#something bright.. for these Trying Times.....

[hyoer]

Project: Get Over Bob

pairing. Bob Reynolds x reader

synopsis. Bob likes someone that’s not you and now it's up to you to begin Project Get Over Bob.

warnings. no use of y/n, not much angst right now, reader pining for Bob but pushing it all down!! Bob breaking my little y/n's heart.

word count. 2.7k.

part 2 =

https://www.tumblr.com/hyoer/785102224459268096/project-get-over-bob-2?source=share

Bob Reynolds was many things, but one thing he wasn’t, was subtle.

You knew it.

He knew it.

Everyone knew it.

So when he started batting his eyelashes at the owner of the local bookstore, you knew that you might have to get rid of your crush.

You and Bob had known each other now for at least a year, and had fallen into the perfect morning routine.

You’d wake up at 7am, stumble your way into the kitchen, knocking on everyone’s doors as you went. Of course, Ava, Bucky, and Walker would have already left for training, but it was nice to cause a bit of ruckus so early in the day. You’d pop some coffee on and by the time it brewed, Bob would be sitting at the island in the middle of the room with a grin and an extra Splenda packet for you.

But today?

Today, he was nowhere to be found.

“Coffee for me?”  Yelena asked as she wiggled her brows at you.

You smiled and scoffed “Knock yourself out”

“Have you seen my bowie knife, I think I left it in the sink but I came to grab it last night and it was gone.” She whined, her bottom lip jutting out in such a cute way you couldn’t help but grin and pinch her cheeks.

“You left your disgusting dirty knife in the sink?!! We practically EAT out of there”  Walker shouts.

“We don’t eat out of the sink stupid”

“Well, if we’re washing our dishes in the sink and we eat off of them then – yeah – we do”

“So what? You decided to throw my knife away because of that??”

Yelena’s accusation turns John bright red, the two bickering and throwing insults around at a rapid pace.

While those two are enthralled in a ‘spirited debate’  Ava and Bucky stroll in. The latter animatedly mimicking what you think? is some kind of old-school wrestling move. Bucky suddenly tunes into the two blondes’ argument, starts to smirk and you raise a brow at his reaction. His wink back was enough evidence that he definitely had something to with the disappearance of Lena’s knife.

Yeah, you need to learn how to rage bait effectively from the centurion.

The elevator chimes and you all turn to see Bob waving, carrying a very nice smelling paper bag which you can only hope are filled with some almond doughnuts from Supermoon.

You open your mouth to say something, until a small figure comes out from behind him. Long black hair, big eyes and-and wait it’s the lady from the bookstore?

You’d spoken to her before and honestly, she was lovely, super smart and made your day every time you stepped foot to her store. She'd recommended Dante's Inferno to you when you’d ask for an all-time classic so obviously you had to love her. You liked her so much you’d even taken her email so you both could discuss you guys’ excitement for the new Odyssey film.

And now here she was, the kind woman from the store clinging onto Bob’s side.

All you could see was his hand, Bob’s hand, your Bob’s hand covering hers so tenderly.

The way he did with you.

Everyone’s gaze seemed to zero in on you and your reaction.

“Hey guys um Lily and I are heading to the game room, you-you guys are welcome to join, we’re watching ‘The Shining’!” God, the way his eyes shifted to hers in such a soft way, assuring her that she was welcome here, killed you.

He stares at you for a moment; you know Bob was looking for some comfort from you, that yes he's made a good choice in finally trying to live a normal life.

Through your shock you pull yourself together, give a thumbs up and wink, mouthing the words ‘she’s cute’. You heart may be breaking but you care for him too much to not support something that makes him so obviously happy.

You can see him visibly relax and as the others rally to greet Lily a sudden flurry of steps from Alexei stole the group’s attention. The large leather clad (you’d have to have a conversion to him about the concept of lounge wear) man claps his hands together as he caught sight of the two in the doorway.

“Finally Bob, you ask Lily to come here. You know he asked me over and over and over advice on how to charm pretty woman with shop” he says, turning to the group with a smile on his face.

Yelena places her hand in the small of your back and glares at Alexei, the man looking absolutely bewildered at the others’ reaction to what he thinks is the best news he’d heard all week.

“So.. you both are together or –“ John questions, shooting an inquisitive look between the two.

“We haven’t really, well, haven’t put a label on it yet, we’re just hanging out, right-right?” he turns to face her, and every inch of her face lights up as she laughs.

“Yeah, this is his audition for boyfriend”, nudging him in a familiar way.

They’d only known each other a month why were they suddenly so buddy-buddy?

Ava, as kind as ever, decides to change the subject, asking about the team’s plans for next month’s mission. You hear the words safe-house and horses but can’t bring yourself to care.

The lovebirds take this as their cue to leave and Bob gives you a soft smile as he walks away with someone that’s not you.

Ok.

Time to get over Robert Reynolds once and for all.

Phase 1

You decided to split Project Get Over Bob into 4 phases = fill up your timetable and become busy - stop hanging out with Bob – stop thinking of Bob – reach the ultimate nirvana and make yourself invisible to him.

Ok, well the phases were vaguely something like that.

Simple right?

Phase 1 was easy; you’d used the guise of a new hobby (jiu-jitsu) as an excuse to be out of any kind of common area or team activity. Claiming to the team during the monthly debrief that you had to know the sport as an effective cover for your mission.

So, while half of your day was taken up by morning classes and sparring in the afternoon with Lena and Buck, there was still the entirety of the evening to deal with.

You and Bob spent most evenings cooking dinner, filling reports to send off to Mel and watching shitty French arthouse films until you were both knocked out for the day. This had to stop.

Ottolenghi could wait, you thought to yourself as you booted up your laptop and found the perfect pottery class that was on the other side of the city and about 2 hours long.

“Are you trying to replace all of our plates?” a voice says from behind you, causing you to jump and almost drop the drink you were holding in your free hand.

“Jesus John, learn to make some noise when walking into a room!”

Walker jumps over the sofa landing snuggly next to you, he reeks of sweat nothing too bad but you wrinkle your nose in faux disgust.

“You smell awful did you roll around in dirt before you got here or what”

“I’ll have you know I beat Bucky and Alexei while sparring today, hence the sweat”

You look at him incredulously. There was no way that Walker could beat them 1 v 2. Sure, he was strong he’d managed to rough you up plenty of times but James had the fancy hydra serum and well Alexei was just out of his mind Russian so how did the so called ‘second rate’ captain America manage to beat them?

As if catching onto your line of thought John grabs your head and brings his arm around your neck, playfully tickling you with the other. Your burst out in giggles, gasping and shouting at him to let you go.

While he has you in a headlock without mercy Lily and Bob walk in.

Their conversation stalls as Bob lays his eyes on the two of you messing around.

Walker straightens up and you stare at him confused with the immediate shift in behaviour.

“What are you both doing?” he questions his voice tight and his hands clenched at his sides.

“John managed to best the two greatest super soldiers on earth, apparently. I personally don't believe it” you state while winking in Lily’s direction. She holds her mouth with her palm, attempting to hide her laugh.

“Anyway, I’ve got some work to catch up on so I’ll see you guys later”,  you clap your hands while standing up and shuffle out of the room, bidding goodbye to them all.

Bob looks at your retreating figure, both John and Lily staring at him snaps him out of his daze and he leads her to the lab downstairs.

You couldn’t wait to leave the room, Bob’s reaction made no sense to you. You knew he was always slightly awkward with Walker but they had hashed out whatever issues they had months ago, so why was he so annoyed with him today?

The rest of the week goes by with you keeping as busy as possible, you can count on one hand how many times you’d even seen Bob and you wanted to keep it that way.

You told yourself all you had to do was make it to week 4, and you would be off to Mongolia with Alexei and Walker for at least 2 months, and by then the Bob-shaped hole in your heart would be filled up and pasted over.

Phase 2

All you needed to do for phase 2 of your plan was to wean yourself off the drug that was Bob. The aforementioned drug was not making it easy for you, even though you’d changed your habits, he hadn’t.

Every day he would wake up even earlier than usual and make your favourite breakfast of blueberry pancakes and an iced black coffee, leaving it on the counter closest to the elevator. He would stand next to your breakfast, almost militant in ensuring you ate every last bit because how else would you have enough energy for jiu-jitsu? He was so happy that you had decided to take on a new hobby and put yourself out there, you deserved to have fun so of course he wanted to show his support in any way he could.

You’d then decided to take the stairs around the back so you could avoid him but  he’d taken to waiting by reception with your breakfast in a small tin, like a wife waving her husband off for work. Was Bob your wife?

Never mind.

You’d decided to forgo even more sleep and join John in his 4am gym sessions, leaving for class after sparing with the super solider that spent 2 hours kicking your ass so hard that by the time you got to class you were aching.

At least it had limited your conversations with Bob.

One other problem needed to be solved.

Bob’s night terrors were almost daily and before Erica-gate you had allowed him to come to your room, he’d nestle himself into your sofa, you would wake up sometime after and speak to him until he felt at ease at which point he would whisper goodnight and tip toe back to his own bed.

You knew deep down that he only came to your room because it was closest to his, the comfort of your sofa was the most alluring part to him, you guess. It was bigger than Bucky’s, way softer than whatever the hell John had stuffed in his room, cleaner than Ava’s and Alexei and Yelena had declined any kind of comforts in their rooms so that wasn’t an option for him.

Bob loved your room.

So you would need to change your room.

It had to be sneaky, the others were already pestering you about changing your training timetable, but a big change like this would arouse suspicion from Bob. Maybe a burst pipe would be best.

You knelt next to your sink, gripping the hammer you’d stolen from the construction team plastering the entrance of the tower after an unfortunate parking incident at the hands of Yelena. You weren’t worried about the sound of you brutally slamming the hammer to the pipe, you’d forced Valentina to sound proof everyone’s bathrooms out of fear the others would hear you screaming your lungs out to Dionne Warwick every morning.

One final hit and water exploded across the room, soaking the floor and walls. Within minutes, the water seeped into the carpet of your room and once you were satisfied you changed out of your wet clothes and temporarily disposed of the hammer under your bed.

Running out your room you shouted for Ava – she was always locked in her room, tinkering away at her next project- you asked her to call maintenance up and with that phase 2 was well on its way.

The team sans Bob gathered round your room door as the very kind man who had fixed up your bathroom informed you and Mel that the flooring would need to be replaced because of the risk of Mold.

You struggled to hide your joy at the success of your plan so turned your face to grin at yourself. Quickly turning back and putting on a concerned face as you ‘brainstormed’ a solution to your-self inflicted dilemma.

 Ava tutted loudly as the group discussed where you would be staying. She locked eyes with you and gave you a look you couldn’t figure out, you’d have to chase her up on that later.

“Could I have the room next to you Buck?” his was the furthest from yours and would provide a respite from the man that you were attempting to avoid.

“Yeah course kid, need a hand with your stuff?”

You both spent the day moving every single item in your room into the one at the end of the hall, there wasn’t even a speck of dust that could have been traced back to you.

As you brought the last box out of your room Bob rounded the corner. It had been a few days since you’d last spoken to the man and even the sight of his face felt like too much for you to handle. But ignoring him now would be cruel and it wasn’t like you were trying to punish the guy.

Right?

His hair was up in a clip, something he normally only did when at self-care night with you and the other girls, tucked into Lena’s covers with a hyaluronic face mask and a hot chocolate. You liked it, he’d normally have his hair covering his face but you like seeing him, all of him.

“What happened? Why-why is your room boarded up, did something happen-“

“A pipe burst so I had to switch to a different room” you shrugged. “Buck offered the one attached to his so-”

“What-what about the one next to mine?”

Shit.

You hadn’t really thought about a good excuse for that, obviously, the one next to his would be the more reasonable option but you quickly spit out a lie.

“I was considering it… but the view from the other side of the tower is so great at night! It’s nicer to have a view of Central Park than Goldman Sachs when I’m working”

He nods in understanding, “Oh ok that makes sense”  He stills for a moment, and it looks as if he may say something, but he stops himself.

You take advantage of his hesitation. “I’m pretty tired, I’m gonna turn in m’kay, see you around Bob”

“Yeah-yeah I’ll see you, goodnight”

You walk past him as quickly as possible without looking back; if you had, you would have seen the absolutely devastated look on his face.

Bob wasn’t stupid.

He’d been trying to get your attention for the past two weeks and he knew that you were working hard to prepare for your mission, but you always made time for him no matter what.

Bob decided he would get to the bottom of your strange mood, no matter what it took.

Hey guys, hope you like the fic so far, It’s my first time writing fanfiction and not consuming it so if anyone has any writing tips pls let me know!

[eowynstwin]

anatidae - conception, ii.

After several happy years together, Ghost and Soap finally convince you to have their child. - ghoap x reader. audhd reader. reader has a nickname. established relationship. polyamory. baby fever. manipulative Soap. manipulative Ghost. smut. breeding kink. double penetration. sex as manipulation. - Masterlist. Ao3

previous

The temperature changes.

Mary gives birth in the fall of that year. Four children—she now has four children, only a year or two separating each, and just the thought of that many loud, unpredictable kids in one house is enough to make your head hurt and your heart speed up.

You don’t dislike children, not in the slightest—often, you’ve found them to be better company than many adults, much smarter than usually given credit for and often much kinder.

The trick of it is simply in being honest with them, and giving them the space to be honest with you too. Most people your age are uncomfortable with such directness; but kids, you’ve learned, not only need it, but crave it, in a world that usually dismisses their hunger for understanding.

It’s not difficult to realize that you relate to them, more than just a little. The world around you has never not felt inscrutable. To feel that way, and to also not be able to pick your own bedtime? You feel more sorry for them than you expect most everyone else does.

It’s just that…well, they’re also children.

Loud, grabby, demanding black holes of need for care and feeding on a constant basis, with ever-evolving desires that are impossible to keep up with. Sticky nearly all the time, and impossible to reason with when they get a notion in their head that they won’t let go of. Irrational, unreasonable, hypersensitive to the slightest discomfort, and once you think you’ve figured them out the day changes, and they become different beasts entirely, based seemingly on no rationale whatsoever.

More trouble than they’re worth, you think, no matter how much you may relate to them.

You and your men arrive at the hospital just a few hours after the delivery, and are ushered into a room in the maternity ward that’s already stuffed to the brim. Soap’s mother, Mary’s husband and children, and a few other members MacTavish clan, cousins or second cousins or something, along with balloons and flowers in as many corners as will hold them.

Mary, on the bed, is wan, sweaty, and gently smiling. Her arms encircle a tiny bundle against her chest, swaddled in pink blankets.

“Well done, Mar,” Soap enthuses, going to her bedside to kiss her cheek. He gazes down at his new niece, eyes soft. “Looks just like you.”

“Thank god,” his younger sister Beth enthuses, elbowing Mary’s husband with a teasing grin. Ian gives a sheepish smile; he’s almost as haggard as his wife, having spent the entirety of her labor at her bedside.

Conversation ebbs and flows around the room; you let it wash over you without trying to participate. The lights are fluorescent overhead, and the hospital is busy outside the door. There’ll be an angry buzz in your head when you get home.

Simon, who understands, keeps a heavy arm around you, huge hand curled over your hip and gently rubbing. You focus on Johnny, still smiling, eyes sparkling, as he nudges into the bundle with one index finger.

Simon’s hand tightens. He pulls you tighter into his body.

A little spark. Something tickling the back of your neck.

Johnny, with gentle, steady hands, lifts the bundle from Mary’s arms and draws it into his own. It’s tiny, even with the blanket corners spilling over his broad forearms, light pastel against hirsute sun-brown. The corners of his eyes crinkle, mouth curling, and then—he looks up at you with a diamond-bright gaze.

Simon speaks, with an odd, soft quality to his voice, charged like a sweater from a tumble dryer. “Well, let’s get a look, sergeant.”

Johnny approaches, and brings the baby into view.

Small. So small. A little face, squished by nine months of tight development, and even smaller hands, slight fingers curled up by round, red cheeks. It isn’t pretty, not in the slightest, but it looks as fragile as spun glass. You’re struck with a sudden relief at the full swell of Soap’s biceps, one pillowing the baby’s head; you’d trust very few people without his strength to keep such a delicate little life safe.

And it is a life, isn’t it? Even so small. You reach out to touch the tips of your fingers to the baby’s hands, and find them as warm and soft as Mary’s belly had been, the one time she invited you to feel the baby kick inside her.

“Mary, was it very hard?” you find yourself asking. Even small—this came out of her body. “Do you feel alright?”

Mary laughs. “I’m alright, Duck.” Everyone in Soap’s family uses the nickname they’d given you, rather than your actual name. “And as she’s my fourth, no, it wasnae so bad.”

Soap recaptures your attention with glowing eyes. “Hold her, Duckie.”

“What?” you say. Heat rushes to your face. “No, I—I don’t know how.”

“Yeah, y’do,” he murmurs. He rumbles with a low brogue, accent stronger with some strange intensity. “Come oan, it’s alrigh’.”

“Hold her,” echoes Ghost. “We won’t let you drop her.”

With tentative arms, you reach out, and Soap carefully shifts the baby into your hold.

So small. Warm, from the heat of Soap’s chest and from the baby’s own body. Heavier than you expect, even despite weighing almost nothing at all. You crane your head down to look closer at the baby’s face; her tiny nostrils flare, just the slightest, with every whisper of breath she takes, and before your eyes, her little mouth suddenly opens wide in a yawn, fists curling and relaxing, as she shifts and settles.

Soap in front of you, hands cupping your elbows, toes of his shoes touching yours; Ghost a crescent around you, making you a shield of his body. You, headache forgotten, the rest of the room suddenly fallen away.

The baby in your arms, at the very epicenter of you and your partners.

Some line of tension connects between Simon and Johnny; you feel it pull taut, though you don’t know why.

“Hello,” you say to Mary’s daughter, something moving inside you. “Hello, baby.”

Back at home, they pull you into the bedroom. Something spools around the three of you, drawing tighter, narrowing the space between your bodies. Their hands splay around the curves of your body, slipping beneath your clothes and gently easing them off, as you trade warm, wet kisses between the three of you.

“Want you t’take both of us, alright?” Soap murmurs in your ear, on your heels as Ghost tugs you toward the bed.

You nod, already lightheaded. You’re dizzy with unexpected want for them, keyed up from Soap climbing into the backseat for the drive home to tongue your neck and squeeze your breasts over your shirt. The both of them have been oddly intense since the hospital, barely speaking, and if you didn’t know them as well as you do now, you might have been afraid they were angry.

But no—you recognize it for the single-minded pursuit that it is. The undivided focus on their objective that they have honed on the whetstone of constant deployment.

The energy of that focus buzzes between them as Ghost pulls you over him to straddle his hips, and Soap works both hands between your legs to get you ready to take him. Keyed up as you are, it takes very little time before Ghost is sliding into you without a whisper of resistance, his girth stretching you tight and snug enough to take what little remains of your breath away.

It culminates with Soap working a plug into you from behind while you ride Ghost, your front flush to his, with heavy tattooed arms banded around you to hold you down. Their combined body heat swelters the room, dewing your skin with perspiration that pearls up every place their skin meets yours.

“Breathe out for me, Duckie,” Soap croons, massaging the fat of one cheek, and circling the rim of your ass with the plug’s tip. “Push out for me a little—that’s it, what a good girl.”

A high, strangled noise escapes you, muffled by your face pressed into Ghost’s chest, one huge hand of his spread over the back of your head. Slick with warm lube, the toy stretches you, stretches you, wider and wider until it pops in and seats itself—and then you feel the weight of Soap’s cock land over it.

Neither of them say anything. Ghost’s girth draws you even tighter with the addition of the toy, sliding slowly in and out of you as he rolls his hips between your thighs. All that populate the bedroom are the shared moans and groans coming from the three of you as Ghost fucks you at a languid pace and Soap presses your cheeks together to frot between them.

