oversized clothes.

Still about five feet tall, but she carried herself differently—more sure, more deliberate.

It hit me all at once how much she’d changed.

She looked at me, brows knitting for a second in hesitation. “Matt?” she asked, voice soft with a hint of confusion.

I chuckled, a slow grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.

“Did you forget me already?”

She let out a quiet laugh. “I was trying to figure out if it was you, Nick, or Chris. Hard to remember after a while.”

I shook my head, still trying to wrap my head around how different she looked—and sounded.

“Glad I made the cut,” I said, trying to sound casual even though her presence was anything but.

Daphne disappeared down the hallway, probably heading to her room.

I watched her go for a second longer than I meant to, then turned back to Noah, still trying to piece it all together.

“She looks… different,” I said finally, leaning back against the couch. “Not at all how I remember her.”

Noah cracked open a soda, barely glancing up. “Yeah. It’s been three years, man. She’s not a teenager anymore.”

“No, I know that. It’s just…” I paused, still surprised. “She’s got a whole look now. All posh. Not the oversized sweats and hoodies I remember, and no glasses.”

Noah smirked. “Yeah, she ditched those in college. Got contacts.”

I nodded slowly, still thinking about the girl I remembered and the woman who just walked out of the room. “Still quiet though.”

I let out a low whistle, more to myself. “London changed her.”

Noah let out a breath, nodding. “Yeah...especially during her last year of high school. She barely spoke to anyone back then.”

I glanced toward the hallway where she’d disappeared. “Why?”

He hesitated, then said quietly, “She was going through a lot. Never really talked about it much. Just kept to herself.”

There was something in his tone that told me not to push. Something protective.

I leaned back, letting the silence settle between us, but the curiosity was already

“Always will be,” Noah said with a shrug. “But she’s not the same kid anymore.”

I leaned back, still thinking about the girl who used to avoid the living room like it was cursed. “No. She’s not.”

DAPHNE 

When I walked into my home, the last thing I expected was to see Matthew Sturniolo sitting there—looking even more handsome than I remembered. Effortless, calm, like he belonged in every room without trying.

I’d kept up with him on social media. Of course, I had. I knew what he looked like—knew the tattoos, the styled hair, the casual grins he wore in magazine shoots and brand campaigns. However, seeing him online and seeing him here, just a few feet away, were two completely different things.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t had a small crush on Matt growing up. The kind of silly, girlish crush that bloomed quietly—never spoken out loud, never really meant to be anything more.

He was always around—teasing Noah, raiding our fridge, or lounging on our couch like he owned the place. His family came from old money, filthy rich in that effortless way that made everything seem just within reach and totally untouchable. One of his brothers, Chris, had taken over their massive estate a few years back, sealing in that legacy.

He was five years older, just like my brother. Untouchable in that older-guy kind of way—cool, confident, with a lazy laugh that made everyone stop and listen. He never had to try; he just was.

For a long time, that was enough to make my stomach twist in that naive, girlish way I’d never admit out loud.

But that was years ago.

We were both adults now.

Seeing him now—really seeing him—made something shift. Not in the way that childhood crushes do, but in a slower, heavier way. 

My silly crush on Matt was long gone.

I had grown up, lived a whole different life in a different country. I’d seen more of the world, done new things, and experienced things on my own. 

I had to leave Boston.

Not just because I wanted to—but because staying meant facing things I wasn’t ready to confront. Things that happened in the silence, shadows I couldn’t shake.

There were things I couldn’t say aloud, wounds that didn’t heal with time, and a silence I carried like a weight too heavy to put down.

Leaving was my only escape—a way to disappear, to find some kind of peace away from everything I knew.

By the time Matt left, the house had quieted down.

Noah and I ended up in the kitchen—he rummaging through the fridge, and I leaned against the counter, sipping water and trying to settle into the silence.

He finally gave up and leaned on the opposite counter, eyeing me. 

“So,” he said casually, “you really happy to be back in Boston?”

I paused, eyes flicking toward the window like the answer might be out there somewhere.

“I don’t know yet,” I said honestly. “It feels…weird. Familiar but not the same.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood more than he let on, “Yeah. A lot’s changed.”

I just nodded, keeping my eyes on the counter.

There was a pause. Then Noah said quietly, like it had been sitting on his chest the whole time, “He’s still in jail, Daph. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

My fingers tightened slightly around the glass.

“Yeah…” I murmured. “I know.”

Another beat passed before I added, a little too flatly, “It’s whatever.”

“Just live, okay?” he said, looking at me, voice softer. “Especially since I’m leaving soon.”

Noah had one more year of law school. He’d be gone most of the time, probably only coming back once a month—if that.

“The apartment is basically yours when I’m gone,” he added. “Make use of your time.”

I gave a small smile, trying to meet the hope in his eyes. “Well…I’m job hunting, so…hopefully I’ll be occupied.”

He nodded, satisfied enough with that answer. 

A weird pause lingered between us.