You don’t have to do anything; they manipulate you as they please, hands greedy for your bare skin, bodies moving against yours with no hurry to get anywhere very fast.

Ghost’s breath is steady and strong in his chest, wiry chest hair prickling against your cheek as you rub your face on it. His skin is hot beneath your spread palms. Humidity gathers between the three of you, sheening your skin, warm and cloying and sticky.

Soap’s hands slide from your ass up your flanks, and then he’s lifting you away from Ghost’s chest to bring your back to his front—trapping his cock against the small of your back as his arms wrap around you, and his chin nestles in the crook of your neck and shoulder. Ghost’s hands descend along your hips to sink into the fat of your thighs.

Slowly, decadently, Soap cups your breasts with spread hands, caressing around them, pressing them up against your chest and playing the tips of his fingers along the hard beads of your nipples. He lowers them slowly and skims his hands down your ribcage to cup underneath the softest part of your belly, pressing divots just above your mons, massaging, up and down, over your hips and back to your stomach.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs into your shoulder, as one hand falls to nestle around your clitoris, which pulses hard and hot with arousal. He moves his hips idly against your back, the hot line of his cock a slow piston from cleft to sacrum.

“Gorgeous,” Ghost agrees. “Our girl.”

You seize your bottom lip with your teeth, breath stuttering in your lungs, and turn your head aside—you can never look directly at them when they praise you, even though whenever they do it feels as though the sun is rising in your chest.

“So good to us,” Johnny says, wrapping a brawny arm around your shoulders, resting his head against yours to murmur the words directly into your ear.

His voice is low and husky, purring. A predator to its mate. He rests your full weight against him as Ghost moves in and out of you, unhurried, languid; slow enough to let you feel every inch of him entering, and leaving, and entering you again, cockhead reaching so far into you with every thrust that he brushes lightly against the plug of your womb.

Their eyes hadn’t left you the moment you’d accepted the baby into your arms—electric. So intense you could feel the tingle of it everywhere their gazes landed.

“Even when we don’t deserve it,” says Simon, thumbs drawing little circles into the insides of your thighs. “Love you, Duck.”

“So much,” Johnny echoes. “You give us so much, bonnie girl.”

Heat suffuses your entire body, gathering where one of Johnny’s fingers taps against your clit. Simon lifts his hips to push into you, all the way to the wide base of his cock, so deep and so tight that your first orgasm of the night spills out and floods you, lighting up every nerve, fireworks popping between every place your body meets theirs. You squirm in Soap’s arms, ecstasy hijacking your control as scratch your nails across his thighs.

Soap gives you a moment to catch your breath, still caressing your belly, and then purrs, “You think you can take me now?”

“Y—” you stammer, voice lost to the ebbing climax, “y-yes.”

“Come here,” Ghost says, wrapping his hands around your wrists, and Soap lets you go to lay back down on top of Ghost’s chest.

The bigger man cups your jaw with one broad hand and tilts your face up to his, pressing his mouth to yours, open and hot with his labored breaths. He licks between your teeth, messy and wet as Soap eases the plug out, and you hear behind you the sound of a cap popping open.

Warm lube dripping between your cheeks, and Soap pushing it in with the blunt end of his thumb. He slides in to his first knuckle, digging his fingertips into the swell. Then, withdrawing, the slick sound of his hand around his cock, up and down, right before he presses the head into the tight furl of your hole.

“Push out for me again, aye?” he murmurs, laying a lube-sticky hand on your lower back.

You mindlessly comply, still distracted with Ghost’s mouth, and slowly, so slowly, Soap works himself in, easing his way with shallow, testing thrusts, soothing you when you whine at the burn by wedging his hand between your and Ghost’s body’s to pet at your clit.

He finds the right angle, and then in one, smooth, easy motion, Soap slides in to the base, filling you up so swiftly you gasp high and sharp, and they both shush you, four hands sweeping up and down your body to calm even the spark of any tension. Your heart thrums in your chest, in your neck, all the way down in your clitoris, and you pant as Soap leans over you to paint kisses on your shoulders and along the knobs of your spine.

Soap drops his weight over you and cages you in with his arms on either side of you, rocking his hips, moving his cock against Ghost’s with only the slightest membrane separating them. Ghost holds still, letting you acclimate, distracting you with soft, warm kisses, tongue curling around yours as he reaches over you to fit his hands around Soap’s ass.

You’re so…full. If you thought the plug had stretched you out before, it’s nothing compared to this—your partners claim every bit of empty space inside you and make more for them to fit. Neither of them are small men, and they fill you so tightly you wonder how you don’t simply burst from it. You can barely breathe; you can barely think with the both of them inside you.

But it feels right. It always feels right. Soap, and Ghost, with you between them. You, filling in the mismatched spaces where they don’t quite fit together—them, slotting right into every place you need them.

More together than simply the sum of all three—

“You want one just like it?” Soap murmurs, moving against you, thighs flexing behind yours.

“Want…one…?” you repeat, dizzy, breathless, flattened by his weight pressing you down into Ghost’s body.

“Want us to put a baby in you, Duckie?” Ghost asks. He gives a smooth roll of his hips up into you, punching the remaining air from your lungs. “Give you something back, for all you give us?”

Hands tighten on you; then their thrusting quickens, uncoordinated, their huge bodies corrading you between them.

“I—I—” you stammer, as Ghost finds your hand and wedges his fingers between yours—the other sliding up to cup the back of Soap’s neck.

“Cannae stop thinkin’ abou’ it,” Johnny says, hot breath in your ear, pressing kisses along the back of your neck. “Our baby in your belly, Duckie, ours.”

“It wouldn’t—” you pant, “it couldn’t—”

“Don’t try to figure it out, Duck,” Ghost says, soothing, but firm. “You don’t need to. He’s just talkin.’ Let ‘im talk.”

“Would be so grand,” Soap slurs. “Jesus, it’s all I think abou’ now. Wan’ to fuck you every day, fill you up with us, ‘til it’s leaking out of you all the time, Duckie, every minute, ‘til somethin’ takes, an’ then we’re always in you. And then you’re so big and full of us it’s got to come out—”

Heat bolts through you, searing your face. Fire in your belly heats your breath, burns your esophagus as you pant against Ghost’s chest. You squirm between them, chasing the spark dancing just in the vicinity of your clitoris, but there’s no room for you to move between them, surrounded on all sides by their thrusting bodies.

“Oh,” you moan, warmth gathering inside you, thinking of tightness and heaviness, feeling the solid weight of their hands on you.

“That sound nice, Duckie?” Ghost murmurs in your ear. He lets you and Soap go, and drags his hands down to your ass cheeks, gripping with wide fingers and spreading them for Soap to admire what’s happening between them. “You want us to get you pregnant, sweetheart?”

“Take such good care of you,” Soap continues, “both of you, Duckie, we would. Our little family.”

“Johnny’d need some training,” Ghost murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, “but don’t worry, I’d get him there.”

“I—” you try to say, “I—I don’t, I…”

They don’t let up—Ghost pushing into you as Soap pulls out, so that you’re not empty for even the stretch of a heartbeat. It doesn’t give you a single clear moment to think, to find that rational, logical part of you that is ready to argue at a moment’s notice why childbearing and child rearing is such a horrible idea.

Instead, all you think about is the bundle in Soap’s strong arms—and how you wished, very suddenly, you could’ve seen Ghost hold it, too.

“It,” you pant, the force of their bodies jostling the breath from your lungs, “it sounds—nice—ahh!”

They fill you at the same time, all the way to the root, and grind you between them with tight, quick movements of their hips. It rips the cord of your orgasm, and you clamp around the both of them so tightly it would risk forcing them out if they weren’t so adamantly pushing in—you seize up between them, throwing your head back to land in the cradle of Soap’s shoulder, and dig your nails into Ghost’s pectorals, jaw slack as you jerk with every intense wave.

“Ah—ah—ahh!” you wail, as they fuck you through it, hands gripping you, chasing climax with ramming hips, and then liquid warmth floods you, fast and thick, so much you feel it spill out of you and start mixing as it drips down.

They don’t stop—

“Come on, again, bonnie, we can get you there again, come on,” Soap growls in your ear. “We’re still hard, come on, come on.”

Hands—you don’t know whose—wedge between your bodies, and fingers touch the live wire in your clitoris, circling roughly, and the scream of a frightened animal escapes your throat as they yank you right back over the edge. You finish a third time without having begun, locked in place and unable to escape it, and you can only thrash against them, sanding yourself against the hard planes of their bodies until, finally, they take their hands away.

Heavy, humid breaths; movement settles as the three of you pause to catch them. Soap pulls out first, but Ghost makes no move to, and they shift so that he can turn and lay you on your side without slipping out.

Soap pushes your leg up to hook over Ghost’s hip, and curls his thigh up under yours. They press you between them like a flower, tight and snug, and exchange a kiss over your shoulder as you shift between them, getting comfortable.

“Ghost,” you say, feeling their cum begin to cool on the insides of your thighs. You want to wipe off before it and the sticky mixture of your and their sweat all across your skin begins to dry.

“Little longer,” he murmurs. He presses his mouth to the crown of your head, and cups your jaw with loving hand.

Soap snorts quietly and kisses the back of your neck. “He’s jus’ keepin’ you warm for me, Duckie.”

He slips his hand between your and Ghost’s chests to curve it around one of your breasts, thumb finding the nipple. You make a soft sound in your throat, overstimulated, but unwilling to beg him off.

You lay like that for a little while, the three of you, curled into each other’s bodies and sharing your evening breaths. You would get cold, sweaty and naked as you are, but their combined heat cocoons you, cradling you in a soft warmth that, if you closed your eyes long enough, would lull you to sleep.

But something runs its fingers down the back of your mind. Lightly, gently, but enough to demand your attention, fuzzy and clotted though it may be.

“What’s gotten into you two?” you murmur.

There’s a beat of silence that you have learned, by now, indicates that Simon and Johnny are having a conversation with their eyes.

It used to make you insecure, in the early days of your relationship with them—feeling your own inadequacies in communication. You’d frequently thought you would never be able share the same ease they had together, the effortless understanding, the perfect alignment of intention and interpretation.

But as it does with nearly everything else, time proved to be the antidote to such poison. Ghost can read the angle of your shoulders like a large-print book; Soap can coax you to meet his eyes with a practiced twitch of his fingers, usually because he wants to make you laugh. The unspoken languages shared between lovers are a living practice of constant collaboration.

So you know that whatever they say to each other right now has something to do with you—

And with the baby they insisted you hold.

But you retreat instinctively from the idea as soon as you approach it. Repelled, like a drop of oil in water.

“Nothin,’ Duck,” says Ghost, squeezing your neck muscles between his fingers, rubbing the tension from them with a deep, probing pressure. “Just talk, remember?”

Soap kisses your neck again, distracting you, and then your shoulder. “I’m gonna clean off, Duckie. He’s gonna keep you stretched out for me, then I’m gonna fuck you nice and slow, how’s that sound?”

Talk—that’s all it was. Just talk. Your men have said more outrageous things in the bedroom, in the throes; notions of forcing you to walk around nude at home, chaining you up in the basement, making a pet out of you, cloistering you away from the world in some cabin in the Cairngorms where no one can find you, and they can have you all to themselves.

Post-coitus, it’s meant nothing. They still massage your aching thighs and remind you when your next classes are. Talk like that only serves the imagination—

This is no different.

Ghost finally pulls out of you when Soap returns, still heavy and thick even when flaccid, shining and sticky with clear slick and white cum. You turn on your back, and he slots in behind your head, resting against the headboard.

Soap works himself back up with quick pumps of his hand along his shaft, and without preamble he slides into you, displacing Ghost’s cum still inside you with an obscene squelch. It gathers around the base of his cock and catches in the dark curls of his pubic hair.

“Jesus,” he groans, rolling his hips. “That’s a lot, Ghost, hell’s bells.”

It seeps in the creases of your folds as he slides his cock in and out of you at a languid pace. Soap lowers overtop of you, forearms bracing on the mattress, and kisses the hollow of your throat, then the heavy line of Ghost’s cock just above your forehead, before rising back up to settle on his knees.

“Don’t waste it,” says Ghost. He also settles on his haunches, and you crane your head to brush your lips against his shaft. He snorts. “Good girl.”

His heavy hands fall on your breasts, cupping, squeezing, pinching your nipples—as if something might come out. Soap cradles your stomach again, dragging his hands around it like a potter shaping clay.

Nothing. It means nothing.

next chapter early access

a/n: i'm ovulating can yall tell

[pedgito]

𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐘 | Joel Miller x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec 

summary | Joel notices you've been overworking yourself and frankly, he won't allow it.

author's note | this is a request fill! thank you to 'non for sending this in, it's been nice to write some softer, fluffier fics <3

content warning | 18+ MDNI, jackson!joel, established dynamic, unrequited feelings toward one another, reader working two jobs in jackson, mentions of injuries, reader is exhausted and overworked but compartmentalizing it, protective!joel, fluff, joel being the sweetest man, shower smut and a much needed orgasm

word count — 6k

Joel’s got a gift.

He knows things—most of the time.

It was a sense, a lay of the land, he liked to call it.

But, you had managed to slip under his radar for too long.

He sought you out often, knowing you were reliable. 

If he needed something fixed in a pinch? You had it.

A project to build in a day or two? You’d work twice as hard.

Forcing himself to work into the night on his own? You were always there to offer support.

It didn’t go unnoticed, but Joel had let you slip by the wayside lately.

Because, when you were around him, you were happy. 

Bright, full of a life he couldn’t ever manage to encompass, admiring how people fed off of your energy, always laughing and smiling in your presence.

Joel didn’t deserve that—so often, he kept his distance.

Though, that didn’t stop him from late night conversations and drinking to wrap up a build when you often helped him finish up projects that would easily have taken him through the night, getting it done before dawn just so Joel could catch himself a few hours of sleep.

If he wasn’t talking about the work that needed to be done around town, he’d listen to you talk about nonsense that neither of you would remember come morning. He liked to talk to you about Ellie, knowing little about their relationship other than it being complicated, albeit Joel seemed to have a distinct care for it.

For her.

He could be more of himself when it was just you two, alone. 

No watchful eyes to scrutinize you or him—as lovely as Jackson was, gossip and conversation was all most people could cling to outside of their daily jobs within the walls.

Summer in Jackson meant that there would be a swell of projects during the short three month window—but that also meant more of a workload to take on when you weren’t on the job with Joel.

The primary seamstress in Jackson had been backed up for months and you offered to share some of the stress, working dutifully on your days and hours off, even into the dark and quiet hours of the night where everything seemed to draw still.

Your hands ached for a number of reasons, but the pricks and pokes from sewing and twisting and holding your fingers in one position for an extended period of time had proved your body wasn’t handling the overload of work in a healthy manner.

And it didn’t help that often woke up with a distinct heat in your back, a sharp pain that tugged when you kneeled down to far or overexerted yourself with carrying around supplies, hiding the grimace in your face when Joel was around as you buried your head and trudged past.

But, Joel takes notice one particular morning.

Usually you’re good at hiding it, but with the amount of men who were showing up to your doorstep with rips in their jeans and shirts tattered to hell, you had been trying your best to keep yourself afloat.

“We’ve got six builds that need to be finished by the end of the week,” Joel begins as he leans against his desk, flipping through a thin stack of papers as he lists off what projects were taking priority and who would be assigned where.

Joel is habitual, making sure that every one of you makes eye contact with him as he explains what he expects of the day, going down the line until he lands on you, realizing that your eyes had drifted shut and your head rested against your fist.

Quietly, he waves everyone out to start the day before he approaches you quietly, twisting up the paper into a thin cylinder before he taps it against your cheek, his opposite hand resting against his hip.

You wake with a sudden startle, glancing tiredly around the room to find it empty.

Except for Joel.

Joel, who was staring down at you with a mix of amusement and worry, mouth downturned but his eyes soft, slowly morphing into a kind smile as your eyes landed on him.

“I’m sorry,” you say without him speaking, suddenly sleeping as you tuck your hands between your legs and Joel notices the bandages wrapped around your fingers, sparsely throughout but still enough that he takes notice, “I’m sorry, really,”

“You sleepin’ alright?” Joel asks curiously, tilting his head further to look at you as you nod, only managing to look at him briefly before your chin dips, massaging the inside of your palm with the fingers of your opposite hand.

You notice Joel’s hand extend as he tosses the papers on his desk, a movement that you don’t immediately react to, but as you glance up to look at Joel, his lips are pulled tight, repeating the motion with his fingers as he silently asks for your hand.

Reluctantly, you offer one hand and his other palm opens, accepting the other.

Joel notices the healing cuts on the inside of your palm, some fresher than others, and the white cloth wrapped tight around suspected wounds of a similar nature, some tinged with a faint pink and Joel sighs, a harsh breath through his nose.

“You know, I’m not a masochist,” Joel explains, and you look at him with a raised brow of disbelief, one that he responds with a faint tug of a smile as he turns his head away to answer as he scrunches his nose to wash away twitch of his lips,  “I’m not gonna hate you for askin’ for a day off—two, if you need it,”

“These aren’t—” you quickly tug your hands away, “they’re not from building or anything,”

Joel raises his eyebrows in curiosity, silently asking you to elaborate.

“I dunno, you know how I am,” you begin to ramble softly, the couch dipping with weight as Joel comes to sit by you, elbows resting on his knees as he listens, “I get restless, I need to keep myself busy—I thought I could help out Elaine with fixing up clothes, stuff is precious, you know?”

“When do you have the time?” Joel asks, well aware of your schedule as you rarely left time for yourself outside of work and mandatory town meetings once a week.

“When I’m off,” you shrug, admitting more quietly, “usually at night or mornings when I can’t sleep, sometimes I’ll try to fit it in during a lunch break or something,”

“Or something,” Joel echoes, nodding as he laughs softly, “well—you just earned yourself a vacation then,”

“No, I’m fine,” you assure him, “a cup of coffee and I’ll be on my feet just fine. I’ve got insomnia, I’m a little worn down, but I don’t need special treatment,”

You try to match his rhythm as he stands, refusing to be bossed around but the pain in your back comes back tenfold and you wince through clenched teeth as Joel’s hand hovers out of instinct, looking up at him with a subtle annoyance he had become very familiar with.

“Special treatment my ass,” Joel retorts, “I’m lookin’ out for you like I would any of the others,”

Somehow, you find that to be untrue.

He can see it on your face, too.

“I’m your boss,” Joel argues, “you really wanna argue with me?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“Alright, three days off” Joel challenges and you sigh, throwing your hands up in defeat.

“Fine, I’ll take a couple days off,” you agree, though obviously reluctant. 

Joel walkies Tommy a moment later, explaining the situation vaguely as he gives his younger brother the rundown for the day, seeming to pass off his own responsibilities too.

“You’re good at that,” Tommy comments as Joel grabs his mug from the edge of his desk, “pissin’ him off without tryin’—ain’t as good as me, but—”

“Tommy,” Joel warns with a dismissive roll of his eyes before he nods for you to follow him, his hand hovering behind your back with a presence that overwhelms you, feeling the heat of his hand so near but not quite touching.

You look over to find his face pensive, but aware of your gaze, his face softening at your own expression, feeling your own attempt at a lack of emotion slip as you chew at the inside of your cheek, a moment of understanding seeming to string you together.

Joel wasn’t going down without a fight, but neither were you.

–

His initial instinct is to walk you to your own home—comfort in your own environment and all, but the moment he steps through the door, he’s bombarded.

He trips over a stack of clothes labeled SETH and narrowly avoids another pile labeled JOHN, looking around at several stacks of clothes assigned to various people in Jackson.

 At least thirty, if not forty.

You flinch as he grabs for the door handle, swinging it open to keep balance as he turns to you, the guilt washing over your face almost instantly, cheeks heated with embarrassment.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” you start, eyes flitting around without any real target, pointedly avoiding him, “...it’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Oh, darlin’,” he sighs, tenderly cupping the side of your head, his fingers scratching gently behind your ear—it shouldn’t make you feel small, but it does.

Joel rarely touched you and it was always friendly.

“You guys’ve done so much for me,” you explain, “I was near dead when you and Tommy found me, I’m just tryin’ to do my share, seeing as you both saved my life. I kinda owe it to you, the town, y’know?”

“Not if it takes you runnin’ yourself ragged to do it,” Joel argues, his hand pulling away as it curls into a fist—you can’t see it, but Joel does it out of reflex.

As physical as he could be—you’ve seen him loud, defensive, in the face of some young, spry individual that was a little too cocky than he should’ve been, begging to be knocked down a peg. You’ve seen him attack to protect his own, but when it came to something simpler, softer, it just felt…wrong.

“I promise I’ll relax,” you tell him, a half-truth that Joel can see straight through.

“Ain’t good enough for me,” Joel admits, moving his fingers in a circular motion for you to turn, “you’re gonna rest up at mine, ‘least ‘til I’m satisfied.” 

Your shoulders sag, but you turn, Joel’s footsteps lingering behind as he shut your door.

“Is that alright?” Joel asks suddenly, approaching at your side.

“Do I have a choice?” you ask curiously, though your voice is laced with a tinge of frustration and pain.

“Yeah,” Joel tells you, his eyes earnest, “but I’d be checkin’ on you constantly if you stayed home, I might even send Ellie to keep you company, I’m sure she’d love to—”

“You like getting your way,” you shake your head, a quiet laugh tumbling from your lips.

“Guess you could say that,” Joel replies with a hint of smirk, turning over your shoulder to confirm your suspicion, “you’re one of my best workers, y’know?”

“I’m also the only person that wants to listen to you ramble about the different types of wood we’re using for different projects,” you retort, “and the only person who’ll stay up all night working with you, even though you get real grumpy right after eight o’clock,”

Joel opens his mouth to speak but you interrupt him.

“I’d blame it on the old age but I think you’re just like that,” Joel rolls his eyes as he silently guides you onto the sidewalk that led to his house—it was only a block away from yours, “bet you’d hate for people to know you’re also just a big ol’ softie when you get drunk,”

The morning sun filtered through the trees lining the street, making you squint as you looked up at him, gaging his reaction to your words.

Joel side-steps, blocking the glare of the sun with his broad shoulders as he steers you up his driveway, grumbling under his breath as you head for the steps of his front door.

“Ain’t soft,” you chew at your lip to hide your smile, “you get touchy when you’re drunk, if we’re goin’ there,”

You shrug, nonchalant, “You’ve never had any problem with it,”

He didn’t—Joel found out quickly that you were a hugger instead of a casual handshake type of person, always needing to reach out to touch whoever you were talking to, almost like it was a grounding technique—but when you were drunk, boundaries were a foreign concept.

“And your hair is so soft,” you comment with a knowing smile, glancing at him as you pushed past and into his house as he opened the door for you, “very touchable,”

You take a moment to soak in the space, not having seen it in a few months as you’ve hermitted yourself away and you hear Joel close the door behind you, footsteps growing closer as a bubble of laughter slips out, pointing at the furniture in his living room.

“You listened?”

Joel’s brow furrows in confusion before he understands what you’re referring to.

“Oh, well,” Joel waves casually toward the space, “it does…flow better, doesn't it?”

“You,” you reach forward and poke at the center of his chest, “listened,”

Joel chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he attempts to maintain his composure. "Sit your ass down," he warns, an empty threat that makes you smile as he gently swats your hand away, "relax, ‘for I make you,"

There’s a warmth to his tone that you’ve heard many times before, but it makes your chest flutter, nodding in response as you take a seat on the worn-in couch, sinking into the cushion as you slip off your shoes and tuck your feet at your side.

You can’t help but smile wider at the effort he put into making the place feel more welcoming, more like home. Not just a place to survive, but to live.

The living room, adorned with a few framed pictures of Ellie and some mementos from his past life, suddenly feels a bit more intimate. You spot the framed picture on the coffee table that showcased a younger Joel and his daughter, Sarah. 

That Joel was long gone, but he did appear in flashes. Quick, fleeting.

“Tea alright?” Joel's voice carries from the kitchen, hearing the creak of cabinets doors.

“No coffee?” you ask curiously—Joel knew you hated it, but you couldn’t help yourself.

“Got plenty,” Joel answers, “but given what I had to trade to get it, I’m not sharin’,”

You chuckle quietly and call out, “Tea is fine,”

The sound of water boiling soon followed, and you could hear the soft clatter of ceramic mugs as Joel moved about, clearing his throat on occasion as you watched his shadow move around the kitchen.

You settled deeper into the couch, your fingers tracing along its worn fabric and pulling the blanket draped over the back of the couch into your lap.

When he returned, he balanced two steaming mugs in his hands, the fragrant scent of mint invading your senses, alongside the strong smell of freshly brewed coffee. 

“Here ya go,” he said, nodding toward your mug, dropping down onto the couch beside you.

“Thanks,” you replied softly, taking a sip and letting the warmth seep into your bones, though your fingers still ached, removing one hand from the mug to curl your fingers in, rubbing your thumb against the side of your forefinger where the bandaged was haphazardly wrapped.

“You should let ‘em breathe,” Joel suggests, “I’ll clean ‘em ‘f you want,”

“I know you’re gonna do it anyways,” you respond with tired grin, “go ahead, play doctor,”

“Shut up,” he responds with subtle amusement before grunting as he stands and disappearing again, but for a shorter amount of time, coming back with a small, plastic box that was an obnoxious red.

You’ve never seen him so gentle, so careful. He takes a long sip from his mug before he sets it aside as extends his hand, palm up, waiting for you to offer your hand in return.

You let out a soft sigh as you place your hand into his. He inspects your fingers with a focused intensity, brows furrowing deeper as he examines the damage, unwrapping the thin white cloth to peek at the myriad of cuts, his eyes squinting as he turned your hand over to check the other side.

“You can’t keep pushin’ yourself like this,” he says, almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear.

“It’s just… I want to help,” you reply, voice quiet but firm, “Everyone’s been through so much. The town needs it. I don’t see anything wrong with it, taking care of others,”

“Sometimes help means takin’ care of yourself too,” Joel counters gently, his eyes darting between each wound, dabbing it lightly with alcohol. 

His touch is careful yet firm, a contrast that shouldn’t entice you, but it does.

“Okay, dad,” you tease lightly, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck,

Joel gives you a look, very fatherly, but it quickly fades.

It was more of a watch yourself, if anything.

A subtle warning.

“I’m gonna clean this up, give you some meds for your back and hope it’ll get you some rest—I’ll let you sleep up in my room,” Joel finishes up with your hand, balancing the first-aid kit on his knee before he closes it up, “figure a bed’ll be easier on your back than this couch,”

“I can manage,” you interject and he shoots you a look.

Right—telling, not asking.

“I can probably scrounge some shit up for dinner tonight,” Joel seems to be doing the mental gymnastics in his head, knowing his fridge was mostly bare,

“Don’t act like you aren’t going to go back to work once I fall asleep,” you counter, tilting your head to catch his gaze, his eyes suddenly tracking toward you, only slightly guilty.

Joel's brow furrowed as he met your eyes, a familiar flicker of frustration igniting within him. You both knew it was a familiar exchange—you'd push against the weakness for you and he'd push back just as hard to mask it.

You were one of Joel’s few soft spots, as much as he tried to deny it.

The silence that hangs between you is thick—it often was, but it never had moments like this to settle. Both of you were too busy, too distracted, unwilling to let anything flourish.

“I’m just gonna go check on Tommy real quick,” Joel explains, “I know if I’m not here ‘round the clock you’ll end up sneakin’ out,”

He wasn’t wrong.

He points at your tea, encouraging you to drink before he disappears again, stowing away the first-aid as he comes back with his hand curled up, holding it over yours until you open your palm, dropping two small pills into your hand.

“Just enough to get you a little relief,” Joel tells you, watching as you rolled the pills around in your palm with your thumb, “and some sleep,”

You swallow them down without any arguing, knowing that there wasn’t any point for it.

“C’mon,” Joel nods, waiting for you to stand and follow.

The walk to his room feels like an eternity, the floorboards creaking under the weight of your paired steps before you finally reach his bedroom door, half-cracked open as he hits it with his foot and turns on the light.

Joel’s bed is unmade, a pile of blankets haphazardly thrown across the sheets, but it only adds to the charm of his space. And it smells like him, something woodsy but warm.

“Just…lay down for a bit,” he instructs, his voice dropping an octave while his hands settle on his hips as you move around him, “I’ll be back before you wake up,”

With a quiet nod, you walk over and climb into his bed, sinking into the soft mattress.

This shouldn’t feel personal, but it does.

Joel watches with a pinched, unreadable expression as you tuck yourself under his sheets. His, the ones he sleeps under every night, his pillow tousled like he was fighting for a comfortable position to sleep in.

You smile, adjusting it under your head. 

Your breath catches when you turn and realize he’s still watching, though his head is bowed and he’s trying desperately to make it seem like he isn’t watching, but he can’t help it—his gaze is intense.

“Joel,” you say softly, startling him in a way that surprises you, his head tipping up almost immediately to look at you, attentive, “I’m really sorry.”

“Stop apologizin’,” Joel reprimands with a gentle tone.

The wave of emotion is unexpected, but it burns your throat. You look down, around, anywhere but him as you blink away tears and force yourself to breathe, quickly wiping away a tear with the back of your hand. 

Joel watched you for a moment longer, his brow furrowing again as if he were to piece together a puzzle in his mind. 

But this time, there was a softness in his gaze—an unguarded look that made your heart race. Without speaking, he approaches, fabric shifting against itself and suddenly he’s in front of you, the bed dipping with his weight as he sits near the edge to face you.

“Hey,” he says, his voice quiet as his hand searches over the blanket for your knee, gently grazing as his hand settles and squeezes, “talk to me,”

You look up hesitantly, his presence warm and grounding, and it’s difficult to wrap your mind around the feeling building between you. Joel was used to seeing you happy, cheerful—even irritated on occasion, but never like this.

“I don’t want to burden you,” you confess, your heart pounding against your ribcage as you meet his eyes. “I am—I know I am, all ‘cause I’m not taking care of myself,”

Joel shakes his head slowly, the look in his eyes unwavering. “You ain’t a burden,” he insists firmly, reaching out to wrap his fingers around your forearm to pull you into an unexpected hug, immediately relaxing into the warmth as you let it wrap you up, strong arms barricading themselves around your body. “I want to help you.”

His hands rub against your back in a way that could lull you into sleep, matching his breathing as the silence settles, suddenly struck with the desire to pull back and look at him, curious if he was feeling the same vulnerability that you were, walls down.

Leaning back to look at him, Joel’s eyes search yours, a depth of emotion mostly unreadable, but for the first time you see a flicker of something more than just concern—a flash of adoration that he rarely displayed.

“I’ll be back by dinner,” Joel tells you, blinking and the moment was suddenly gone, “get some sleep, alright?”

You nod sheepishly and follow his order, his hand drifting up the comforter as he tucked the blanket over your shoulder before he drifts away, the room dimming as sleep begins to pull you under.

—

Again, Joel’s got a gift.

He knows.

When he steps inside the house, something feels…off.

He strips off his shoes and shirt, leaving him in jeans and a worn tank top, burdened by the heat of summer as his clothes stuff to his skin, ready to drown himself in the cool water of his shower—but not before checking on you.

When he reaches the top of the stairs, he knows.

You weren’t in bed, you weren’t even in his room.

But, your own clumsiness gives your new location away.

“Shitshit,” you curse as Joel approaches, shoving the door open as the papers float to the ground, quickly bending to pick them up as Joel clears his throat,

“Can I help you?” Joel asks only slightly accusatively, his face flushed red from the heat and the sight of his arms making it impossible to look at him for longer than a few seconds.

“I napped, I swear,” you quickly assure him, “but, I got restless—and I got…curious of what you’ve been working on,”

It had been a while since Joel had time to set down and work on anything for himself, guilty in the same way that you were, unwilling to let himself enjoy.

His face relaxes as he releases the door to let it swing open slowly, tossing the balled up shirt on the table at his hip as he approaches, pointing at the half-finished horse caught mid-read with a cowboy on it’s back, “Haven’t touched this place in a couple of months,”

You turn as he approaches, feeling the heat of his body at your back as you run your finger along the ridges of the carved wood, admiring his handiwork, “Still, this is amazing,” like most of the figurines that littered the room were, Joel’s talents were kept close to his chest, only caught in moments like this, and it never failed to amaze you.

Joel shifts slightly, his hand pressing into the table near your hip, "Just somethin’ to keep my hands busy when I can’t sleep," he admits, his voice gentle as he watches your expression shift from curiosity to admiration, turning your head to look at him with a soft smile.

“I think we’re a lot more alike than you wanna admit,” you challenge him.

Joel chuckles lightly, “I don’t know what you’re on about,”

“Denial doesn’t suit you, Joel,” you tease, turning your a smidge further and finding that the pain still lingered. Joel notices. 

His head tilts almost accusatory before his hands come to rest over your shoulders, “You mind?” he asks, desperate to change topics.

You shake your head lazily, feeling his thumbs dig into the muscles near your neck, mouth immediately falling open as the tension begins to release under his precise touch. 

“Oh, god,” you breathe out, leaning into his hands as they work deeper into your muscles, a blissful ache spreading from where he pressed. Without speaking, his hands had drifted lower, near your ribs as his hands worked through the balled up tension until you had no choice but to lean forward, hands catching the table in front of you before your hips did.

A soft laugh escapes you despite the discomfort; Joel had a way of making even teasing feel tender. Suddenly feeling a tinge of fear build in your chest, curious that if you turned to look at him it would ruin whatever….this was. You raise your head with half-lidded eyes, enough that you think you can catch his reflection in the mirror without him knowing.

But, he’s looking right at you.

Under the inhibitions of alcohol, you’d tease him.

Instead, you turn, uncertain of how he would react.

Your hands grasp the table behind your back as his drop to his side, balled up into fists as you take in the sight of him this close, the front of his shirt damp at the center of his chest with sweat, his belt hanging unbuckled at his hips and his eyes hungry.

Sure, relaxing was what you needed, but Joel had a strange desire to remind you just how precious your body was—both caring for it, but how much he found himself admiring it. Every curve or scar, he watches as your lips part in a breath, mimicking the movement subconsciously.

“Joel…” you begin, but the words catch in your throat.

“Just let me,” he whispers, a deep richness to his tone and he reaches out again, this time his fingers brushing against your cheek. His touch is gentle yet firm—a promise of safety and assurity layered with something more. 

You lean into his hand instinctively, eyes drifting closed at his touch.

“Can I…” the words linger, but he doesn’t even have to ask.

You nod slowly, met with his lips a century of a moment later.

The kiss is soft at first, cautious and curious, his other hand twisting around your forearm to pull you in, your own fingers dragging up his biceps until they reach his neck, a touch so featherlight Joel fears he’s imagining it, but then you’re deepening the kiss.

Your tongue drags along his bottom lip, hearing him groan as he opens his mouth and lets you in, pressing himself against you as the table shakes with the unexpected weight and you snort softly, pulling away from his lips as he begins to chase them.

You can feel his heartbeat thrumming through the thin fabric of his shirt, a rhythm that matches your own racing pulse. Your hand fists into his tank and the look on his face is picturesque, a mix between wrecked and wanton.

“You smell like outside,” you tell him lightly

Joel chuckles softly, a low rumble that vibrates through the air between you two, “Coulda just said I stink,” Joel retorts.

“Maybe a little,” you quip back playfully, your fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt, feeling the solid muscles shift beneath your touch as he leans closer. 

“To be fair, I was gonna shower,” Joel defends, “then I caught you snoopin’,”

“Sorry,” you offer sweetly, though Joel isn’t sure you mean it.

With his hand still cradling your face and his fingers wrapped around your arm, he doesn’t move, watching as your gaze centered on his chest where your thumb was rubbing a circle over the fabric, thinking. 

Waiting.

“Are you gonna ask me to join you?” you ask tantalizingly, eyes flicking up to meet his gaze.

“Didn’t think it was appropriate,” Joel defends, “bein’ your boss and all,”

“Bullshit,” you retort, his face splitting into an unexpected smile at your bluntness.

You stare at him expectantly, fighting the smugness that threatened to spread across your features before Joel leans forward again, quickly kissing it away.

“You’re so damn devious,” he mumbles against your lips.

–

Contrary to what you were expecting, Joel leaves you showering alone for longer than you like, hearing him insist that you needed a change of clothes before the front door was slamming shut and you were already running your hand through the heat of the water.

You were just finishing up washing your hair when the bathroom door clicks shut, some faint shuffling on the other side of the curtain as your impatience grows, pulling the fabric far enough back that you can twist your fingers around his arm and pull him under the running water, clothes and all.

Joel stumbles slightly as you tug him into the warmth, water splashing over both of you, and an incredulous laugh escapes his lips as he looks down at his soaked clothes.

It’s infectious, filling the small space with a sense of mischief as he pulls away just enough to look at you, the droplets cascading down his jaw and neck, “Really?” he asks, “You couldn’t wait?”

You shrug, aware of his drifting gaze as they follow down to your breasts, yearning deeply for his mouth as his lips part before his hands are wrapping around his top and pulling it over his head, tossing it to the floor with soft splat, alongside the rest of his soaked clothing.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” he warns, a dangerous glint in his eyes as the water drips down his broad shoulders, revealing the strength beneath his tanned skin.

You smirk, feeling bold as you inch closer to him, “Oh? How, exactly?”

Without warning, Joel lunges forward. 

His body is solid, pressing into yours as you gasp at the suddenness of it all. 

“Like this,” he murmurs against your lips. This is deeper, more fervent, sealed with desperation and longing. You weren’t sure how long the two of you had been tiptoeing around your feelings for one another, but they seemed impossible to ignore now.

His mouth moves over yours like this was normal, like he knew everything that made you tick. You respond instinctively, lips parting further as your tongues press together, exploring the taste of him mixed with warm, cascading water that poured over you both as you tugged him closer, your hands settled near the sides of his chest, squeezing against his ribs as he guides you against the adjacent shower wall.

His hand finds your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh with a possessive urgency that has you gasping, allowing himself to take a moment to really admire you, watching as the water dripped from his damp hair to his nose, his free hand tracing every inch of your body with lust-filled eyes, a thumb dragging along the underside of your breast until he finds the courage to drag it up and around your nipple, a small gasp slipping from your lips.

“Sensitive?” Joel asks curiously, a subtle smirk betraying his genuine question.

You let out a high pitched noise of acknowledgement as his hand rises to pinch at the bud before you slap at his chest, “What are we doing?” you ask breathlessly, a shake of uncertainty in your tone as Joel’s movements pause, though the hand on your thigh gives a reassuring squeeze.

“You know, I’ve got plenty of methods to help ya relax,” he explains, “could show you one?”

“Joel,” you warn, knowing there wouldn’t ever be a moment after this that you didn’t look at him and see him exactly as he was now, eyes darker than their normal brown and his face flushed with an increasing desire.

Joel leans forward, though tentative, and kisses you slow, waiting for you to react with intrigue, feeling like your brain was having trouble keeping up with his actions, “Let me take care of you,” he urges, “s’the least I can do,”

He pulls back, searching your face with a tinge of nervousness that quickly fades as you nod, the back of his hand pressing against the inside of your thigh to part your legs, hiking up one around his hip before he guides your hands up and around his neck, your fingers playing into the damp ends of his hair as the hand that wasn’t descending between your bodies came around the back of your head, cupping it gently.

With the first touch of his fingers as they split through your folds, you understand his intention with caressing you, your head thudding back against the tile wall gently.