Noah and I never really talked about what happened. He avoided the subject, always did. I knew he carried it with him, like somehow, it was his fault. That night changed both of us, just in different ways.

It was his party. His classmate. 

My room. 

He was my older brother. After our parents died in a car accident, Noah basically became my guardian. He was only seventeen at the time—just a kid himself—but he stepped up.

He did everything he could to fill the space they left behind, and I was only twelve, too young to understand the weight he was carrying.

So even if we weren’t the best at communicating, even if he didn’t always know how to be there when I needed him, I respected him, and I trusted him.

He was all I had.  

Leaving for London was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. When I first applied to colleges, I never imagined I’d end up that far from home. It wasn’t the plan—not when money was tight and we weren’t exactly swimming in extra funds.

However, I convinced Noah. I told him I’d work while I studied, that I’d take care of myself. Which I did. I balanced part-time jobs, early mornings, late nights, and the ache of missing home.

By the time I graduated, I had nearly $50,000 in student debt hanging over me like a shadow. My goal is to finish paying it off in the next few years. 

 I don’t regret it, though. London gave me space—space to find myself again after everything. Space to breathe, to grow. I met new people there through my interests. 

Coming back to Boston wasn’t easy. It felt like picking up an old life that no longer quite fit. Boston reminds me of a time I don’t want to remember. 

Looking for a job was the goal now. While Noah was away, I would try to steady myself.

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[a/n: I'm nervous for this series, I must not lie. I have good plans for this series, though. Like and reblog! mwah] –ceyana

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[jjwolves]

BIT FLIP ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

What: 5 Yandere ENA X Reader Headcanons

Who: ENA from ENA by Joel G

How Much: ~1100 words, ~6 mins

Credits: Image Banner → Joel G

Warnings: Threats, Mention of Suicide, Toxic Behavior

Everyone that you talk to always assumes that you and ENA are dating. Sometimes it’s emotionless statements, sometimes it’s mild disgust at your incorrigible life choices. And yeah, you and ENA are really close friends, but you aren’t dating. At least, you don’t think so. Sure, ENA is pretty touchy with you in a way that she doesn’t display with anyone else, always making sure to link arms with you whenever you go out, or lean into you when sitting nearby. But you thought that maybe she was just really, really comfortable with you. You like her for who she is instead of the convenience she brings you, which you’ve come to learn is rare for her. She’s probably just really happy that she has someone she can call a friend, and her behavior is being misinterpreted. You could see why other beings would think that you’re an item, though–ENA’s affection is constant. And you doubt it’ll change anytime soon; it’s just how she is!

ENA’s your best companion and always will be, but you have other friends that you like to spend time with as well. You let ENA know. Usually she just tags along with whatever you’re doing, but you don’t want her to be out of her element with a lot of people who don’t know her. Her chipper side dulls a little and takes a moment to load before speaking quietly, more quietly than you’re used to. She stops her idle dancing and opts to fidget with her fingers instead, doing her best to seem contemplative instead of… this other feeling she was experiencing. A feeling she hadn’t learned the name of. “I see. Your incoming absence is… (ding!) recognized. Well, since you’re unable to eliminate your bindings, I must inquire: What should I do?” You shot her a quizzical look and asked what she meant by that. Wouldn���t she just do what she does normally, when she’s not hanging out with you? “Yes, well, it’s hard to postulate, isn’t it?” Huh? It was only a few moments before ENA was upon you with static tears. “Please please please don’t leave me! Don’t leave me for them!! I know they’re better but just don’t!” You try to calm her down and reassure her that nobody’s taking you from her. She hugs back, hard, but you’re not sure that the message is getting through.

You start trying to distance yourself from ENA a little bit. You think that she might be a becoming a little codependent on you, and while it’s hard to say for sure if relationships in this world even work the way you think they do, ENA’s obsession has been made clear. Sometimes, when you try to get a little personal space, she throws a fit. “No-hooo! You’re leaving me! You’re leaving me!” Other times, she ignores the attempt for distance and closes in tighter, this time placing a possessive yellow hand around a cheek or a hip. “Oh, what joy it is to be in your company. Don’t mind my presence. Conduct yourself as you would, as if I wasn’t even here!” After saying this, she starts hovering around you, watching you with a curious, open-mouthed smile wherever you go, whatever you do. Using the microwave? ENA is watching. Tuning the despair compass? ENA has her head on your shoulder. You are constantly admired by your observer. It’s a little weird and creepy, even for her. Even simply asking her why gets her gloomy. “Ohhh, I should have known you wouldn’t even let me watch… Wretched, horrible me…” Weirdo or not, though, you can’t stand to hear her say stuff like that about herself. You shake her out of it and say that she’s not wretched or horrible or anything; she just needs to learn boundaries. Her yellow side responds with an almost academic flair. “Now that is a word I’m simply unable to learn. How curious! May I resume documentation?”