You sigh shakily in satisfaction as you nod again, though there was no pending question.

Joel chuckles, watching as your eyes fall shut in bliss as he dips his head and drags his lips across your shoulder, collarbone, down your chest until he can swirl his tongue around your nipple, sucking on the sensitive skin as his middle finger drags over your clit and circles, a surprised gasp from you at how devastating his touch was.

The end goal was relaxation and you were anything but—though, you couldn’t complain.

Your workload rarely allowed for anything like this, even a moment for you to indulge on your own, mind frazzled with worry.

Joel hadn’t take his eyes off of you, much like how he behaved at work, but this was more intense, more purposeful, his brow creasing at every noise you made, his fingers moving from your clit to slip inside of you, filling you with a fullness that only Joel could offer, his thick fingers stretching your cunt open.

The sensation of him sliding deeper inside you made your breath hitch, the heat pooling low in your belly as your fingers squeezed at the back of his neck. You could feel every pulse of his fingers as they curled inside of you, drawing whimpers from your lips as he worked you open.

“How am I doin’?” He asks quietly, though his tone is cocky, speaking against your skin with his breath hot and heavy, “You thinkin’ about work?”

“Not even a little,” you admit, your response stangled off by a gentle cry as his fingers quickly switch gears, slick from your arousal as his body blocked the stream of water and worked over your clit, your hips rocking up into his hands.

“Good,” Joel notes, his mouth trailing up to your neck and to your cheek, pressed together as you pull him in close, your quiet but quickened breath against his chest that gave him the tell-tale sign that you were close.

“Joel,” he knows—of course he does.

“I know,” he soothes, his touch insistent as he worked over your clit in fast, tight circles until your legs shook, teeth biting gently into his shoulder where you face had found solace against, he grunts at the sensation, his voice soothing, “Oh, I know, darlin’,”

He guides you through every second of your orgasm, pulling back to examine the pinch in your features with a tinge of smug satisfaction as you whisper his name once more.

Joel’s become so familiar with your tone that even a simple slip of his name told him everything he needed to know.

Thank you, is what he hears.

And when you tuck into his bed, rolling your eyes affectionately as he leaves a respectable gap of space between you both, your muscles ache.

But, with good reason.

You’ve never felt more relaxed.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚊 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which a glance turns into something more

You didn’t expect your seat to be this close.

Court side. Right next to the scorer’s table. Inches from the Dallas Wings bench. Close enough to hear the squeak of sneakers, the soft smack of high-fives, the clipped shouts from the coaches. But none of that mattered—none of it registered—because Paige Bueckers was on the court.

And you? You were in her line of sight.

She’s in warmups, bouncing from side to side, her hoodie half-zipped and draped loose over her practice jersey. She’s focused, kind of. Talking to teammates, stretching, shooting.

But every few seconds—without fail—her eyes flick to the sideline.

To you.

You pretend not to notice the first time. The second time, you wonder if you imagined it. By the third, you’re smiling to yourself. And by the fifth, you’re already leaning your cheek against your knuckles, elbow perched on the scorer’s table, your eyes following her like they belong there.

You’re not here by accident. You know what she can do. You’ve watched the highlight reels, the draft night interview, the pressers. But nothing—not the ESPN features or social media clips—prepared you for her in person. Not like this. Not from this close.

And maybe… maybe she wasn’t prepared for you either.

Toward the end of warmups, Paige glances at you again—longer this time. Her lips curve into something between a smile and a dare.

Then she jogs over.

“Hey,” she says, voice casual but breath catching on the edges.

You look up, pretending to be surprised. “Oh, hey. You talking to me?”

She grins. “Yeah. Unless someone else is sitting next to the scorer’s table looking like that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Looking like what?”

She opens her mouth, closes it again, rubs the back of her neck. “You know. Just… like that.”

“Ah,” you tease. “That clears it up.”

She lets out a breath of laughter, almost shy, and points to the court. “I’ve got, like, two minutes before the buzzer. But I figured if I didn’t come over and say something now, I’d spend the whole game trying to work up the courage.”

“And what made you work it up now?” you ask.

She shrugs. “You kept looking at me like you were trying to memorize me. Kind of gave me confidence.”

Your smile falters just slightly, stunned by how direct she is. “Maybe I was,” you say softly.

The horn sounds. The crowd starts cheering. Paige steps back.

“I’ll be back,” she says with a wink, jogging off to join the huddle.

When the game starts, you think that’s it. A moment. A good story to tell.

But then the first timeout is called.

And she comes straight to you.

She plops down on the empty seat to your left—the bench already crowded, but apparently not too crowded for her to make room. A towel around her neck, sweat glistening at her temples.

“You impressed yet?” she asks, turning to you with that same bold smile, but her cheeks are flushed for a different reason this time.

You lean in just enough to make her breath hitch. “Maybe a little.”

She grins, nudging your shoulder with hers. “A little? I hit two threes and stole the ball. What more do you want?”

“I don’t know,” you muse. “Eye contact while you do it?”

Paige laughs, loud and bright, and a couple fans behind you gasp—not from the game, but from watching her. Someone shouts her name, camera out. Another yells, “Who’s she talking to?!”

But Paige doesn’t look away. Not once.

“You’ll get it,” she says.

By the third quarter, it’s a pattern.

She plays. She scores. She checks out. She sits next to you. And every time, she starts where you left off.

“I made eye contact that time. Did you catch it?”

“I did. You bit your lip after. That part intentional?”

“What—are you studying me?”

“Should I not be?”

“I didn’t say that.”

You sip your drink, and Paige watches your mouth like it’s the game.

Between minutes on the court, she becomes a different kind of player—less basketball, more charm. It’s effortless and clumsy at the same time. She tries to be cool but stumbles every time you respond without flinching. Your confidence knocks her off rhythm in ways a full-court press never could.

“Okay, I need to know something,” she says during the next timeout, twisting to face you.

You raise a brow. “Yeah?”

“Are you, like, doing this on purpose? The whole… cool, calm, collected mystery girl thing?”

You grin. “Is it working?”

Paige blinks at you. “Unfairly.”

By the time the fourth quarter rolls around, you can feel the phones pointed your way. The row behind you is buzzing with whispers. “Who is she?” “Are they together?” “She hasn’t stopped smiling at her this whole game.”

A clip of Paige sitting next to you—grinning like she’s at brunch, not in the middle of a WNBA game—is already circulating on TikTok. “Paige Bueckers sitting with her WHO? Mid-game??” The comments are ruthless and unhinged.

“she’s sitting there like it’s DATE NIGHT” “somebody find this girl NOW” “if i was next to paige i’d pass out” “this is why she’s my favorite. she RIZZES mid timeout”

You don’t know any of that yet, but Paige’s teammates clearly do.

“Paige,” one of them hisses under her breath as she returns to the bench. “You’re trending.”

“So?” she mutters.

“You’re blushing.”

She is. But she just shrugs and glances back at you. “Can you blame me?”

You’re still smiling.

After the game—after her final three-pointer, after the confetti of applause—she jogs off the court and right back to you, towel around her neck again, ponytail swinging behind her.

You’re already standing.

“So?” she asks, breathless and beaming.

You nod once, like you’re giving her an award. “Color me impressed.”

She laughs, cheeks flushed, sweat still drying on her skin. “I’m Paige.”

You tilt your head. “I know.”

“And you are?”

You offer your name, softly, watching the way it lands on her lips.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. Cool. Um—are you doing anything after this?”

You blink. “Are you asking me out?”

Paige scratches her neck, eyes hopeful. “Asking you to dinner. Just… as a celebration. Of me. And my incredible skills. And maybe you, for looking so good court side.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’d be honored.”

Fans around you shriek. Someone yells, “Oh My God!”

Paige grins. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here before someone tries to follow us.”

And just like that, she takes your hand—not caring who’s watching anymore—and walks off the court.

Still blushing. Still smiling.

And still utterly, hopelessly impressed.

Paige disappears into the locker room with a final wink and a promise—“Don’t go anywhere”—and for a moment, you just stand there in the chaos of the post-game crowd. Fans swarm, ushers start corralling people toward exits, the jumbotron flashes game highlights overhead. But your world feels oddly quiet. Still. Like you’re waiting for something that already knows how to find you.

You make your way to the tunnel wall and lean there, hands in your pockets, legs crossed at the ankle. The corridor is mostly empty now, save for a few media stragglers and arena staff sweeping the court. You ignore the curious glances. A few more phones raise in your direction. One girl mouths “Are you Paige’s girlfriend?” and you just smile without answering.

A security guard gives you a small nod as you lean back against a wall, trying to look casual. You scroll through your phone, pretending not to notice the flood of notifications already piling up from the viral moment—clips, screenshots, tweets.

“Y’ALL PAIGE HAS A COURT SIDE GIRLFRIEND???” “I don’t know who she is but I want to be her.” “the way she LOOKS at her. I’m crying.” “someone find this mystery woman NOW.”

You look up when you hear footsteps.

A little while later, the locker room door opens with a soft metallic clank.

Paige steps out in fresh clothes—oversized graphic tee, cargo pants, curls damp and pulled into a low bun. She’s clutching her phone in one hand and something in her other—a folded towel, maybe—but her eyes find yours immediately. And she lights up like she just won a second game.

“You waited.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

She jogs the few feet over and leans against the wall beside you, nudging your arm with her elbow. “I was afraid you’d get swept up by the internet.”

“Oh, I’ve definitely been recorded. You’re probably already being shipped with five different usernames.”

Paige groans, hiding her face in her hands. “God. I forgot the fans.”

You smile at her flushed cheeks, her bashful grin. “They love you.”

“I’m more worried about you,” she murmurs, eyes peeking up at you through her fingers. “All those videos… might be a lot.”

“Let them talk,” you say simply. “They saw what they saw.”

“And what did they see?”

You take a beat to look at her—really look. She’s all height and folded nerves, caught somewhere between confident and terrified, trying not to let the moment slip between her fingers. So you offer her a soft smile.

“They saw someone falling for you in real time.”

Paige blinks. Once. Twice. Her mouth parts but no words come. She just stares at you like you’ve knocked the breath from her chest.

Then, finally, she says, “You wanna go?”

She leads you out a side entrance, past media doors and a few lingering fans hoping for autographs. When one of them spots her and yells her name, Paige just waves politely and quickens her pace, making sure to stay close.

“You drove?” she asks.

“Nope. Wasn’t expecting to be swept off my feet post-game though.”

She chuckles, unlocking her car with a chirp. It’s clean inside—new car smell, mint gum in the console, a Wings baseball cap in the passenger seat. She tosses it in the back and opens your door for you.

“M’lady,” she gestures to the seat with a small, awkward flourish.

You laugh as you climb in. “You always this smooth?”

She shrugs. “Depends who I’m with.”

When she gets in on the driver’s side, you can feel a shift. The tension softens but doesn’t disappear—it stretches. Becomes something slower, warmer. Like curiosity and nerves, tangled into something unfamiliar and thrilling.

She starts the car, music humming low. The windows fog slightly with the contrast of your breath and the night air.

“I know a place,” she says, turning the wheel. “It’s, like, twenty minutes outside the city. Small diner, barely anyone goes. But they’ve got pancakes at midnight and extra thick milkshakes, which is basically a love language.”

You smile. “Sounds perfect.”

For a while, the drive is quiet. Not awkward. Just peaceful.

You glance sideways. She’s tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. Her right hand lifts slightly from the wheel once… hovers near the center console… inches toward you—closer, closer—

Then pulls back at the last second.

You watch it. Watch her. Her jaw clenched just slightly, eyes glued to the road, like she’s mad at herself for not doing it.

So you take the initiative.

You reach out and gently take her hand, guiding it to your lap. Her breath catches audibly, but she doesn’t stop you. When you intertwine your fingers with hers, she exhales slowly, her grip tightening just enough to say thank you without words.

She glances over at you once—quick, like it hurts not to look longer—and you see it. The blush, high on her cheeks. The shy bite of her bottom lip. The twitch of a smile she can’t hold back.

“I wasn’t sure if I could,” she says softly.

“So I did it for you,” you reply.

She nods, eyes flicking to the road again, then to your hands in your lap. “I really like holding your hand.”

You grin. “You say that like you’ve been doing it for hours.”

“It kind of feels like I have.”

You let the silence stretch again, but now it’s charged. Every finger she squeezes, every thumb stroke over your knuckles—it’s all speaking louder than anything else in the car.

The city lights thin out behind you, and the road opens into dark stretches of highway dotted with gas stations and flickering signs.

Finally, she pulls off an old exit and rolls into a narrow parking lot. A small diner glows at the corner, neon sign buzzing softly. Open 24 Hours.

Inside, it looks like it hasn’t changed since the ‘80s—vinyl booths, checkered floor, a jukebox in the corner. You already love it.

She puts the car in park but doesn’t move.

You turn to her. “You okay?”

She nods. “Yeah. Just…” She squeezes your hand. “You make me nervous in a really good way.”

You lean in, letting your forehead rest against hers for just a moment. “Good. You do the same to me.”

And that’s all it takes for her to finally move.

She opens her door. Walks around. Opens yours too, even though you beat her to it. Holds your hand again the second you’re out of the car, thumb brushing along the back.

You walk inside together.

And she doesn’t let go.

The diner is quiet, with only two other tables occupied—an elderly couple sharing a plate of fries and a trucker hunched over his coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

You and Paige slip into a booth near the window. She lets you slide in first and then settles across from you, but her hand doesn't leave yours. She just shifts it onto the table, her fingers still tangled with yours like she’s afraid if she lets go, you’ll vanish.

The waitress walks over—name tag says Lucy, pen tucked behind her ear, eyes crinkling at the sight of Paige.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Bueckers,” she says, tapping her notepad. “Back already?”

Paige grins. “Can’t stay away from the pancakes, Lucy.”

“And who’s this pretty thing?” the woman asks, glancing at you with a warm smile.

Before Paige can answer, you lift an eyebrow. “Just the girl she couldn’t stop staring at during her game.”

Paige lets out a laugh that makes her whole body shake, her eyes crinkling in that way that only happens when she’s caught off guard in the best possible way. Her grip on your hand tightens. She’s blushing again.

“Damn,” Lucy mutters with a chuckle. “Good luck, sweetheart. This one’s already head over heels.”

Paige covers her face with her free hand. “Please stop,” she mumbles, but she’s smiling so wide it looks like it hurts.

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. “So. You bring all your girls here, or am I special?”

Her eyes peek over her hand. “You’re definitely special.”

You pretend to think it over. “Hmm. I guess I’ll let that answer slide… if the pancakes are as good as you promised.”

Paige smirks. “They won’t disappoint. Trust me.”

You both order—her the usual and two chocolate milkshakes. Lucy winks and disappears to the kitchen, leaving the two of you in the dim hush of diner lighting and the low croon of an old country song from the jukebox.

Paige rests her arms on the table, leaning closer to you.

“I wasn’t kidding, by the way,” she says softly.

“About what?”

She bites her lip. “You. Sitting court side tonight. It really… threw me.”

You tilt your head, watching her.

“I’ve had good games,” she continues. “I’ve had great games. But I’ve never felt like I had something—or someone—I was playing for. Not until tonight.”

You let her words settle in your chest for a moment before reaching out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead.

“I watched every second,” you whisper. “And not because I was trying to be impressed. You didn’t need to do anything for that. I was already impressed the second you walked out.”

Her breath catches again. You swear she does that a lot around you. It’s endearing. Almost addicting.

“You make me want to be smooth,” she admits. “Like Azzi or Nika level smooth. But every time I try, my brain short-circuits.”

You laugh. “You’re doing fine.”

“Fine?” she teases. “Not great?”

“I’ll let you earn great.”

Her eyes spark. “What does that take?”

You shrug. “We’ll see. Could be a few more games. Could be one very excellent grilled cheese.”

“Now that,” she says, laughing, “I can definitely deliver on.”

Lucy returns with the food, sets it all down, and watches the two of you for a moment before patting Paige on the shoulder. “Good pick, hon.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Paige says, eyes still locked on you.

You talk for hours.

About basketball. About life in Dallas. About her rookie year and the pressure of being the face of something bigger than herself. About how she doesn’t sleep the night before games and always orders breakfast food after wins. About your job, your own dreams, the way you never thought this would happen but now you can’t imagine it not.

She tells you about her family. Her brother. Minnesota winters. Her guilty pleasure being romcoms that she watches alone with a blanket pulled to her chin.

You tell her you’re not surprised.

“You seem like the type to cry at the airport reunion scene.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles. “It’s emotional, okay?”

You reach across the table again and squeeze her hand. “It’s sweet.”

When you finally step back out into the night, the stars are bright overhead, the air cooler than before. Paige walks you back to her car, her hand brushing yours again until you catch it and hold on like it’s second nature.

The ride back is quieter, but not uncomfortable. Her playlist hums low in the background. One of your hands still rests on your lap—hers folded neatly within it.

When she pulls up in front of your apartment, she doesn’t move to unlock the doors right away.

You look over.

She’s staring at you again.

“What?” you whisper.

“I don’t want to say goodnight.”

“So don’t,” you murmur back. “Say something else.”

She leans in slowly. Her eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“Can I kiss you?”

You nod once. “Please.”

And when she kisses you, it’s nothing like how she plays—there’s no adrenaline, no charge. It’s slow. Gentle. Like something she’s thought about a hundred times but didn’t dare try until now.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours again.

“Still impressed?” she whispers.

You smile against her lips. “Paige?”

“Yeah?”

“I was impressed the second you said hey.”

And in the passenger seat of her car, just outside your apartment, the world softens into silence. Just you. Her. The beginning of something new.

[p1astr81]

very random but could you do one where reader is a ferrari heiress and her and oscar have a secret thing going on and they try to see each other during race weekends (with some fluff please)

This was a bit angstier than I anticipated 🙈

Y/n Ferrari. A name that carried status wherever she went. A name that came with expectations.

One of those expectations being to not fraternize with the enemy. Which was easy.

Until he came along.

Sauntering into the paddock with his stupid floppy hair looking like a prince that just walked out of a Disney movie. And his ridiculous laugh that sparked humor in other people even when nothing was funny. And his chiseled face like it was crafted by michaelangelo himself.

It all started as genuine hatred between you two, kicking off after he nearly crashed Charles out.

“Touch one of my drivers again and I swear to you Piastri-“

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know the trust fund princess ran the team.”

You scoffed. “Are you the pot or the kettle?”

“What?”

“I’m calling you a hypocrite.”

But it slowly turned into a playful banter.

“Where’s the princess off to this time?” He called out to you as you passed him as he was exiting his hospitality.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Prince Charming?”

His brows raised at the new nickname. “Calling me handsome now?”

“No you idiot. I’m making fun of your ridiculous hair.”

“What? Should I cut it then?”

“Absolutely not.” You looked horrified at the idea.

A smirk curled his lips. “Ah, so you like it then?”

“Ha! Only in your dreams would I ever like anything about you.” You didn’t let him get another word in, walking off too quickly.

And then the banter slowly turned into tension.

“That dress is going to have a lot of eyes on you.” Oscar commented, taking note of your bright red sun dress with a low v-neck.

You hummed. “Eyes like yours?”

He shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

“Saying I look good?”

Oscar shook his head. “Whatever the Ferrari princess wants.”

And the tension soon transitioned into a restrained pining.

Your paths crossed after taking the grid photos for the 2025 season. “Your hair looks… slightly more put together today than it usually does.”

He felt like an object of study under your gaze. “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.” He chuckled.

“I think it was.” A pause, then, “It looks good.”

Oscar froze. Then swallowed, and found his words again. “Did someone put you up to this? Charles? Lewis? Was it Ollie? Are you feeling okay?”

You laughed. A genuine laugh. “No, no one put me up to this, and yes I’m feeling okay.” You laughed again.

Fucking hell, Oscar enjoyed that sound. It made him feel like he was walking on clouds. This was dangerous. “Okay,” he started and wavered. “Thanks.” He muttered.

You took note of the blush on his cheeks, but you didn’t mention it. You sure as hell made sure to get him flustered every time you saw him, though.

And then the pining turned into… something. A situation of sorts.

You rushed into his room in the hospitality, tearing the hood off your head.

He was on you in seconds. Hands wrapped around your waist and his lips devoured yours. “Did anyone see you?” He rasped into your mouth.

“No, I don’t think so.” You confirmed in a whisper.

His hands slipped under your hoodie and he tore it over your head. He paused, caught off guard by the low-cut shirt. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

You grinned, shoving his shoulder. “Ah, c’mon charming it’s just a bit of cleavage don’t lose your head.”

He ignored your teasing, picking you up by the waist and carrying you over to the small sofa. He let you fly from his arms and you hit the cushions with a dull plop. He kissed the exposed swell of your breasts, sucking on the skin.

“Quit! Someone will see there!” You yelled in hurried whispers, and gave his head a small push.

He pulled back, gazing up at you with a dazed look in his eyes. “Good. Maybe then everyone else will stop trying to make moves on you.”

He dipped his head again, but before his lips could attack your chest-

knock, knock, knock. “Osc! Do you still have my charger?!” Lando shouted from the other side of the door.

Oscar’s eyes went wide, as did yours. You both swapped glances between each other and the door.

Say something, you mouthed.

“Uh, yeah.” He hesitated. You wanted to face palm yourself.

“Great! can I have it back?”

He looked to you in panic. You gave him a look that basically said, ‘this is your problem now’.

“Uh, yeah.” He grabbed the white cord while you did your best to hide.

He opened the door just enough to poke an arm out.

“What’s that about?” Lando asked in reference to the cracked door. “You got a girl in there or something?”

“No!” He answered far too quickly. “I’m, uh, I’m naked.” He covered.

You heard lando laugh. “Alright, mate.”

You both let out sighs of relief when the door clicked closed.

“You’re helpless under pressure if it’s not out on the track.” You shook your head.

And when he asked you out, options for a date location were very limited.

“I didn’t know where to go that we wouldn’t be seen so…” he gestured to the homemade full-course meal laid out on his dining room table.

You smiled. “I didn’t know you could cook, charming.” You took the chair he pulled out for you.

He shook his head. “That damn nickname.” He muttered, sitting across from you.

“You don’t like it? I think it suits you.”

“I know, because of my hair.”

You tilted your head at him. “Well, that is a factor.” You conceded. “But I think your pretty face lives up to the name too.”

His face flushed immediately, and he let out a nervous laugh. “Didn’t you say you’d only call me handsome in my dreams? Am I dreaming now?”

You shook your head. “Maybe you’ve hexed me.”

After that, it became official. Now both of you were concerned with not getting caught.

Singapore was scorching hot. Even inside the lobby of the Hilton as you tried to collect more towels for your room.

As you waited at the front desk, you felt a hand slide across your back. Not a lot of pressure to the touch, just… there. You jumped, ready to fight, but you gasped when you caught the eyes of the perpetrator. “Oscar! I didn’t know you were staying here!” You cheered in hushed tones, glancing around for prying eyes.

He looked just as happy to see you. “I could say the same.” He laughed. “What floor?”

“Five.” You answered.

“Two.”

You let the silence float between you. “I could-”

“Yes.” He anticipated your proposal. He had since the moment he caught you. He was just waiting for you to say it.

You smirked at his eager reply. “I’ll take my towels back to my room and I’ll see you then? Just text me your room number.”

Oscar nodded as the lady came back with three towels in her hands. You gave Oscar a small smile as you parted.

Too focused on you, he’d forgotten the reason he came down to the lobby in the first place. Awkwardly, he shuffled from the front desk and to the elevators.

Shit. His room was a mess.

He frantically threw things in his suit case and shoved stuff in the closet. Three hurried knocks landed on the door just as he zipped the suitcase closed.

“Hey,” he greeted, red in the face and slightly panting from all the running around. He waved you into the room.

Finally alone, you stand to your tip toes and place a sweet kiss on his cheek.

It wasn’t enough for him. He held your face in his hands, capturing your lips in his. It wasn’t hungry nor hurried, but a tender reminder that you belonged to each other.

“I’ve missed you so much.” You confessed with a soft exhale.

“You just saw me earlier?” He wasn’t stupid. He knows what you meant by that.

You shook your head, taking his hand and leading him to the bed. You kicked off your shoes and stepped from your leggings. You went for his suitcase and unzipped it, ignoring his protests. “I know you, Os. I know you’re not this clean.” You chuckled, gesturing to the spotless floors.

Plucking one of his shirts from his suitcase, you took off your own shirt and replaced it with his. The covers of the bed welcomed you, as did the embrace of his arms. You snuggled your head into his chest. “This. This is how I’ve missed you.”

The next weekend you attended was Abu Dhabi. Safe to say, you were both having intense withdrawals.

Oscar more than you.

You stared at the messages, guilt pricking your skin. Your sweet Oscar. Cast to the side because of your own fears.

After qualifying had long passed, you sought him out. The paddock was relatively empty by then, only the few stragglers of team personnel. Your hospitalities being right next to each other’s was certainly an advantage, one you used to its full extent. You sat outside, scouting for Oscar. You jumped up when you spotted him, quick feet making your way over before he could spot you.

When you reached him, your fingers closed around his wrist and dragged him between the buildings and around the back. There were no cameras. No people. Just solitude.

He looked drained from the day. “I’m sorry.” You blurted. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?” You took hold of his hands. “I’m just so afraid of him breaking us up.” You shook your head.

Oscar pulled you to him, wrapping his arms around you. He held your head against his chest. “Of course I know that.” He stroked your hair. Dull nails scratched your head. “Like you said, there’ll be a time.”

You pulled back enough to see his face. “I want it to be soon. Like maybe during break?” You suggested. “You’re right. I don’t want to keep living in secret.”

“What?” He panicked. “I don’t want to force you to do this if you don’t want to.”

You shook your head repeatedly. “No I want to do this.” Your eyes darted around, and then, “actually I want to do this now.”

“Wait what?”

Oscar didn’t get a response, you were already dragging him.

“No, wait. Like right now?” He panicked.

“Yes.”

Jesus, he was about to die and he only gets thirty seconds to prepare.

Hand in hand, he trailed behind you as the cool air from the Ferrari hospitality welcomed you. Your father was there, talking with Charles. He had yet to see you.

“Papa?” You called, standing in front of him.

He turned, brows furrowing when he saw Oscar. And then his eyes went wide when he saw your interlocked hands.

“I’m dating Oscar. And I’m happy. He makes me happy. And I know he’s not Italian or a Ferrari driver, but I think being with someone who makes me happy is better than both of those.” You rambled in English, ensuring Oscar would understand.

Your father looked between the two of you. The silence stretched, making Oscar more nervous by the second.

And then Charles started laughing.

“I know. Everyone has known for months. You guys aren’t as sneaky as you think you are.” Your dad spoke, clapping Oscar on the shoulder and squeezing him. “I’m just happy it was him and none of the others.” He smiled.

Oscar let out a heavy sigh of relief, earning a laugh from your dad.

[callsign-swan]

18+ themes, non descript smut, not described drug use

Robert Reynolds didn't want to be a dad.

His own dad was an asshole, a giant fucking one at that. The thought of having a child, or bringing something so small and innocent into a world so shitty, sent a mix of sadness and pain shooting through him.

But then he met you.

You were before all the bad shit. Before the drugs, before the clinical trials to try and get better, before project Sentry.

You were a bright light in the dark storm Bob called life.

He learnt to relax around you, became a softer side of himself. A side of himself the world hadn't seen for a long time.

Bob didn't expect to fall in love. But there was something about you, he just couldn't stay away. He loved the way your lips felt against his, the way your warm can't felt as he rutted into.

Desperately, his forehead against her shoulder, her fingers tugging at his curls. Pathetic moans fell from his lips as he gripped your hips, enough to be bruising.

Delicious bruises she would wear with pride.

Bob didn't know where it all went wrong. It was like one day you were there and the next day you were gone.

Bob was in Malaysia by the time you were months into your pregnancy. You didn't think he'd ever get to meet his son.

When a mysterious woman contacted you, saying she had Bob with her and she'd been helping him with his problem, a sponsor of sorts, you declined seeing him.

But you had no choice.

Men, all big and terrifying, showed up at your door. You held your son as they put you in the back of a car. Kept him tucked against you, kept yourself calm as they took you to God knows where.

You didn't expect to come face to face with your ex.

After meeting Valentina, you were sure you were gonna die. Whatever this Project Sentry is was going to kill you and take your son away. But you weren't going to go down without a fight.

He was blonde, now. In a golden suit that left little to the imagination. But it was still him. It was still Bob.

You swallowed, kept holding your son against you as he approached. When you had decided he was close enought, you took a step back and Bob stopped.

Unable to say anything to you, his eyes fell to your son.

It was him, but small. Obviously, the little boy had some of your features as well, but they weren't as noticeable as his. His eyes, his hair,his nose.

That little boy was his child.

"Hi," Bob tried gently. He tried to step closer to you, but you retreated.

"Bobert," you whispered as you took him in. "Bob, what happened to you?"

He had never seen you look so scared before, not since the night you left. A night that haunted both of your memories, a night Bob had tried so desperately to forget.

"I-I got better," he said, standing a little taller. His shoulders were no longer hunched forward, his posture becoming perfect. "I got better."

But he looked at your son again, expression softening. His son. Definitely his son. He looked up from where his face had been pressed against your shoulder, looked at Bob like he didn't know him.

That was because he didn't. He didn't know who his father was. But Valentina had brought you both here so he could fix that.

Bob thought Valentina had brought you here to reunite him with his family. You thought Valentina had brought you as some form of torture.

Neither of you suspected it was for control. Complete and utter control.

[elixirfromthestars]

college au & friend to lovers, oh I’m so here for this!! 🥰🥰

More under the cut ᯓᡣ𐭩

The door swings open within seconds, revealing Bucky’s easy and bright grin. He leans against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest, hair slightly tousled, perhaps from running his hands through it. God, he looks great.

^ He’s so pretty I can’t with this visual 😩💕💕

Bucky exhales a short sigh, but his smile stays in place. “Told you, it’s not a big deal.”

^ Excuse me, it was the day the love of my life was born so yes it’s a big deal 😌💖

But he doesn’t make much of his birthday. He doesn’t like attention when he hasn’t earned it.

^ Stooooooop 🥺🥺🥺

Which means you have been assigned a very specific task - keep Bucky in his apartment until it’s time.

^ Oh, I’m so curious to see how our reader will pull this off 👀✨

“No! Nothing’s wrong with ice cream.” You force a laugh, waving your hand dismissively. “I just figured we could chill here for a bit.” You bite your lip, then continue. “We could bake you a cake?” You would love to face-palm yourself right now. Why would you even say that?

^ I love our reader she’s so silly 😂🩷 I’m so bad at keeping secrets, I would’ve spilled the truth already 💀

Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, his own bottle loosely held in one hand, he tips his head back and studies you. “That how we’re playin’ it, huh?”

^ Yes sir 🙂‍↕️✨ these lips are sealed 🤐✨

“Is this me deciding?” he muses, voice smooth. “Or are you just gonna tell me no again?”

^ You cheeky little— 🙄💕

“But I need my lucky charm,” he laments, throwing his head back against the cushion as if this is some great tragedy.

^ If that man said that to me, best believe I’d say screw the assignments!!! My baby needs me 😭🩷🩷

Miss Nelly, the sweet older woman who lives next door to him and Steve. The one they always help carry groceries up the stairs. The one who has trouble with her hip sometimes. If Bucky thinks she might have fallen, or perhaps tried to carry something on her own, of course, he wants to check.

^ He’s such a sweetheart, it’s so endearing 🤧💖💖

You throw the door open and basically slam it shut behind you before he can follow.

^ lmao I love her 🤣🩷

Right outside, Sam and Steve are standing there - in front of the open door to Sam's apartment where a chair lays with its backside on the floor - wide-eyed, looking about as guilty as two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

^ these two silly little idiots are going to end up ruining the surprise 😅💀 it’s so funny imagining these two big muscular boys trying to sneak around and be stealthy 😂

“So you gotta do your part. Go back in and stall him some more” A grin spreads across his face and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I don’t know - offer him a good time.”

^ I mean... I’m not objecting to that suggestion… 🙈💗💗

“No, doll.” His voice is lower now, thoughtful, putting together a puzzle in his head. “What’s going on with you?”

^ Our reader is soooooo much stronger than me I would’ve spilled so much already 💀

His expression shifts again, humor creeping into the smirk on his mouth. “Doll,” he starts, voice light, amused. His hands slide up to rest on either side of your chair, effectively caging you in. “Did you plan somethin’ for me?”

^ OH— 🫣

Bucky’s expression softens immediately, his amusement fading into something quieter. He straightens up, tilting his head tenderly. His full attention is on you. A gentle crease in his brows forms. “Why are you nervous, sweetheart?” His voice is softer now, lower.

^ the way he softens up immediately ahhhhhhhh 😭🩷🩷🩷

“Because.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. “Because I think we need to talk.” Oh, for fuck’s sake. The entirety of Bucky shifts and you just want the ground to eat you up right this second. Because now he looks so worried. So genuinely concerned.

^ oh no girlie…why would you say that 💀 whenever someone tells me that my blood pressure SPIKES 😅

“You walked me all the way back to my apartment.” Your voice turns quieter as if you are speaking more to yourself than him. Perhaps you are. Saying those things out loud makes them seem so much more important. “And then you got sick for three days.”

^ As if I couldn’t fall more in love with him 😭💖💖 He’s such a sweetheart, it’s make me yearn for a guy like him 🤧💗💗 Like where can I find a guy that will give me his jacket in the rain and walk me to my apartment?? 😭🩷🩷

Bucky notices your struggles. He sees them. Plain on your face. His thumbs brush over your skin in careful strokes. “And you took such good care of me.” His tone lightens, trying to pull you out of whatever hole you’re sinking into. “Remember that part?”

^ And our reader took care of him??? 🩷🩷 These two silly little idiots in love, I need them to kiss!!!! 🙈💕

Or you could finally come clean about the feelings you have held in your heart for so long. Feelings for your best friend.

^ YES PLEASE 🫶🏼🫶🏼

You see heads peeking through the small gap, cautious, bodies frozen in an awkward crouch as if that makes them less noticeable. Steve and Sam. They are trying to slip in without a sound, their movements so unbelievably slow, exaggerated. They resemble cartoon characters sneaking through a heist.

^ not these two again 💀 what are they up to now?? 👀

“Kiss me,” you blurt, and it’s not soft, not sweet, not anything carefully planted - it’s desperate, panicked. Bucky’s whole face just goes wide, pure shock filtering out anything else. Another bump. You’re not sure Bucky even heard it, but your lips crash onto his with urgency. Bucky freezes. And when you say freeze, you mean freeze.

^ AHHHHHHHHHHHHH 🙈💖💖💖💖

He sinks into the kiss, his body softening, folding inward toward you. His fingers slide up your legs, brushing tenderly against the fabric of your pants before settling on your hips, cautious, like he doesn’t want to break the moment, doesn’t want to take too much. Then, his lips move. It’s a slow, searching motion, testing the waters, trying to figure you out. His mouth is warm, his lips so much softer than you imagined. And hell, did you imagine.

^ what. a. kiss. 💗💗💗

His hands tighten, fingers digging into your hips, pulling you forward to the edge of the seat, into his chest, his grip growing needy, desperate. He seems to have been starving for this, like something in him has just broken loose. The kiss turns deeper, heavier, a push and pull of breath and movement. He kisses you with searching urgency, trying to memorize the exact shape of your mouth, the way you feel pressed against him, the way you taste.

^ I’m not okay 🫠💗💗💗💗💗

Your name is a breath that leaves his lips with the kind of care reserved for wishes made on falling stars. It sends another shudder through you, and his grin turns brilliantly wide. “That the present you were talkin’ about earlier?” he breathes, voice still hoarse, still dazed.

^ Yes. 🙂‍↕️✨ And if you want more I’m more than happy to give you more. 🤭💕💕

“Yeah, baby?” he drawls, and the way the new nickname rolls from his tongue so seamlessly makes your next inhale shatter midway, breaking into uneven pieces. You almost feel like choking.

^ YOU CAN’T JUST DROP THE PET NAME LIKE THAT AND EXPECT ME NOT TO GET ALL GIDDY 🤭💕💕💕💕

Tilting his head, Bucky feigns deep thought, but his eyes stay on you at all times. “Would that involve two idiots tryna sneak around behind my back?”

^ oh 😳 he knew all along?? 🫣

“You were actin’ all off from the beginning, doll. Knew somethin’ was up,” he states, voice a little softer, until he turns on his playful teasing voice again. “Flawless execution, sweetheart. Didn’t notice a damn thing.”

^ You cheeky menace 🙄💗💗💗

His expression gives way to something soft. He bites his lip again, before bringing your hands up and kissing them softly, twinkling bright blue eyes trained on you and the deep flush that spreads along your cheeks. Perhaps Bucky Barnes finally has a reason to start celebrating his birthday.

^ Yes he does 🥰 Oh, he most definitely does 🤭🩷

My lovely, I loved every second of reading this!! 🫶🏼🫶🏼 You already had me so hooked with the college au & friends to lovers, and then as I read more and more it gave me rom-com/sitcom vibes and it made me adore it even more!! 🥰🥰 Bucky is such a darling menace in this and our reader is so relatable, I absolutely loved the dynamic of these two so much!! 🥹💖💖Apologies for taking so long in getting around to read this, life & other personal stuff got in the way 🥺🩷 Your third entry is one of three of my final and most largest ones to read, and I promise to get around to it as soon as I can 🫶🏼🫶🏼 Thank you so much for participating multiple times in my writing challenge, it warms my heart so much to know you were inspired over and over again by it!! 🥹🩷🩷

Supposed Distraction

Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: It’s Bucky’s birthday and you and your friends are planning a surprise party. That leaves you with the task to distract him while the others prepare.

Prompt 1: “I think we need to talk.”

Prompt 2: “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

Prompt 3: “Kiss me.”

Word Count: 7.6k

Warnings: friends to lovers; reader is embarrassed and rather terrible at attempting to distract Bucky; Bucky is smug; Bucky is worried; Sam and Steve are idiots; feels; pining; tension; Bucky is a sweetheart

Author’s Note: This is another entry for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge by @elixirfromthestars ♡ I hope you’re not getting tired of me participating, my dear, but I couldn’t help it. Especially since you were the one inspiring me to write this about college!bucky. I'll have to thank you for that!! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

You always knock four times.

It’s instinctive at this point, muscle memory more than conscious thought. You don’t even remember when or how it started, but it's always fours knocks.

The door swings open within seconds, revealing Bucky’s easy and bright grin. He leans against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest, hair slightly tousled, perhaps from running his hands through it. God, he looks great.

“Hey, doll,” he greets, voice warm. “You’re early.”

You arch a brow, stepping past him when he shifts to let you in. “It’s your birthday, Buck. What kind of friend would I be if I left you alone, huh?”

Bucky exhales a short sigh, but his smile stays in place. “Told you, it’s not a big deal.”

“‘Course it is, Buck,” you argue, almost indignant at the thought. Because if anyone deserves a day where people get to celebrate him, it’s James Buchanan Barnes.

But he doesn’t make much of his birthday. He doesn’t like attention when he hasn’t earned it.

It’s why he loves the mound, standing there under stadium lights with all eyes on him, but loathes things like this - birthdays, personal praise, anything that forces him into a spotlight just for existing. You suppose that’s just part of who he is.

You saw him earlier, in university. You shared one class today. He walked in a few minutes late, baseball cap pulled low, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder.