Eventually, you find out why people think you and ENA are dating, and it’s not because of her overly-intimate touch or constant following. It’s because she walks to your friends’ houses and tells your companions that you’re taken. Well, in so few words. “I understand that the one close to my heart is close to yours as well, but it’s important for you to know that someone already loves them very much. And that certain someone can be a vexing variable when left in a state of lacking. Do you understand what I’m communicating?” A stutter. A tearing of the world and a sky-shivering wail. A white face and flashing eye. “Just leave them alone!! If you don’t-If you don’t-If you don’t (ERROR) I’LL END MY EXISTENCE AND MELT YOU INTO COLORS!!” Your freshly-accosted friends quickly learn to back off when you have plans with ENA. She is completely unpredictable and they’d rather keep their distance from the bi-colored madwoman.

ENA does some work behind the scenes. After running up on your other friends and menacing them with her unpredictability, they stop spending time with you after a while. At one point, they don’t even pick up your talksignals anymore. ENA lingers in the doorway of your home when you ask her why your pals don’t want to hang out with you anymore—why they all left, just like that. Maybe you don’t understand how relationships work in this place, after all. ENA shushes you, her voice soft, feminine and on the verge of tears. “It’s not your fault… You’re so beautiful and wonderful. I’m sorry that I had to go and ruin it all for you…” She gently takes your hand and strokes a cold thumb over it. In the meantime, you feel like you should be appalled at her admission, but you’ve started suspecting it by now. “But it was for you. I’m yours, a-and you’re mine. And I’m not gonna let anything change that! I’m not gonna give you up!” ENA grabs you up in a frigid hug, like the cold wind that comes with rain, but you feel a change of temperature halfway through. “I do hate showing such tears in front of you. Maybe I’ll cut out the blue and put you inside. You’d fill me to bursting!” A low chuckle. You feel a lot of affection for her, but for the first time, you think you understand why your friends were so scared of this blockhead.

[dumpywrites]

Club Brooklyn - Min Yoongi / Suga

Prompt: Partners in crime, one mission ruins it all.

Prompt request: HERE

Genre/tags: Slight angst, drama, mafia au, partners in crime au, mentions of violence/crime/assault

Pairing: Yoongi x she/her reader

Word count: 5.7k

a/n: I literally write this during my work lunch break lol don't know what possessed me

You had been working for the mob organization for the longest time, spending away your youth days. It wasn’t entirely by choice, but given the options, it could’ve turned worse.

Having an absent father who left you with debt was something you wouldn’t wish on anyone. One day a couple of men just came up to your small apartment, demanding you some amount, you refused, and you tried to beat them up. Did you succeed? Hell no. But you did impressively made one of them lose one tooth and knock the other straight on the nose. Having a small knowledge in Taekwondo did save your life, but also changing it from that point onwards, forever. 

Apparently, the small damage you made amused the headmaster, the boss of the organization. Instead of getting trafficked, you assumed, you were forced to train into one of the dogs, as what they called. At a young age, you then became an official guard dog of an elite gang and earned your new alias, Violet. 

The very next month was when you first got assigned with a partner. His nickname was Agust, a man who was just a few years older than you, but seemingly equipped with far more experience. Fair skin, not too tall, and jet black hair that was sometimes pulled into a small bun. There was a small scar across his right eye, but you didn’t even wanna ask why and how did he get it. He was quiet, professional, and quick. You were surprised to get paired up with someone as capable as him on your first ever gig.

It happened again in the next two months after that, the next week, and then until somehow the boss wouldn’t assign you on anything without the man coming along. You just worked together perfectly. It was almost you could read his mind without him needing to tell you anything. Your creative thinking matched well with his quick and quiet moves. 

There was never really anything between the two of you. Not even a mere friendship, just strictly business. But little by little you started to pick on his habit and so did he. You started smoking after gigs, while he now carried a few pieces of bandaid in his pocket for emergency annoying cuts, just like you did. It was bound to happen anyway when you spent that much time working together. 

Your new life was far from perfect. But it was… secure. Yes, your life was continuously put at risk, but at the very least you didn’t have to think about whether you could afford food on your plate the next day. You could afford the latest gadget if you wanted to and the apartment complex they told you to stay in was pretty sweet. 

**

Agust cursed under his breath as he peaked over his shoulder, sore feet dragging him as he kept going, hoping he had successfully flee. 

"Answer the damn phone…" He muttered through gritted teeth, clicking his tongue in annoyance as he shoved the phone back in his pocket and made a mental note to scold you about it later. His eyes turned to a small dark corner, then he spotted you, his trusted partner in crime, leaning against your track taking puffs from your cigarette, unbothered.

“You’re late.” He groaned, approaching you. 

“Your car decided it was a great time to not function.” You raised your eyebrows. “I found another car though, you’re welcome.”

“So you just left my car like that?!” He asked in disbelief as he followed you from behind. 

“I called Vante. I’m sure he’s taken it somewhere.” 