You had been waiting for him, barely able to contain your excitement as you nearly launched yourself at him in the hallway with a cheerful happy birthday, Bucky!

He had only blinked, slightly startled at your enthusiasm before huffing out a laugh when you crushed him in a tight hug. But he hadn’t complained, only chuckled softly, winding his arms around you and pressing his hands to your back, waiting for you to be the first to pull away again.

You told him he'd receive his present later the day with a grin and Bucky only rolled his eyes with a fond smile, letting you have your moment.

But what Bucky doesn’t know is that there is a surprise party awaiting him later, planned by you and your shared group of friends - because somebody has to make sure that today doesn’t pass like it is just another day.

Sam’s apartment is the only logical choice, given that his roommate dropped out and no one had rushed to fill the space yet. That means lots of room, plus an open invitation to make a mess.

The only issue is that Sam’s apartment is directly across the hall from Bucky and Steve’s.

Which means you have been assigned a very specific task - keep Bucky in his apartment until it’s time.

Not that you had much say in the matter. The moment the question came up about who would be the one distracting him that long, every pair of eyes landed on you.

You are his best friend, but - and that’s how you see it - so is everyone else. Still, they seemed to believe that you could hold his attention for long enough, that you could keep him engaged enough not to notice the shuffle of footsteps and suspicious voices beyond his door. That it would be you who he doesn’t mind having around, lingering in his space.

Honestly, you didn’t argue.

There is not a reason as to why you should. Any excuse to spend time with Bucky is a good one.

After all, you love the guy. But that’s a problem for another day.

You drop your bag on the worn-out armchair by the window, the same spot you always claim when you are here.

Bucky’s jacket is slung over the back of the chair, and the second your bag lands on it, the scent of his cologne drifts up - clean, something woodsy, something him. It distracts you for a second, but then you turn to face him again.

He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans after closing the door again.

“Where’s Steve?” you ask casually, like you don’t already know he is across the hall, making sure everything is set up for the surprise. But you don’t know what he told Bucky.

“He said somethin’ about running some drills with the rookies, helping out the coach, or whatever,” Bucky answers, tilting his head in that unconcerned way. He slowly makes his way toward you. “Guess one of them nearly took his own damn head off trying to hit a curveball.”

One of your brows lifts amused. “And Steve’s the guy to fix that?”

Bucky smirks. “Well, y’know how he is. Someone fucks up a throw, suddenly he’s gotta be the one to teach ‘em how to do it right.” He shakes his head, like the whole thing is ridiculous.

“Yeah, sounds like Steve,” you state, trying to suppress a knowing smile.

You lean your hip against the kitchen counter, arms loosely crossed, trying to keep it casual. The apartment is small, with the kitchen bleeding into the living space, a single couch, and a coffee table taking up a lot of the room. You love it.

“So, what do you feel like doing?” You tip your head toward him. “You’re the birthday boy, you get to decide.”

Bucky scoffs, lips curling, finding your antics amusing. But then, he actually seems to consider it. His hands slip from his pockets, arms crossing as he leans back slightly against the table. His gaze falls to the window. Sunlight spills in, casting golden lines across the floor and making your hair gleam.

“You wanna go get some ice cream or somethin’?” he suggests. “It’s warm out.”

You blink, caught off guard. Bucky isn’t usually the one to propose going out. It takes a little coaxing most days, a push to get him moving and leave his apartment to meet your group of friends somewhere outside. You wonder what he would have said if anyone else were the one distracting him.

But you can’t take him up on it. Because you can’t let him leave and potentially find out.

“Uh-no,” you say, a little too quickly, a little too firmly.

Bucky’s brows lift, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “No?” He huffs a laugh, shifting his weight onto one foot, arms still folded. His voice takes on that slow, teasing drawl. “You just asked me what I wanna do, doll. Thought I got to decide? Y’know, birthday and all that.”

You just started this distracting thing and you are already messing up. Great.

You scramble for a way to walk it back, to keep him here without making it obvious. “Yeah, you know, I just-” You glance around as if the answer is hidden somewhere in the room. “Why don’t we stay inside?”

Bucky watches you, eyes narrowing just slightly, trying to puzzle you out. He doesn’t look suspicious. But there is a curiosity in it.

“Why?” he drags the word out, tilting his head. “Something wrong with ice cream? We could also go get some tacos maybe-”

“No! Nothing’s wrong with ice cream.” You force a laugh, waving your hand dismissively. “I just figured we could chill here for a bit.” You bite your lip, then continue. “We could bake you a cake?”

You would love to face-palm yourself right now.

Why would you even say that?

There will be plenty of cake at the party. Cake that’s already been ordered, picked out, baked yourself, and waiting across the hall. And yet, here you are, offering something completely unnecessary, completely ridiculous.

God, you are terrible at this.

Bucky’s blue eyes are on you, considering, lips parting, about to say something.

Panic rises.

“Or not,” you blurt, stepping forward too fast, too sudden, hands coming up in a vague, dismissive gesture. “Yeah, maybe not. That’s dumb. Forget I said anything.”

You shift where you stand, fingers twitching at your sides. You don’t get nervous around Bucky - at least, not like this. But something hot and uncomfortable starts to creep up the back of your neck.

A slow smirk pulls at Bucky’s mouth as he watches you with so much amusement in his eyes, enjoying whatever the hell this is turning into.

“You alright over there, doll?” he asks, voice warm, teasing.

You scoff, rolling your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” He tilts his head, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes. “Cause you’re actin’ a little funny.”

You open your mouth, a retort or something like it ready, but Bucky suddenly leans in just a fraction, gaze sweeping over your face like he is searching for something. And yeah shit, you need to shut this down. Now. Or you’ll be a hot mess on the floor.

“Just forget it.” You shrug and then move away from him, toward the fridge, suddenly very interested in whatever’s inside. “You want something to drink?”

You don’t look back at him immediately, don’t give him a chance to see the way you feel your face warm up. Instead, you grab two small bottles of orange juice, shoving one in his direction as a distraction.

Bucky takes it easily, but that amused smirk does not waver a tiny bit. He is still watching you.

Bucky is no idiot. And if you’re not careful, he’s going to catch on fast.

You twist the cap of the bottle a little forcefully, the plastic groaning in your grip. The cold of it seeps into your palm, but it’s not enough to steady the way your heart is beating a little too fast. Taking a sip of the juice, you try to swallow past the lump in your throat.

He has always been observant. Even more so when it comes to you. You wish, just this once, that he'd be a little more dense.

“You gonna tell me what’s up with you today?” he asks, voice colored with curiosity, dipping just enough into concern that you flinch internally.

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

It’s defensive, but all it does is amuse him. His lips curve, his brows shoot high, the lines on his forehead creasing in exaggerated surprise.

Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, his own bottle loosely held in one hand, he tips his head back and studies you. “That how we’re playin’ it, huh?”

You shrug, taking another sip of your juice, using the movement as an excuse to break eye contact. But you know it does not deter him.

Bucky makes a thoughtful noise, shifting his weight. “Y’know,” he drones out, tone lazy but eyes sharp and smirk sly. “Usually when people get all cagey like this, it means they’re hidin’ something.”

You shoot him a hopefully flat look. “Wow, Barnes. That’s some real detective work. You want to get a notepad? Maybe a magnifying glass?”

His smirk widens. He seems thoroughly entertained. You don’t like it.

“Depends,” he teases, leaning in just a fraction. “Do I need ‘em?”

Your pulse spikes. Bastard.

With an obvious eye roll that unfortunately lacks the conviction you tried to portray, you cross the room, shoulders set, and let yourself drop into the armchair where your bag still rests with a heavy thud. The cushions soften the impact. Trying to feign the usual comfort you feel sitting here, you tuck one leg under the other, leaning back. Your hands tighten around the still cold bottle of juice.

Bucky doesn’t move right away. He is still standing by the counter, bottle in hand, eyes never leaving you.

“Do you want to watch something?” you ask, reaching for the remote, already trying to steer this back into safe waters.

Bucky exhales through his nose, humor lining the corners of his eyes. His stance is easy and relaxed, but he looks at you like he knows something is off.

“Is this me deciding?” he muses, voice smooth. “Or are you just gonna tell me no again?”

There is no accusation in his tone, just that familiar Brooklyn drawl that makes everything sound like an inside joke.

He finally moves, dragging his body toward the couch. He doesn’t plop down like you did. He settles himself with intent and leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his entire focus trained on you like you are the most interesting thing in the room.

You swallow.

“You’ll get to decide,” you promise, trying for nonchalance.

Bucky glances at the dark TV screen, then back at you.

“Nah,” he claims. “Let’s talk.”

Your stomach drops.

Bucky never lets things go when he is curious. You see the spark in his eyes, the glint of amusement, the way the corners of his mouth twitch with that smirk. He knows you are acting weird. Maybe he doesn’t know why, but he sure as hell knows something is up and he is going to dig.

You inhale deeply, fighting the urge to groan. But all you do is force a casual shrug, stretching your arms over your head before letting them drop back into your lap. “What do you want to talk about?”

Your fingers fidget with the label on the bottle, a nervous little movement you don’t mean to make. Bucky’s gaze flickers down to your hands and you freeze, immediately stilling them, letting the bottle rest in your lap and shoving your hands between your thighs.

His eyes snap back to yours, lips curving up.

“You,” he says simply.

You roll your eyes, feigning playful annoyance, because if you don’t, you might actually combust on the spot. “Oh, come on,” you scoff.

For the next few minutes, you actually manage to let a conversation drift to normal things. The familiar back-and-forth. You talk about classes, you being annoyed at that one professor who has a habit of trailing off mid-lecture, forgetting what he is actually supposed to talk about. Bucky tells you about his brutal morning training session that left half the team groaning like old men.

You bring up his next baseball game, the one you won’t be able to make because of an assignment, and Bucky whines.

He doesn’t just complain a little but rather goes on about it for minutes on end. Arms flailing, huffing dramatically, groaning like you just told him his dog died.

“You could just skip,” he protests, lounging back into the couch.

“I can’t just skip, Bucky.”

“But I need my lucky charm,” he laments, throwing his head back against the cushion as if this is some great tragedy.

You roll your eyes but there is warmth rising in your chest. “I’m sorry, Buck. But I did come to all your games last month.”

“Yeah, which is why you owe me,” Bucky retorts, sitting up again, gesturing with his hands. “I hit a homer 'cause you were there. What if I suck without you?”

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” you laugh, but Bucky grumbles under his breath, not quite over it.

It starts to feel normal. Easy. You begin to believe that you might actually pull this off. That you can keep him here, keep him occupied, long enough for your friends across the hall to finish setting up.

But then a loud thump echoes from the hallway.

Your spine goes rigid.

Bucky’s head snaps up, his grin replaced with a furrowed brow.

Another thud.

Yeah, so, that was that.

You fumble for your phone and type out a quick text to Sam.

Y: What are you guys doing out there?

The reply comes almost immediately.

S: Just keep Barnes inside.

You would love to curse loudly right now. Because thank you for nothing, Sam.

Bucky is already standing.

“What are you doing?” you ask, standing up as well, your voice perhaps a little sharper than usual.

Bucky glances at you briefly. There is a tiny bit of concern in his eyes. “There’s something goin’ on out there.” He gestures toward the door. “Think I should check. Might be Miss Nelly.”

Something clenches in your gut.

Miss Nelly, the sweet older woman who lives next door to him and Steve. The one they always help carry groceries up the stairs. The one who has trouble with her hip sometimes. If Bucky thinks she might have fallen, or perhaps tried to carry something on her own, of course, he wants to check.

But that is not what is happening out there.

You rush to step between him and the door. “Let me check.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You wait here, doll. I’ll be back in a sec-”

But you don’t let him finish.

You throw the door open and basically slam it shut behind you before he can follow.

Yes, that was perhaps a little rude. Yes, that will probably only make him more suspicious. Yes, you could have come up with something better. But you certainly did not have the time to think about what exactly.

Right outside, Sam and Steve are standing there - in front of the open door to Sam's apartment where a chair lays with its backside on the floor - wide-eyed, looking about as guilty as two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

You would have laughed at the sight if not for the fact that you just slammed Bucky’s own apartment door basically in his face without an explanation.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” you hiss, voice low, exasperated.

Sam lifts his hands in a calm down gesture. “Listen-”

“No, you listen,” you snap, whisper-shouting, barely resisting the urge to grab them by their collars and shake them. “He’s two seconds away from walking out that door.”

Steve grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “We, uh, we miscalculated.”

“Miscalculated?” you repeat, eyes narrowing.

They both exchange a glance.

You sigh in frustration. “Where’s Nat?”

“Out with Bruce getting drinks,” Steve answers, folding his arms. “Wanda, Clint, and Laura are inside, decorating.”

“Look,” Sam starts, raising a brow. “We’re bustin’ our asses for this dickhead, and you’re the one who came up with the whole thing in the first place.”

“That’s not-”

“So you gotta do your part. Go back in and stall him some more” A grin spreads across his face and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I don’t know - offer him a good time.”

Your eyes narrow, hands on your hips. “Sam.”

Steve sighs, shaking his head, but there is an unmistakable smirk tugging at his lips.

You glare at them both, spinning on your heel before they can make this worse, yanking the door open and stepping back inside the apartment.

Bucky is exactly where you left him.

Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised. Lips parted slightly, caught between confusion and suspicion.

He is wearing that what the hell was that expression.

You swallow and shut the door more forcefully than necessary, the sound echoing slightly.

Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just fixes you with a stare so focused, so piecing, seemingly able to look right through you. It makes you shift where you stand, suddenly hyper-aware of every nervous tick in your body.

“Alright,” he starts slowly, carefully, eyes falling to the door before turning back to you. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Not Miss Nelly,” you quip, attempting a light and assuring tone.

It does not work.

Bucky still doesn’t blink. His jaw works. He doesn’t buy a damn thing you’re trying to sell him.

“No, doll.” His voice is lower now, thoughtful, putting together a puzzle in his head. “What’s going on with you?”

You try to press down the lump in your throat.

“You’re actin’ real weird.” His words aren’t harsh, not even accusing. Just observant.

He cocks his head slightly.

Why did the others think you could withstand the way his eyes root you to the spot without flopping down to the ground as a puddle.

You are so screwed.

You push yourself out of the conversation, walking over to the armchair again and trying to find something to keep you busy while plopping down.

“It’s nothing, Bucky.”

Your fingers curl around the juice bottle, bringing it to your lips, but the cold liquid doesn’t do much to cool the heat crawling up your spine. Your thumb works at the label, picking at the paper until it peels away in small, curling strips.

Bucky blows out a breath, rubbing a hand down his face before slowly making his way over to you.

Crouching in front of you, he braces his forearms on his knees, his eyes intently locked onto you.

The sudden closeness forces you to suck in a breath and your fingers tighten around the bottle in your hands.

His expression shifts again, humor creeping into the smirk on his mouth. “Doll,” he starts, voice light, amused. His hands slide up to rest on either side of your chair, effectively caging you in. “Did you plan somethin’ for me?”

Shit.

Your next inhale is a little hesitant. The air thickens. “No.” It sounds too stiff.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. He is smirking so wide. Enjoying this so much, the way you squirm in your seat before him.

You push forward, shaking your head. “No, Buck. I did not.”

“You sure?” He almost laughs.

“Yes, I just-” You are floundering, drowning in your own words. How can you save this now?

“I’m nervous.” Well, at least that’s not a lie.

Bucky’s expression softens immediately, his amusement fading into something quieter. He straightens up, tilting his head tenderly. His full attention is on you.

A gentle crease in his brows forms. “Why are you nervous, sweetheart?” His voice is softer now, lower.

And guilt hits you.

How do you get out of this?

But, hell, he is so close, too close. His eyes are so blue, too blue. His gaze is so intense, too intense. You are feeling hot, too hot - your brain isn’t working, it’s overheating, and your mouth is suddenly moving.

“Because.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. “Because I think we need to talk.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The entirety of Bucky shifts and you just want the ground to eat you up right this second.

Because now he looks so worried. So genuinely concerned.

You feel yourself start to sweat. Where is this going? Why can’t you stop this? Why did you even start it?

Bucky’s face drops to a frown so deep, lines are forming. A hand of his moves, palm landing lightly on your knee.

“We can talk, doll.” His voice is even softer now, barely above a murmur. “Is something wrong? You alright?”

You just stare at him.

Your heart is hammering.

What the hell are you doing?

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as your fingers keep worrying at the torn label, peeling off strips that crumple beneath your fingertips. It’s the only thing you want to focus on right now with Bucky’s proximity and his intense gaze.

But then his hands replace the bottle and he grasps your fingers, wrapping around them and stilling their fidgeting.

Something electric rushes through your veins so quickly, you couldn’t catch it if you tried.

This is getting way too serious.

Too intimate in a way that sends your pulse skittering up your throat.

You feel like a deer caught in headlights, your body tensing up, lungs forgetting how to work properly. Because this is veering dangerously off course, heading straight for a conversation you’re not sure you’re ready to have. You never thought you’d ever be ready.

But you started this. You walked straight into it with your own words, and there is no backing out now. So you might as well be honest now.

No time like the present.

Bucky must feel the way your hands begin to tremble in his hold, because he adjusts again, shifting closer, his knees pressing against the base of your chair. His thumbs trace over the backs of your hands. His frown deepens.

Why does he have to be so worried? It would make things so much easier if he remained casual and easy. But really, that’s how Bucky always is. Worrying so fast when it comes to you. You can’t really blame this on him now, can you?

His voice drops lower, soft as a whisper. “What is it, sweetheart?” His eyes are full and searching. “Talk to me.”

Air hitches, stalling between your ribs before pushing forward in a rather trembling exhale. Your lungs barely feel full. Your eyes dart away from his, searching the room, the floor, anywhere but him.

“Did I upset you? Is it something I did-”

“No!” you rush out, hastily. “No, you didn’t do anything, Buck.” God, now he even goes that far. This is bad.

Bucky softens a tiny fraction, but he keeps sweeping his eyes over your face, latching on the details, trying to study you, trying to read what this is about. “You can tell me, doll. Always. Whatever it is,” he coos so sweetly, and it makes you want to cry.

How do you even start this?

You open your mouth. You’re certainly not ready to climb the whole mountain, but perhaps you can try a small hill.

“Do you-” You swallow, trying to sound as if you are simply reminiscing. “Do you remember that time after your game last year when it started pouring the second we left the stadium?”

Bucky blinks at the sudden turn. Confusion enters his features but the worry only deepens. “What?”

You push forward, gaze fixed on the arm of your chair as if it might give you the courage you need. “You gave me your jersey, even though I already had a jacket and you were the one soaking wet-”

Bucky’s brows pull further together, his head shaking slowly, not knowing what to do with your words. “Doll-”

“You walked me all the way back to my apartment.” Your voice turns quieter as if you are speaking more to yourself than him. Perhaps you are. Saying those things out loud makes them seem so much more important. “And then you got sick for three days.”

His hands squeeze yours gently. “I mean- Yeah, I remember.” Confusion also settles in his tone. “But what’s that got to do with-”

“I don’t know,” you cut in quickly. “I just-” You exhale a deep sigh. “I think about that a lot.”

Bucky says your name like it is something delicate. Something that might slip away if he is not careful.

“Look at me, please.”

You try, but it’s hard.

It means staring into those impossibly blue eyes that see too much, that strip you bare without even trying, that try to coax something out of you, you didn’t even plan on letting go.

But you force yourself to lift your gaze and it is worse than you expected.

He is watching you with an intensity that makes you stop breathing. His stormy eyes are so full of concern, so desperate to understand what is going on in your head, searching every inch of your face.

His lips are parted slightly. His breathing is sharper. Uneven.

“What’s going on, hm?” he coaxes, so softly, so full of patience you don’t deserve. “What’s this about? You still feelin’ guilty?”

Your heart plummets like a stone.

“Doll, there’s no need to, alright?” His hands squeeze yours, grounding, reassuring. “We talked about this.”

God, why does he have to be so good?

His voice is so warm. Warm like sunlight, like home. It makes the sting behind your eyes grow stronger.

You don’t want to cry.

You don’t want to feel this way. Don’t want to ruin his fucking birthday like this. This is getting so out of hand right now, but what should you do? You are so tangled up in trying to figure out what to say, things you are too much of a coward to finally admit out loud.

Bucky notices your struggles. He sees them. Plain on your face. His thumbs brush over your skin in careful strokes. “And you took such good care of me.” His tone lightens, trying to pull you out of whatever hole you’re sinking into. “Remember that part?”

You nod, swallowing and swallowing but the clump of emotions stays stuck in your throat. “Yeah.” Your voice comes out flat, like you are detached from it. “I do. Sorry for bringing it up.”

Bucky’s lips press together, and then he sighs so deeply, his chest rises and falls profoundly.

“Doll,” he murmurs, straightening up, arms beside you tensing as though he is holding himself back from doing something. “That’s not what you wanted to talk about.”

He’s right.

“Darlin’, please,” he urges, and god, the way that word falls from his lips makes you shudder. His voice is barely above a whisper now, full of something genuine, something tender, something that makes him sound like he wishes you would just talk to him, and it makes you want to shrink down to something he can’t see anymore. “What is it?”

You could lie. Again.

You could laugh it off, steer the conversation away, keep pretending.

You could drag this out further until the others are ready, leaving him worried and slightly upset.

You could tell him the truth about the party.

Or you could finally come clean about the feelings you have held in your heart for so long. Feelings for your best friend.

Drawing in a breath, you straighten slightly. Your hands, still held in his, still shaking, squeeze back. His eyes never waver from your face, tracing the contours of your features.

You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help much. “Uhm,” you croak. “I- I wanted- I need to tell you something.”

His fingers twitch around yours. His features fall into a deep concentration. He doesn’t rush you. Just watches. Waits.

And god, his eyes are pools you never learned to swim in.

You look away, at the wall behind him. “I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while now, I guess. But-” You inhale a quivering breath. “But I was afraid. Because I don’t know how you’ll react.”

Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His chest rises and falls deeply, almost mechanically. There is something almost spellbound in the way he stares at you, completely locked in, completely yours. The only sign that he has heard you is the subtle press of his fingers against yours.

His head dips in a nod for you to go on.

You wet your lips. “I, uhm-”

But then something catches your attention.

The door to Bucky’s and Steve’s apartment opens.

Painstakingly slow.

You stiffen.

Bucky is still so enamored with what you were saying, he doesn’t seem to notice at first. His back is to the door.

You see heads peeking through the small gap, cautious, bodies frozen in an awkward crouch as if that makes them less noticeable.

Steve and Sam.

They are trying to slip in without a sound, their movements so unbelievably slow, exaggerated. They resemble cartoon characters sneaking through a heist.

Sam motions at you wildly, gesturing at Bucky, at himself, at the hallway, mouthing something like distract him! Keep him busy.

They almost make it, but Bucky catches the small reaction of you, the surprise. His senses are too tuned in to every little thing about you and with his brows knit together, he shifts to glance over his shoulder.

You don’t think about anything.

Your hands rip from his, and before he can turn fully, before he can see those two idiots, you grab his face.

Bucky jolts, startled, his breath hitching audibly. His skin is warm beneath your palms, the sharp angle of his jaw fitting perfectly against your hands. His wide eyes snap back to you, dumbfounded, searching.

He blinks at you. Then blinks again. Then simply stares.

His lips part slightly, breath brushing over your skin.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

This is close. Too close. Closer than you’ve ever been. Well, but not closer than you’ve let yourself imagine. But having him here in reality is something else entirely.

Sam throws you a thumbs up over Bucky’s head and a wiggle of his brows and the both of them disappear from sight into the hallway.

But you just made this worse.

And you are still holding his face between your hands.

Bucky’s lashes flicker, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t fight it. Just stares at you like you’ve done something earth-shattering, like you’ve just rewritten every unspoken rule between you in a single, desperate motion.

Your pulse is a drum against your throat.

You see Bucky’s pulse thunder in his neck.

But he doesn’t move. You don’t move either.

He doesn’t breathe. You don’t know if you do.

He watches you. You watch him back.

“Doll?” Bucky practically breathes the question.

You swallow hard. Opening your mouth doesn’t help with finding words, so you shut it again. Slowly, you pull your hands away from his face.

But Bucky still doesn’t move.

His breath is still broken, his lips still parted, his brows still slightly drawn, stuck somewhere between surprise and something so deep, you’d be falling endlessly.

He is leaning in just the slightest bit, as though his body hasn’t quite caught up with his mind, not even realizing he is doing it.

And you hate the way your chest aches at the look in his eyes.

There is so much all at once and the more you stare, the harder it gets.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, dropping your gaze.

But there is movement in your peripheral.

Steve and Sam are creeping back out of the hallway, lugging something that looks like Bucky’s speaker system from his room.

And god help you, they are still moving at a snail’s pace, their motions so exaggerated, so painfully slow and obvious that you want to scream. You grit your teeth.

Fortunately, Bucky is still just staring at you, stunned.

The two are just about to reach the door, so close to getting through this ridiculous charade, when Sam’s end of the box bumps against the shoe shelf.

The sound isn’t loud, but it’s enough. Enough for Bucky’s head to instinctively turn toward the noise. Enough for his body to shift just slightly.

Your brain short-circuits.

Like completely.

Totally.

Lacking any sense.

Not only do you pull his face back.

You pull it in.

“Kiss me,” you blurt, and it’s not soft, not sweet, not anything carefully planted - it’s desperate, panicked.

Bucky’s whole face just goes wide, pure shock filtering out anything else.

Another bump.

You’re not sure Bucky even heard it, but your lips crash onto his with urgency.

Bucky freezes.

And when you say freeze, you mean freeze.

Every muscle in his body turns to stone. His hands flex before going rigid, floating in the air. His breath stalls. His spine goes straight, and the grunt he lets out - so low and gravelly, caught deep in his throat - reverberates into your mouth.

But behind him, Steve and Sam go as still. Dead silent.

You can feel them watching, their eyes practically bulging out of their skulls.

For a full few seconds, nothing happens.

But then, there is a shift. You don’t see it, but you know it. The way their disbelief turns into something smug - something amused and downright delighted. You feel the way Sam’s mouth probably stretches into that toothy and knowing, cocky-ass grin. You feel the way Steve simply looks happy.

You don’t pull away.

Instead, you wave one frantic hand behind Bucky’s back, motioning wildly, trying to get them to move.

You open an eye to see them still staring, Steve blinking rapidly, Sam grinning like a fool, nudging Steve.

But then, finally, they start creeping out of the room again.

They are gone now.

Bucky still isn’t moving.

He’s not breathing.

He’s not reacting.

And the tension stretches so tight, you swear the air could snap in half.

Because this isn’t just a distraction anymore.

This isn’t just a cover-up.

Your lips are still on Bucky’s.

Your hands are still gripping his face.

And his are trembling where they hover near your knees, as if he wants to touch you, wants to move, but his brain is still struggling to catch up with what is happening.

Then the tension snaps.

Bucky exhales against you.

It’s not just a breath - it’s a surrender. A sharp and shuddering exhale that stirs against your lips, warm and tentative, as if he is trying to feel what is happening, trying to understand the shape of this moment.

His hands flex and twitch against your legs, but he is hesitant, as if waiting for something, waiting for you to pull back, waiting for this to be some kind of mistake.

But you don’t pull back.

You don’t want to pull back.

And that’s when he melts.

He sinks into the kiss, his body softening, folding inward toward you. His fingers slide up your legs, brushing tenderly against the fabric of your pants before settling on your hips, cautious, like he doesn’t want to break the moment, doesn’t want to take too much.

Then, his lips move. It’s a slow, searching motion, testing the waters, trying to figure you out. His mouth is warm, his lips so much softer than you imagined. And hell, did you imagine.

He makes a sound - low and unsure, a hum deep in his throat that vibrates against your lips. His movements are careful, almost disbelieving. Like he is afraid this will disappear if he lets himself want it too much.

But then something changes.

Your nails lightly run over his neck, thumbs over his jawline.

And you feel the exact second the hesitation snaps.

He pulls you in.

His hands tighten, fingers digging into your hips, pulling you forward to the edge of the seat, into his chest, his grip growing needy, desperate. He seems to have been starving for this, like something in him has just broken loose.

The kiss turns deeper, heavier, a push and pull of breath and movement. He kisses you with searching urgency, trying to memorize the exact shape of your mouth, the way you feel pressed against him, the way you taste.

His lips part, just for a moment, and then he dares to press in a little more, tilting his head, fitting his mouth more firmly against yours.

He makes another sound - this time rougher, needier - a groan that slips through the space between you.

You can feel the want in the way he kisses you, in the way he angles his head to take more, to taste more, and damn if it does not overwhelm you.

The way his fingers tighten their hold, his thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your shirt, needing to feel your warmth.

And the way he breathes you in, each exhale shaky, each inhale sharper, like he is drunk on this, on you.

Your hands find purchase in his hair, fingers tangling in the strands at the nape of his neck, and the second you pull just so slightly, he makes a sound.

A gravelly noise that shoots straight through you, heat curling at the base of your spine.

He is kissing you like he can’t help it anymore. As if he has been waiting for this exact moment, for you, for so long that he’s past the point of fighting it.

You thought he’d pull away. You thought he’d startle and demand an explanation, eyes sharp with suspicion, voice laced with confusion. But he doesn’t.

His lips only press more firmly against yours, his nose sweeping against your cheek, his chest rising and falling unevenly, breathing erratic as if he is just as lost in this as you are.

Your heart is hammering so violently in your chest, you think he must hear it, must feel it where your body is pressed to his. Your hands are slightly trembling, sliding to curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him. Because you have to hold on. You have to anchor before you fall, before you slip too deep into the intoxicating pull of him and lose all sense of self.

But maybe you already have.

Because he is kissing you as though he’s afraid this is a dream, testing the edges of reality with every careful, exploring movement of his tongue and lips.

He tastes like something warm, something safe, something like the orange juice you two have been drinking, something wholly Bucky. Every press of his lips, every brush of his tongue against yours, is stealing a coherent thought from your mind.

This was supposed to be a distraction. This was supposed to be a lie.

But hell, it’s not.

It’s everything you’ve ever wished for.

When you pull away, both breathless and panting, his forehead stays against yours.

Your pulse is so fast, so fluttering, and you know he can feel it, the way it thrums in your chest, in your throat, in the slight tremor of your fingers still curled loosely in his shirt.

His hot and shuddering exhale fans over your lips and it’s maddening how much you want to taste them again, how much you want to fall right back into him.

You open your eyes.

His are already on you, so close, so intent, so devastatingly blue that they don’t help at all in trying to regain a healthy breathing rate. There is something in them, something soft and devoted, something awed, like he can’t quite believe you are real, that this is real.

A shiver works its way down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its way and Bucky sees it. He feels it. His grin widens, slow and boyish almost, something that makes him look young and light, like something is lifted off his shoulders.

Your name is a breath that leaves his lips with the kind of care reserved for wishes made on falling stars.

It sends another shudder through you, and his grin turns brilliantly wide.

“That the present you were talkin’ about earlier?” he breathes, voice still hoarse, still dazed.

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. Smiling. Grinning. Like a fool. God, you can’t stop. It’s lifting your cheeks and making you feel giddy in a way you haven’t felt in so long.

“No,” you whisper back, voice airy.

“Don’t matter,” Bucky’s voice is full of affection, of something certain. His hands slide up, one cupping your jaw, thumb skimming over your cheek, the other finding the nape of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair. Holding you there. Holding you close. “Best damn present I’ve ever gotten.”

His tone is so sincere, so full of adoration, that your breath turns upside down, and you can’t do anything but feel the way butterflies are dancing in your stomach.

Heat floods your face and Bucky’s fingers flex against your skin, his smile turning impossibly brighter.

His eyes are shining with something you don’t think you’ve ever seen in them before. It’s breathtaking. It’s promising. It’s worshipful.

It’s everything.

You guess you owe him a little bit of an explanation.

There is guilt pooling in the hesitation before you speak. “Buck?” you start, voice quiet.

“Yeah, baby?” he drawls, and the way the new nickname rolls from his tongue so seamlessly makes your next inhale shatter midway, breaking into uneven pieces. You almost feel like choking.

His voice is so full of warmth, so soft, so fond. He is smiling at you and his eyes are sparkling as if you’ve just handed him the world. He is kneeling in front of you, patient and content, as though he’s got all the time in the world if it means spending it with you.

Something dizzying rushes through your veins, sparking at the base of your spine. You have to take a moment, a single, shaky pause to shove the giddiness down for later, to not let it explore the wide landscape of your heart and mind.

You clear your throat, shifting slightly in your seat, still at the edge of the armchair. Your chest almost brushing against Bucky’s. “I, uh- I do have something planned for you.”

Bucky is beaming. His amusement spills over into something so brilliant and blinding. His entire face lights up, so open, so full of adoration that it makes a feeling of pure bliss explode in your chest, sending delightful shivers down to your toes and hell, you don’t think you can handle it.

“Oh, do you?” he muses, dragging the words out slow and teasing. There is something beneath the syrupy sweetness. Something like mischief. His brows raise, eyes glinting, his lips twitch, and you know he is about to be a menace.

Tilting his head, Bucky feigns deep thought, but his eyes stay on you at all times. “Would that involve two idiots tryna sneak around behind my back?”

You blink at him.

Bucky’s grin turns wolfish and he bites his lip to suppress a laugh.

“You were actin’ all off from the beginning, doll. Knew somethin’ was up,” he states, voice a little softer, until he turns on his playful teasing voice again. “Flawless execution, sweetheart. Didn’t notice a damn thing.”

Groaning loudly, you press your hands to your face and Bucky lets the laugh out. It’s full-bodied and wholehearted. His chest shakes, his shoulders lift, his body tilts into it. And it’s such a good sound, such a lovely sound, so rich and free. It makes your own lips curl despite the frustration of the ruined surprise.

Bucky reaches up to gently pry your hands away from your face. His grip lingers, thumbs tracing over your knuckles, his touch so easy and natural.

His expression gives way to something soft. He bites his lip again, before bringing your hands up and kissing them softly, twinkling bright blue eyes trained on you and the deep flush that spreads along your cheeks.

Perhaps Bucky Barnes finally has a reason to start celebrating his birthday.

“But oh baby! Your smile.. Felt like warm sunshine after a heavy storm.. Overdose of it, is still not enough for me..”

- Zankhana

[hatethysinner]

Saw your requests are open and I’ve been thinking about OC from Let the Wrong One In being fascinated by Remmick’s fangs once he finally reveals himself as a vampire to her and admiring his other vampiric features (claws, those Bambi-from-hell eyes). In all his 1,000+ yrs Remmick is shocked he inspires awe not fear for once

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ

a/n: YES YES YES YES YES I LOVE YOU FOR REQUESTING THIS! originally i wanted to just do a small domestic fluff fic but i got carried away bc this theme was so good so i knew i needed to format this at least semi-right 😭. regardless, it was such a needed break for me from writing the current behemoth i'm working on now. i played with the vampire lore a little bit, don't hate me </3. hope y'all enjoy! this will be an add-on to let the wrong one in, but there's no need to read it before this one (though i do highly recommend it).

wc: 4.3k

You’d always known there was something off about him.

Not wrong, exactly. Just… other.

It wasn’t just the way he’d limped through your threshold that first day, smoking at the skin like meat on a spit. Or how he never cast a reflection in the window behind the stove, even though the lamp always burned bright. You’d chalked it up to trauma at first. Sickness. Strange blood and painful burns.

But now, a week on, with the worst of the wounds healed and the swelling down to faint scars, there were things you couldn’t unsee.

He didn’t breathe when he slept.

Or if he did, it was shallow and irregular, more a mimic of habit than need. He'd go so still that you'd catch yourself leaning close to check his chest, just to make sure he was still there. Still real. Still resting in the quilt you’d laid out for him, curled at the edge of the hearth like a dog that didn’t believe it had earned the bed yet.

And he never left the house during the day. Not once. Whatever needed doing, he found a way to do it inside. Tinkering with the old radio, rearranging the pantry by scent alone, folding your laundry into neat, obsessive little squares though you never asked. He swept the floors more often than they needed it, flipped through your recipe book like it was scripture. Quiet, always. Careful, always. And secretly, it was your favorite time. The hush of morning light creeping through the curtains, the gentle rustle of him moving from place to place, like he couldn’t bear to sit still unless you asked him to.

But some nights, never on a pattern, never with warning, he’d vanish. You’d wake to cold sheets and the door left just barely ajar, hinges greased silent, latch clicked shut behind him. He always returned before sunrise, soaked in swamp water and silence. His boots left damp prints on the porch, and you’d hear him at the basin, cloth slapping water, breath low and quick like he was trying not to wake you. Sometimes he’d hum, something ancient and broken, as if to stitch himself back together before you saw him again.

And then there were the teeth.

He didn’t hide them anymore. Not the way he did the first night, lips tight and showing just enough to leave space for reasonable doubt. Now he let them rest where they were. Jagged and perfect, sharper than they had any right to be, glinting white in the oil lamp’s glow. You’d see them when he smiled, when he got too pleased with himself over something simple, like organizing your jars alphabetically or stacking your firewood into perfectly symmetrical towers. That grin would slip out before he could tuck it back. Not sheepish. Just… exposed.

And his eyes, God, his eyes.

They were still that endless, brilliant blue. But sometimes, when the light caught them just right, they glinted red. Not bright. Not obvious. Just a shimmer beneath the surface, like an ember curled deep in a log, waiting to be stoked. They never glowed, but you saw the way they shimmered in the dark. Watching you. Always watching.

He didn't try to hide it anymore. Not fully.

And you weren’t scared.

You told yourself that a lot lately. You weren’t scared. Curious, maybe. Studious. Alert in the way you were when you spotted a new plant blooming near the edge of the yard. Not afraid, just aware. You’d lived with strange things before. Nature never asked permission to be unknowable. Neither, it seemed, did Remmick.

He’d taken to helping you make tea.

He said he liked the smell. Said it reminded him of places he didn’t quite remember. The way he said it made your skin prickle. Like the memory was too old, or too far, or not quite his anymore.

You watched him now, standing at your counter, sorting dried chamomile and rose hips into little cloth sachets. He moved slowly, precisely. His hands were always gentle, careful not to bruise the petals. But the way his claws, because that’s what they were, now, no denying it, clicked faintly against the mason jars told you he was fighting to keep them sheathed.

They weren’t long. Not monstrous. But they were sharp, curved, and wickedly clean. Manicured like talons.

You didn’t ask about them.

You didn’t ask why his hands trembled when he held the lavender. Or why he never touched the garlic strung above the door. Or why he flinched, just barely, when you kissed his temple the night before.

You didn’t ask.

You just watched. Waited.

He hadn’t told you what he was.

But your body already knew.

And the strangest part? He looked peaceful like this.

Not natural. But calm. Almost happy.

You’d caught him humming again. Not always. Just at night, when he thought you were asleep. Soft, tuneless melodies, like lullabies spoken in a language you didn’t recognize. You could feel them in your bones more than your ears. They made your garden bloom early. They made the wind hush.

Remmick glanced over his shoulder now, catching you watching him from your seat near the hearth. His face split into a shy smile, fangs peeking through.

“Ain’t mean to wake ya,” he said.

“You didn’t,” you replied.

He nodded, eyes dropping, fingers twitching over the herbs. “Just… couldn’t rest. Thought I’d help.”

You rose, walking slowly toward him, bare feet padding against the warm wooden floor.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. But you saw it anyway. The way his breath hitched. The way his fingers went still.

You stood beside him.

Close.

Close enough to see the red shimmer in his eyes under the lamplight.