“Knowing him my car is probably torn to pieces right now, on its way to become his robot coke server or something.” He sighed. “You should’ve just left the car.”

“And risk leaving evidence???” You glared at him before you entered the car. “Why did you even buy that old ass car…”

“It’s vintage.” He corrected you as he took the passenger seat, looking vexed.

A small smile crept up on your lips, a bit amused seeing the expression on his face. “Relax, I told him to not touch it.” You flicked off the cigarette bud by the window, stomped on the pedal, and sped away. 

You arrived shortly at your hideout after a quiet ride. As usual both of you reported to your superordinates and handed out whatever was requested. In this case, an ear of a supposed business partner’s. You did not know what happened between them that your boss had to request for such thing, but you didn’t asked. Not like you had the authority to. 

The back porch was small, nothing flashy to avoid attention, but you loved spending just a few minutes winding yourself back after a job. Reminding yourself of nature, the small things in life, the opposite of the brutal truth you had to encounter every single day. 

You took out the cigarette pack from your pocket and lit up your favorite heart shaped lighter. It was one thing that every members loved to tease you about, but you couldn’t care less. You thought the design was pretty and there was nothing wrong with it. It had been with you for almost two years now. It didn’t look as cute as it was with small bloodstain that you couldn’t remove right at the corner. 

“I told you to stop.” 

A man, your partner, approached as he lit one up for himself as well. 

“I’ll quit when you quit.” You scoffed. “I picked the habit from you anyways so it’s only fair.”

Both of you stood in silence, the sound of birds chirping filling the air and the sun was slowly setting. 

“Has Jay told you about our next gig?” You said after puffing some smoke to the opposite direction. 

“No.”

“No?” You looked at him in disbelief. “Don’t you guys live nearby or something…”

“If you hadn’t notice, people don’t really enjoy talking to me that much.” He huffed. 

“I do.” You shrugged. 

“We kinda have to with our circumstances.”

“I don’t think they hate talking to you. You just love to push people away without giving them the chance to actually do it.” You flicked some ashes into a tray next to you. “You do realize that?”

“What’s our next gig about?”

You sighed, noticing the way he avoided the topic. “We’re taking the owner of Club Brooklyn for some talk. I don’t know the details yet but we might need to disguise and blend in a little bit since it’s a public place.”

“When is it?”

“Next Saturday if I’m not mistaken.”

Your partner frowned. “I have a solo the day before.”

“I think this one’s might just be a chill gig so you’ll be alright. Is it like a big stuff?”

“Some money laundering shit. Big guy needs me there.” He frowned, huffing the last puff before squeezing the bud on the metal ashtray. 

“You’ll be fine.”

**

A loud knock followed by another, then another afterwards. It was almost four. Surely, you weren’t expecting anyone to come and visit at this hour. You quickly grab a pocket knife from your side table, proceeding cautiously. Bringing your eyes to the small peephole, you were beyond shocked. 

“What the fuck happened?!” Exclaimed you, quickly letting the person in. 

The state Agust in wasn’t something you had not seen. Bloody nose, bruised knuckles, and a small cut on side of his left jaw. It was more the fact that he just showed up at your door unpromptedly. In the years of knowing him, this was a first time. 

“Had to flee, fucker’s got government people with him. We were outnumbered.” He said with hoarse voice. 

You noticed the obvious limping and moved to his side, helped him to sit on your small couch.“What happened to your feet?”

“Metal bat.” He sighed. “Asshole.”

You sighed along him, bending down and sat on the floor. You rolled one side of his trousers up to check on it. Immediately, you cringed at the sight of the purplish hue on his skin. 

“I’ll go get some ice compression.”

You came back a few minutes later with a bag of ice pack and a glass of water. He winced at the contact with the cold surface, but he kept his composure. You handed the glass cup to him and he took it immediately, muttering a quick thanks. 

“It seems like you’re gonna need some makeup for our mission later.”

“Shit, I forgot about that.” He scoffed, rubbing his temples. 

“Just stay in, I’ll call someone to pick you up later.”

“You sure?”

“I don’t mind.” You said casually. “You want the bed?”

“The couch is fine.” He said after groaning as he moved his position. 

“If you want to wash up I have some oversized t-shirts you can use.” 

“Thanks, I’ll just stay here for now though.” He sighed. 

“Okay.” You nodded. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

Sleep didn’t take you for long. You woke up from your short sleep at around nine. You felt a bit restless at the thought of your partner sleeping in your living room. He was still asleep on the couch, both of his feet were up on the armrest and it looked unpleasant. It also seemed like he had clean himself a bit, despite still being in his clothes. 

“Hey.” I shook his shoulder lightly. “Go wash up and sleep on the bed for a bit.” 

His body must be aching but you got an immediate response. Everyone on the house was a light sleeper, it came with the job. 

It was quite the sight seeing him in your t-shirt. Funny how the oversized fit now seemingly turned into a fitted one. Thankfully, you forgot to give back a pair of sweatpants you borrowed from Vante a while ago. Suits, shirts, ties, trousers, and black boots were his usual go to. You barely saw him out of his work attire. 

“You seem comfortable.” You couldn’t help but to comment. A small smile appeared on your lips. 

“T-shirt’s a bit small but it’s alright.” He said as he dried his hair with a towel. 

“It looks good on you.” You shrugged. 

He eyed you suspiciously but commented on nothing. 

“Toast? Coffee?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Both of you sat in congenial silence, just eating the buttered toast as the TV showed a random news forecast. 

“You wanna go and rest some more?” 

“Nah, I’m good.” He dismissed.

You nodded. “You wanna watch something?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Why not.”

He stayed quiet as you browsed through the options on the screen. He seemed tensed suddenly, you weren’t quite sure why. 

“Any preference?”

“Anything’s fine.”

“Don’t say that, I’m about to make you watch some old Hello Kitty movie.” You chuckled.

The corner of his lips curved a little and he turned to face you. “Hello Kitty?”

“It’s a cartoon cat from Japan.”

“I know that.” He scoffed. “You like Hello Kitty?”

“Is that surprising?”

“No, it’s on brand with you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean…” You tilted your head, eyeing the guy. 

“You always carry some cartoon animal band-aids. I’m surprised you don’t stick cute stickers on your pistol.”

“Hey, I’m allowed to have a personality, okay?! You should try it.” You rolled your eyes.

“No, no, I’m not mocking you. It’s adorable.” 

The warm smile on his lips was a huge contrast to the expression you were used to see him wore. 

“It helps you know… in a way it’s kinda my escapism from who I am.” 

The man’s gaze now fixed on you, making you a bit skittish. His eyes were always so intense. 

“I don’t really like who I’ve become and it’s good to have something to remind you that your old self is still there… somewhere.” You continued. 

“How did you even end up here?”

Your eyes widened for a second. You didn’t expect him to ask you. 

“My father left me with a debt. I was about to get collected, but I somehow managed to land a punch on and knocked one tooth one of the three guys who came… Apparently they were amazed by that.” You leaned back on the sofa and continued. “It’s Mr. Lee.” You chuckled. 

“You punched Mr. Lee?! He eyed you with an astonished look. “How old were you? That’s impressive.”

“Nineteen.” You sighed. “But, aren’t you glad? We wouldn’t meet otherwise.” You hit him with your elbow playfully.

He just stared at your wall. Maybe he wondered if it was really a good thing, you being here and all. 

“How about you?” You asked, making him move his eyes back to your direction. 

“I was fifteen when my parents sold me.”

You gasped. “They— they sold you?” 

“Yeah.” He said nonchalantly, as if it was the most normal thing. “I wasn’t exactly a good kid and my parents were stuck with debts left and right. It’s also how I got this…” He pointed at the scar on his eye. “I was resisting.”

“You were so young…” You looked at him, sympathizing. 

“I was one of the first batch of trained guard dogs. They realized if they need obedient slaves, they’re gonna have to start young.”

“Did you even finished school?”

“Nope. But they we were occasionally given private lessons just so we don’t turn out as a bunch of muscles with no thoughts.”

You wondered the horror he had to go through. You were lucky enough Mr. Lee, one of your seniors, ended up being somewhat of a parental figure for you. Being a woman in this petrifying world, you could imagine what could easily happen to you on your early days. 

“It must have been so hard for you…” You cooed. 

“You went through the same thing.” 

“Yeah but the place used to be way worse…”

You wanted to continue speaking, mentioning how the knowledge of his parents selling him away must had fucked with his mind so badly. How he shouldn’t had said all those horrid things with the calmest expression ever. It must had been so lonely for him. You did not feel like you had the right to say more though. 

“Agust…”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever feel like something’s troubling you, I’m all ears. We’re partners, it’s the least I could do.” You smiled. “You hear me?”

 “Yoongi.”

Your brain suddenly fogged. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Min Yoongi.” He repeated. “It’s my name.”

Guard dogs weren’t supposed to share and know each other’s name. It was all for safety purposes and to keep things strictly professional between everyone. In the span of more than three years of working with him, he barely even called you by your codename. So why suddenly..?

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand…” You stopped, barely processing things.

“I thought you might as well know about it. You might see me die one day.” He said with a stoic face. 

“Don’t fucking say that.”

“It’s the truth.” 

You out of all people knew. 

You told him to get some more rest on your bed, your mission wasn’t up until later at night after all so you got plenty of time. 

Min Yoongi. It was just a name. You wondered why did it sound so delicate coming out from his lips, like it was the most vulnerable thing he had ever shared. Probably because it was. 

Later that evening, both of you set out to the main lair to get ready. Ate some food and got dressed in some club appropriate outfit. With your trusted pistol and knife hidden on a holster, you were ready to go. 

Today’s tasks were simple. Blend in with the crowd, locate the target, and lure him to the designated room where the negotiator would be waiting. 

Club Brooklyn. 

The neon sign was big enough to lit a whole forest. And you were told to be discreet? You wondered how much did they had to bribe the police to shut them up every single time. Because for a place filled with illegal festivities, it sure looked pretty flashy. 

Both of you were already at the parking lot, waiting for a signal to enter the premise. You look to the passenger seat, seeing your partner with a bruise that was still faintly visible on his jaw. 

“Hey, let me put some more concealer on you.” 

“It’s not gonna be obvious with all the colorful lights anyway.” He complained.  

“You could be talking to someone at the restroom?” You argued. 

He sighed in defeat. “Hurry.” 

You grinned, satisfied. “Come here.” 

He inched closer, but his eyes were looking at somewhere behind you. Carefully, you put a finger on his jaw, while your other hand tapping the product lightly on his skin. You had always known how good his skin looked, but you didn’t know it looked this good up close. It was unfair. You bet he showered with a 3-in-1 soap. 

You were surprised he stayed put the whole time. You still remembered how he swatted your hand when you first met him. Yikes. Guessed he got used to being with you over time. 

“Why? Is there something wrong?” He asked when you kept staring at his face. 

“Just admiring. You look great!” You grinned cheekily. “I’m trying to put my finger on why I feel like something’s off…” You tapped your chin comically. 

“What is it.” He said with a stoic voice. 

“I prefer you with your scars better. Makeup makes you look generic.” 

When you finally let go and put away the small concealer bottle, your eyes met for a second, but you were quick to break the stare. 

And then your phone beeped, alerting the signal. It was time to go. 

“Ag— Yoongi.”

His hand was still on the door knob, but the man turned his head to you.

“This might seem dramatic, and today is just an easy gig for us, but uh… I want you to know my name as well.” You smiled, unaware of how your cheeks had grown a light shade of pink. “Because I trust you.”

There was no major reaction coming from him as you spelled out your full name, but you could feel his gaze softened he held down a smile when you giggled sheepishly after. 

“Target on three o’clock.” You whispered to your earring-slash-earpiece. 

Slowly, you moved through the crowd. Pretending to have fun, you had a glass of on your hand as you did. On the other side, Yoongi was aiming for the owner’s bodyguards, looking for a way to stir their attention away. 

“Agust, Violet, big guy is moving to the bar area.” You heard the monitor man spoke from the earpiece. 

Your attention shifted to the drink in your hand and then to the shimmery dress you wore. An idea popped up in your head. 

“I’ll distract the guards. Agust, go and try to make a deal with the man.”

There were two bodyguards of the pimp, and you needed to distract the one that watched the VIP room door. Agust would slide in to convince him he was a potential client, then lure him to the room with your people waiting inside. 

Swiftly, you move across the sea of people, trying your best to not seem suspicious. You started casually moving your body, swaying your hips to the music, slowly moving towards the direction of the guard.

And then boom. Naturally, you made it all seemed like an accident as you spilled your drink all over yourself and some onto the bodyguard. 

“Oh my gosh!” You whined, trying your best to sound convincing. “I’m so sorry, I’ve been drinking too much.” You eyed the tall man with slanted eyes, giggling. “Do you want me to help you clean it up?”

“I can’t lady, I’m doing my job here.” The big man said. A sigh escaped his mouth as he looked down at his cocktail stained suit. 

“Come on… I’ll help you out.” You winked. 

The man peered over his shoulder, possibly looking for the sight of his boss. You sneaked a look too and saw your partner from afar, talking to a woman in gold silk dress. You couldn’t clearly see who the person was, but it happened so quickly. Suddenly, you saw him pulling her in for a deep kiss. 

For a split second you almost drop everything and run straight at him, but you were a fully trained dog. Instead, you pulled the bodyguard in front of you by his tie, dragging him away. 

You pressed a button on your earpiece to send a signal, letting your team know you had done your part. You were still dragging the big built man by the tie, but your mind wandered away. Your partner still had not rang his signal. 

Suddenly, your arm was yanked in a harsh force. You turned and saw a wicked grin plastered on the bodyguard’s face as he switched things, with him now dragging you instead. 

“Could you maybe stop pulling my arm like that?!” You yelled. 

“Don’t act like you didn’t just ask for this.”

Disgusting. You thought. “I was just trying to help you clean your clothes.”

“And we all know what that means.” The tone of his voice made you feel sick. 

The man was still tugging on your arm until he stopped in front of a janitors room. He shooed the janitor away just by a quick glance. 

Sensing danger, you yanked your arm off, but a punch landed on your face. It happened so quick that your reflexes missed it. You quickly got up but the man had locked the door by the time you did. 

Up until this point, there was still no signal coming from your partner. Talking and revealing your location through your earpiece would make the guy run to his boss in a jiffy, you could not risk that. You couldn’t believe you had to actually fight a pervert while your partner was out there tonguing some random woman. 

It was not until a few minutes later when you finally heard the alert sound from your earpiece. You immediately mentioned janitor’s room to your earpiece. The man’s eyes lit up, coming to a realization. He quickly ran to the door, but you beat him to it, kicking his hand away from the knob. 

“I should’ve known!” The man spat out. 

“I know, it’s almost as unbelievable as the thought of someone actually wanting to have sex with you.” 

“You slut.” 

He tried to land a low kick, but you quickly dodged it. One of the advantages of having a smaller frame. You might had lower power, but you had better stamina and speed. His punches made quite the impact though, you might need your partner to make haste and come faster because you could not keep eluding the attacks. 

Three minutes. Your partner took three minutes before showing up, opening the door with the key you figured he managed to snatch from one of the janitors. As soon as the door swung open, both of your eyes met for one second, then yours went to the lipstick stain on the corner of his lips, while his went to the damp dress clinging on your body. Seconds later you were pulled by your wrist and in a flash, the door was locked behind you, leaving the giant man inside. 

The drive back to the hideout was oddly quiet. You didn’t protest when Yoongi took over the driver seat, instead of fighting with him before with the argument of his swollen foot. He didn’t say anything either and just drove normally without any verbal complaints. The whole ride you busied yourself looking at the window, watching the vehicles passing by. You didn’t know why you were suddenly feeling so irritated. 

“Violet, did he hurt you?”

Yoongi voiced out as soon as the car was parked. You were too out of your head to notice, so he spoke again, this time calling out your actual name. 

You turned to him, still unable to utter a word. How did he make your name sounded so intimidating coming from his lips was beyond you. 

“Did he hurt you?” He repeated. 

“No.” You shook your head. 

He took off his outer and placed it on your lap. “Vante might be ogling at you.” 

Then he left the car before you could say anything back. 

The audacity of a man. First of all, you and Vante were just friends, and as far as you knew, he had never viewed you in any sexual manner whatsoever. Secondly, had he looked at himself in the mirror? The reddish lipstick stain was still very visible on his face, it was making you want to punch him in his beautiful features so badly.

But you did not say a word back. Instead, you just reported as usual, returned your gear, changed, and headed back to your place. 

**

“You need to relax.” 

You pretended you didn’t just hear the words coming out from another fellow dog who was training next to you. You kept throwing heavy punches at the boxing bag, secretly imagining it was your partner’s face instead. 

“Girl, what’s wrong?” The woman pulled you away lightly from the speed bag. 

You sighed and took off the gloves from your hand. “I’m just in a very bad mood.”

“For no reason?” 

“Oh, there’s a reason alright.” You rolled your eyes and proceeded to walk towards the lounge. 

“Why? Did you get scolded by Mr. Lee?” She asked, following you from behind. 

“No, it’s not Mr. Lee.” You breathed out a long sigh and took an empty seat. “It’s Agust.”

“You had a fight?” She exclaimed almost too loudly, making you hushed her immediately. “Sorry, I mean… I’ve always words of how in sync you guys are.”

“It’s probably nothing… To be honest I’m not quite sure why I’m this bothered.” 

“What happened?” She asked while taking two cups of fresh water, handing one to you. 

“I saw him kissing some random woman in the club during our gig.” You flinched lightly at the flashback coming through your mind. 

“Oh my god…” She scoffed in amusement. “Are you serious? You’re jealous.”

“What?! The fuck are you talking about??? We were in the middle of work! Was that really a good timing to do that???” You replied defensively. 

“Exactly, what if it was necessary…” She folded her arms and smirked at you. “Have you thought about that?”

You stopped and thought to yourself. That really did not cross your mind. What if he did that to distract someone? Or to convince the target? Why did you get so affected by something that was probably nothing?

“So you are jealous then.” She spoke upon seeing you lost in your own thoughts. 

“I’m not… stop it.” You groaned. “Maybe I just didn’t expect him to be able to do something like that.”

“Like what?! You think he can’t kiss??? Violet, he’s a fully grown adult!” She laughed. “Have you told him?”

“There’s no way I’m telling him.” You cringed. 

“Why not? You need to sort it out or else it will affect your work flow.” 

“How in the fresh hell am I supposed to tell him?” You looked at the woman in front of you with defeated expression. 

“You could tell him that you feel bothered by what you saw and be all professional about it.” She shrugged. “Or… you could tell him the truth? Tell him you’re jealous. See how it goes.” 

“You can’t be serious…”

“Just admit it.” She rolled her eyes, giggling. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“He looks at everyone and everything with a blank stare.”

“Not at you though.” She smirked. 

“If you’re just hyping me up for nothing, I swea—“ You suddenly froze. 

Your co-worker gasped in excitement. “You just admitted that you like him.” She squealed. “Just tell him! Let me know how it goes.”

You went back to your apartment unit that day with questions lingering on your mind. 

So you did just had a mini revelation on your feelings. You fancied Yoongi, but what now? Sure you saw him kissing someone, and damn he seemed to be good at it too, but what about romantic feelings? You were not even sure if he was capable of something like that. You were used to being firmly business with him for years so it would feel bizarre to admit something like this. 

Am I even allowed to feel this way?

**

Weeks passed and the words were still unspoken. You figured it would go away if you chose to ignore it, but you were mistaken. Because now you noticed every small details in the things he did. Your heart beat faster when he covered for you. All the usual things he would normally do as your partner, suddenly felt totally different. 

Today, both of you just came back from a pickup gig. You were exhausted and your right hand was hurt. You had to avoid a knife attack and it sliced your palm instead. You were sitting down on an empty bed at the infirmary, struggling to open a water bottle. 

“You good?”

You looked up and saw your partner approaching. This really was not the time, you were pretty worn out already. 

“Don’t worry.”

“You can’t even open that bottle.” He snatched the drink from your hands, opened it and gave it back to you. 

You took the bottle and uttered a small thanks. 

He went to sit next to you, making a comfortable space in between the two of you on the bed.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong? It’s been weeks.”

Of course he noticed. 

“It’s just something stupid, I don’t even know what to tell you.” You stared down at your feet hanging above the floor. 

“It’s not stupid if it bothers you this much.”

How did he always manage to say all the right things with the most straight face?

“Look, I don’t think it’s a good time to talk about it now.” 

“Then when is it? I’ll wait.”

The way he looked at you made your heart sank to your stomach. 

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself. “Promise me, no matter what I say to you, don’t let it affect work.”

He only nodded, waiting for you to say your piece patiently. 

“I was… jealous. I think.” You hesitantly said. You flinched just seconds later on how nervous you were feeling. 

“What do you mean?” He asked with neutral voice. 

“Back at Club Brooklyn. You kissed some random woman and I can’t keep that image out from my head. It’s driving me nuts.” You sighed in frustration. “And you did that just right after you spent the night at my place, I thought that at least—“ You stopped yourself, realizing you had said too much. “I’m sorry, it just bothers me so much. I don’t even know why you did that…”

“Hold on.” He said firmly, grabbing your shoulder as he did. “You saw that?”

“Of course I did! Must be nice smooching with some beautiful lady while your partner was busy fighting off a literal pervert.” You protested. 

“I did that to convince our target. She’s a prostitute, I told the guy I was gonna rent her.” 

“That’s the thing! I figured you could just be doing it for work too, but you were doing it for a hot minute and I—“ I stopped myself again. “It doesn’t matter anyway, this is stupid.” You slumped down and covered your face with your hands. “Now that you know, can you leave me alone for a second? The embarrassment is killing me.”

“Still can’t believe you were getting all jealous.”

Yoongi couldn't help but smirk at the sight of you looking up at him, unable to look away. Without hesitation, he moved closer, pulled you by the back of your neck, as he closed the distance between you two. 

Despite the slight chapped texture, his lips felt soft against yours. You eagerly returned the kiss, deepening it. When you broke away, his smirk was now gone, replaced by a soft smile. 

“Did you just— You just kissed me.” You said, dumbfounded. 

“And so did you.” 

“If you’re making fun of me, it’s not funny.” You said, pushing him off lightly. Your cheeks started to heat up as you did.

“You’re not gonna make fun of me back?”

“What are you even talking about?”

“I literally lost all my brain function when I saw your dress being drenched that night.” He admitted. “Couldn’t talk to you without looking at how the dress was hugging your body. I took the driver’s seat just so I can look at the road instead of you.” He sighed. “Damn, my foot was still hurting too at that time.”

“Wait…” You put your palms in the air. “So are you like, serious? This isn’t some kind of joke, right?”

“Since when do I joke like this?!” The man looked at you in disbelief. 

“Right.”

“Right.”

“So like, what are we gonna do… about this?” You said, pointing at him and back to yourself. “Do you even like…”

“I told you my name, it should be obvious.”

You had never seen him appearing so sincere, it was making you nervous. 

“I… My whole life I’ve only known fight and survive. Never really had much luck in high school either, I wasn’t popular surprise surprise.”You rolled your eyes, trying to make a light joke. “I don’t really know what to do when it comes to, well, my feelings.”

“So do I.” He said calmly. “But I still want you, despite going on fully blind.”

“I want to remind you that I’m not—“

“If you’re gonna talk down on yourself again, I’m not having it.” 

Your cheeks flushed again. “We have a lot to catch up to. I barely know what you like, I don’t even know your favorite food??? What’s even your favorite color—“

“Hey,” He called, hand resting on your back pulling you slightly to his direction. “No pressure. We’ll go with the flow and see how it goes.”

You sighed. “You sure?”

“You’ve asked me that multiple times already.” He chuckled. “Yes, I am.”

“Can you kiss me again just to make sure?”

Yoongi halted back for a second, seemingly taken aback by your boldness. He let out a soft laugh, one that sounded like music to your ears, before pulling you back in. 

To where you belonged. 

Thank you for reading! ✒