Close enough to see the way his pupils dilated, wide and searching.

Close enough to know.

You reached for a bundle of chamomile, brushing his hand as you did.

It wasn’t cold.

Not anymore.

Still, his eyes flicked to yours.

Waiting.

Wondering.

Bracing for what you’d say next.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

Tomorrow, he’d slip up again. He’d reveal something.

And you’d be ready.

Your gut was always right.

It didn’t matter what others called it. Instinct, a gift, women’s intuition. You’d never been wrong when your stomach twisted. Not once. It wasn’t loud or flashy. Just a slow tug behind your navel, a soft unease like a sour note in a favorite song. Sometimes it whispered hours before the storm clouds rolled in. Other times, it waited until the quiet part of the day, when the air felt too still, and the cicadas had gone silent.

Today had started off just like the others.

You rose early, the way you always did. Dawn was still stretching itself over the trees when your feet touched the floor, and Remmick was already awake.

He didn’t say much when he greeted you. He rarely did. Just looked at you in that quiet, reverential way of his and passed you your robe without a word.

Together, you stepped out into the garden.

He followed your lead, of course. Always did.

Remmick didn’t crouch or dig or weed unless you asked him to. But he hovered just close enough to watch, close enough to learn. His eyes never left your hands. Not when you teased a beetle off your basil, not when you pinched the browning leaves off your peppermint, not when you leaned in close to whisper to your echinacea like it was an old friend that needed gentle coaxing.

And the thing was, he never laughed.

Never made a joke about it. Never offered some flippant remark about talking to plants or casting spells or needing company bad enough to speak to the dirt. No, he watched like you were a priestess at work. Like the words you offered your roots and petals meant something holy. He never repeated them back, never tried to mimic your tone. But sometimes, you’d find him murmuring to the lemon balm when he thought you weren’t listening.

By midday, the sun had grown fat in the sky.

Remmick had long excused himself, as he always did when the heat crested too high. You didn't press him. You never did. He slipped into the house, eyes soft, smile lingering, and left you to your tending.

Later, when you came in smelling of rosemary and sun, the house was cleaner than you'd left it.

The rug had been beaten and shaken. The wood near the back door had been re-nailed. Quietly, expertly. The kettle had been scrubbed until it shone, and your dish rack was full of hand-washed mugs. Your comb, the wide-toothed one, had been repaired, and placed carefully beside your brush, as if he knew it needed fixing and didn’t want you to see it in pieces.

He didn’t say a word about it.

You thanked him. He looked bashful. Tried to shrug it off.

That evening, he read for a while beside you. His head tilted, those sharp eyes scanning every page like they had something to prove. The glow of the oil lamp caught in his lashes, his jaw resting in one palm as he sat curled in the rocking chair across from yours. He didn't speak unless you did.

Then the hour turned late. The light faded.

And your stomach twisted.

He stood up like he always did. Slow, quiet. Said he was going for a walk. That he’d be back before the rooster stirred.

You’d heard it before. And just like every other time, you nodded.

But you didn’t sleep.

Not tonight.

You made tea, soft and floral, and sat in the quiet, letting the warmth from the mug seep into your hands. You didn’t read. Didn’t rock. You just listened.

The wind shifted sometime after two.

You felt it before you heard it.

The trees stopped swaying. The air went still. The kettle, empty and forgotten on the stove, creaked slightly as it cooled.

And then, you heard him.

Not at the door.

Outside.

Past the edge of the house.

Your ears sharpened, straining in the dark as bare branches scratched against the siding. There was a hush of steps moving low and slow along the rear of the house. Too careful for a man just coming home from a midnight stroll. You moved to the window with the light still off, lifting the corner of the curtain only enough to see.

There he was.

Remmick.

Not coming up the porch like a man who belonged.

No. He was skulking, body half-crouched, moving just beyond the reach of the moonlight as he crept toward the back edge of the yard. The swamp.

He was soaked.

Not rain. No rain had fallen.

This was thicker. Darker.

Even from the distance, you could see the smear of it.

Blood.

Not dried. Not old.

Fresh.

You watched as he reached the edge of the water, dropped to his knees, and plunged his hands into the shallows. He scrubbed. Hard. Rough. Like it offended him. Like it burned to wear. His shirt stuck to his back in deep red patches. His arms, even under the dim light, glistened with it.

Still, not his.

Not a wound on him.

His face was twisted in concentration, in something close to shame. Or rage. You couldn’t tell which. And then, like always, he slipped into the water. Up to his elbows, then his shoulders. Rinsed himself in silence.

You didn’t call out.

Didn’t step onto the porch.

Just watched.

When he finished, he stood slow, wrung the water from his shirt with both fists, and turned back toward the house.

And for the first time, you let him catch you watching.

He had already barreled himself through the back door before you could even turn around.

The creak of the hinge hadn’t finished groaning before he was inside, water still dripping from his sleeves, boot soles darkening the kitchen floor plank by plank. The air came in with him. Wet and wild and thick with swamp breath, smelling of bark and iron and something you weren’t quite ready to name.

And yet.

He stood tall.

Not frantic, not pitiful. Not the mess he looked like from the window. He didn’t stumble or stammer, didn’t make excuses or throw himself to your feet.

He just... paused.

Straightened his spine, wet hair falling back from his face, and fixed his eyes on you like a man walking into judgment.

And maybe he was.

He didn’t speak. Not right away.

He waited for you to look at him fully. Your back was still turned, hand resting on the doorframe between kitchen and parlor. He didn’t dare call your name. Just stood in the silence like he’d been preparing for this moment since the first time he appeared, no, threw himself on your humble little porch.

When you finally turned, his whole body seemed to brace.

Not in fear. In readiness.

Like he’d accept whatever came next. Even if it was banishment.

But you didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Your gaze traveled slow. From his soaked boots, caked faintly in the dried silt of the creekbed, up to the hem of his shirt, still clinging damp and dark to his torso, streaked faintly in places with something not-quite mud.

Then to his hands.

They were clean now, scrubbed raw. Red at the knuckles, scraped slightly where bark or stone had resisted him. And still he kept them at his sides, fingers relaxed, not clenched. No trembling.

His composure was deliberate.

He wanted you to see it.

And then, his eyes.

You’d always known his eyes weren’t right. Not fully.

Blue, yes. Deeper than any human blue ought to be. Not clear like the sky or shallow like lakewater. His were darker. Silted and strange. There was a depth in them, a heaviness behind the hue, like they were holding onto something old. None of this was new to you.

But tonight, they gleamed.

A red had bloomed there. No longer just a thread, but a slow-spreading stain beneath the iris, curling and pulsing like something alive. It throbbed with rhythm, like a heartbeat made visible, overtaking the soft blue with something hotter, hungrier. It wasn’t rimmed around the edge. It moved, filling the center outward, pushing into the color like ink dropped in water, stubborn and seeping. It didn’t look human. It didn’t try to. But it didn’t frighten you either.

You’d never seen eyes try so hard to stay soft.

He saw your gaze catch on it.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t hide.

Instead, he smiled.

Soft. A little strained. But real.

“Was hopin’ you were sleepin’.”

His voice still had that low, careful lull to it. Familiar. Full of the same patience he used when helping you dry rosemary or stirring your teas so they wouldn’t scorch. But underneath, it frayed. Just slightly. Like he was trying not to fray with it.

You didn’t smile back.

You stepped aside and let him pass.

Remmick took it as the invitation it was.

He walked past you without brushing your arm, though his body ached to. You could see it in the way his shoulder nearly tilted toward you, then pulled itself back like a tide fighting gravity. He stopped just shy of the kitchen, not daring to sit.

You followed.

The silence dragged.

He stood near the hearth where no fire had been lit, hands clasped lightly in front of him like he was visiting someone’s grandmother’s house, unsure where to step.

You took your time.

Watched the beads of water sliding from his shirt’s hem, down the inside of his thighs, pooling gently at his boots.

“Ain’t mean to track it in,” he said, glancing down at the muddied trail behind him.

You raised a brow.

“You’ll clean it.”

That made his throat twitch, like he wanted to apologize but knew better than to say sorry again. Knew it wouldn’t fix a thing.

So he did something else instead.

A pivot. Gentle. Strategic.

“Ya look real pretty in this light.”

His voice had dropped, syrup-smooth, the way it always did when he was trying to charm his way into something you hadn’t decided to give. But there was nothing slick behind it. No real expectation.

Just... admiration.

You didn’t thank him. You didn’t look away.

“You clean?”

The question cut straight through whatever careful rhythm he’d been trying to establish.

Remmick blinked.

His head tilted, a soft nod following.

“Best I could manage. Swamp’s cold tonight.”

“Still smell it.”

He dropped his gaze then. Just briefly.

“I scrubbed.”

“I know.”

He took a slow breath.

“I’d tell ya it ain’t what it looks like,” he said. “But that’d be a lie.”

You didn’t answer. Just crossed your arms.

He continued.

“I tried to be quiet. Didn’t think you’d catch me.”

“You always think that.”

He nodded.

“Foolish of me.”

Another pause.

The clock ticked in the corner. Somewhere far off, an owl called once and was answered.

Then you said, “You got blood on the rosemary.”

That finally cracked him. Just a little.

His mouth parted. A breath caught halfway between guilt and laughter.

“I’ll clean it in the mornin’,” he promised. “Before ya even wake.”

“Damn right, you will.”

He smiled again. Smaller this time. Relieved.

Still, he didn’t ask for forgiveness. Didn’t plead.

Just stood there, soaked through, with a red glint in his eyes and the faint scent of iron clinging to his collar.

And waited.

You didn’t dance around it.

You’d never been one for hemming and hawing, not when the truth sat that close to the surface. And tonight, with the house still holding its breath and the floorboards still damp with the print of his boots, the truth felt loud enough to touch.

“What are you?”

The question wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t spit from the tongue or dragged through suspicion.

It was plain.

Quiet.

Like you already knew the answer, but the word had slipped just out of reach.

Remmick didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t pretend he hadn’t heard you.

He just looked at you, really looked, and for a long, long second, you saw every year behind his eyes trying to decide whether or not to run.

But he didn’t.

He sighed.

And when he did, it wasn’t the sharp exhale of a man trying to find his way out of a lie. It was deep, tired, and slow. The kind of breath you take when a door that’s been closed for too long finally swings open.

“I don’t know what you’d call it now,” he said. “Folks’ve had a lotta names. Over the years.”

You said nothing.

Just tilted your head slightly. Waiting.

He wet his lips. Slowly. Out of habit, not hunger. Like he had to remember how to speak the word, how to say it in front of someone who mattered.

“Vampire,” he said at last. “If that’s still the word folk use. Feels funny in the mouth, but that’s the one most settle on.”

There it was.

Hung there in the space between you. All sharp and simple. No lightning strike, no howl of wind through the windowpanes. Just the word.

And the man still standing where he’d always been.

Your shoulders didn’t twitch. Your hands didn’t clutch the table. You didn’t take a single step back.

You just looked at him.

“That what you are?” you asked, eyes narrowing slightly. “Not just pretendin’? Not just wearin’ someone else’s coat?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, his voice soft. “Ain’t pretendin’. I’ve been this for a long while.”

“How long?”

He swallowed.

The quiet ticked again. The walls felt a little closer.

“Little over a thousand, far as I can figure. Give or take.”

You blinked.

Your expression didn’t change. Not much.

But your breath slowed. Measured. As if your heart knew before your head did that the shape of the world was different now.

“A thousand years,” you repeated.

He nodded once.

“Gimme an exact.”

He gave a dry smile at that. Not smug. Not proud. Just... worn.

“Been hard to keep track. I was born before folk kept good calendars. Or at least before I cared to mark ‘em. But best guess puts me ‘round the 10th century,”

You absorbed that in silence.

He kept talking.

“Didn’t always look like this. Used to be more beast than man. Took a long time to... settle. To figure out what the hunger wanted. To learn how to pass.”

His voice didn’t shake.

But there was something behind it now. Not grief. Not guilt.

Something older.

Weariness.

“And now?”

He exhaled again. Shoulders dropping just slightly.

“Now I do what I can. Hide where I need to. Feed how I must.”

You didn’t ask what “how I must” meant. Not yet.

Instead, you stepped forward.

Slowly.

One foot in front of the other, your steps soft as you crossed the room until only the kitchen table separated you.

You didn’t reach for him. Not yet.

Your eyes flicked up to the red still faint in his irises.

“I knew you weren’t right,” you murmured.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “You never scared me.”

That made something twist in his expression. Not relief, exactly.

Something more like grief, bent toward gratitude.

“I shoulda told ya sooner.”

“You shoulda. But I reckon if you had, I wouldn’t’ve listened.”

He looked down at that.

And then, like your words finally gave him permission, he spoke.

“There are rules,” he said quietly. “Things that ain’t changed since I was first turned. Can’t cross thresholds without invitation. Sun burns me... as you know. Fire hurts. And the thirst never really ends. You just learn how to live beside it.”

You nodded.

Still, you didn’t look afraid. Just thoughtful.

“And the blood?” you asked. “Yours? Or someone else’s?”

His eyes flicked up quick.

He shook his head. “Not yours. Not ever. I wouldn’t-”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Remmick went still.

Then, slowly, he nodded again.

“I don’t take what ain’t freely given. Not anymore. Haven’t in a long time. And when I do... it’s animals. Mostly. Or people who trade it for coin, like a service. Or...” he hesitated, “... folk I trust.”

You studied him.

Your gaze raked down his frame. The water still glinting off his collarbone, the faint steam still curling off his sleeves in the warm air of the room.

“And tonight?”

He took another breath.

“Someone offered,” he said quietly. “City man. Got a house on the edge of the woods. Said he liked the teeth.”

That made you blink.

You let out a short exhale through your nose. Not quite a laugh. But close.

“And you just took off to go nibble on a stranger?”

He gave you a pained look.

“I didn’t want to wake ya.”

“You did anyway.”

“I’m sorry.”

You stared at him.

Then, slowly, stepped around the table and sat yourself on his lap.

His posture tensed again, like he didn’t know what you were about to do.

But all you did was take his chin in your hand.

Turned his face toward the lamplight.

Looked again at the teeth. Always just slightly bared now, long and sharp like they’d never fully retract. Looked into those bloody-blue eyes. Looked at the man who had collapsed on your doorstep and gifted you a gold necklace and kissed your mouth like it was the last prayer he had left.

And instead of fear, you felt fascination.

You leaned in, slowly, until your breath brushed his cheek. Watched the way his lips parted as if he thought you might kiss him again. You didn’t. Not yet. Your hand moved instead, one palm against his jaw, thumb dragging lightly along the edge of one long canine.

He shivered.

You tilted your head, narrowed your eyes just slightly.

“They’re sharp,” you murmured, more to yourself than him.

“I know,” he whispered, throat working. “I can cover ’em, if you’d like. Hide ’em again-”

You slipped your finger past his lips.

He froze.

Mouth open, barely breathing, as your fingertip traced the edge of his fang. It nicked you. Just barely. Just enough to break skin.

You felt it. That tiny sting.

And giggled.

Quiet and unexpected.

His eyes widened.

You pulled your hand back, sucked the drop of blood from your finger like it was stray droplet of nectar, and shook your head with something close to delight. “Damn things are sharp.”

He stared at you like you’d just blasphemed in a church.

“You ain’t scared?”

“Should I be?”

He didn’t answer.

Because you both knew the answer already.

Instead, you took his hand.

Turned it over, slow and reverent, palm to the low lamplight. Studied the curve of his nails. Longer than they should be, ridged like bone instead of keratin, glinting faintly like glass in the flame’s glow. They were claws. Elegant. Meant for something wild, something ravenous.

And you ran your thumb over them like they were precious stones.

“They look like they hurt,” you murmured.

“They don’t,” he said. “Not unless I want them to.”

You traced the edge of one, then threaded your fingers through his. Held his hand in yours like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He looked down at your hands. At the difference in them, warm and dark, soft and human, against his pale, calloused fingers. It looked impossible. Like everything should’ve stopped to watch it happen.

And still, you kissed him.

Just once.

Soft.

Pressed your lips to his, with the faint taste of your own blood still on your tongue.

His claws didn’t twitch. His fangs didn’t pierce.

He just kissed you back.

Slow and still, like his whole life had been building to that moment and he didn’t dare rush it.

When you pulled away, his eyes hadn’t moved from your face.

“You really ain’t scared,” he breathed.

“No,” you said, lips brushing his. “I think you’re beautiful.”

And for once, Remmick didn’t know what to say.

You held his gaze a while longer.

Then said, “All right.”

His brow creased. “All right?”

“I can work with that.”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t dare.

Just stared at you with something ancient and awe-struck shining behind his lashes, like the world had cracked open just to let him feel something holy after a lifetime of sin.

You dropped your hand.

“Go dry off. You’re drippin’ on my floors.”

And that was that.

[batboysanonymous]

A Soft Place to Fall

Azriel x Reader

Summary: When Azriel finds himself drawn to her warmth, her curves, her unapologetic softness, he knew he didn't stand a chance; and once he finally gave in, he'd never crawl back out of her arms, or her bed, again.

Azriel had spent five centuries mastering silence. He could slip through shadows, read a room with one flick of his cold golden eyes, and kill a man before his target ever heard a footstep.

And yet none of it prepared him for you.

None of it protected him from the way your laughter—bright, unfiltered—sank under his skin like sunlight in a place he’d long since left dark. Or the way you walked into a room with curves that refused to be quiet, hips that swayed like they knew his eyes were on them, thighs that whispered promises in the cradle of his dreams.

You were soft where others were sharp. Loud where others tiptoed around his silence. And you were kind to him. Kind. You looked at him like he wasn’t a weapon. Like he was a man.

And gods, he was fucked.

It started with glances.

One night at the River House, your thigh had brushed against his under the table. Just a second. Just a spark. But Azriel had spent the rest of dinner sitting stone-still, sweat between his shoulder blades, trying not to glance down at where the curve of your legs pressed so innocently against his. Like you didn’t know what you were doing.

He knew. Or hoped.

He went home that night and fucked his hand with your name on his tongue.

Over the following weeks, it only got worse.

His shadows told on him. Whispers of you undressing, fingers brushing lotion over your skin. Your voice, singing softly in your room when you thought no one was listening. The bond—Cauldron, the bond—was growing louder, insistent now, humming in his bones every time you walked by.

He began to crave you like blood. And it made him sloppy.

Sparring with Cassian? He caught a glimpse of you stretching on the sidelines and missed a block, got knocked on his ass. Mission debriefing with Rhys? Azriel didn’t hear a word—because you’d walked in wearing a dress that hugged the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips like a sin.

But he couldn’t touch. Not yet.

He didn’t know if you felt it. The bond. The way it pulled on him like a hook in his ribs, dragging him closer to you with every breath. You deserved more than a man who didn’t know how to be soft. A man who burned and bled and broke.

But then… you smiled at him.

That day in the training ring, your face flushed, thighs trembling from the workout, sweat glistening between your breasts—he snapped.

"You alright?" you asked gently, blinking up at him as he stalked toward you, dark and silent.

"No," he said hoarsely. “No, I’m not.”

You looked up at him with that wide-eyed kindness, a little confused, a little wary. “Az…?”

“I need to show you something.”

He didn’t give you time to overthink. Just took your hand and led you through the House—past the halls where his shadows curled and listened, past the tension thrumming in his chest—to the bathing chamber. Quiet. Private.

Sacred.

When the door shut behind you, you stood very still. “Is something wrong?”

Azriel turned to you, heart in his throat. “I think you’re my mate.”

Silence. Thick. Shocking.

You blinked, once. Twice. “You think—?”

“I know,” he said, stepping forward. “I’ve known for months. Since the moment I saw you. The bond—it’s been screaming at me, and I’ve been pretending I can ignore it. But I can’t anymore. Not when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m yours.”

The bath steamed behind him, sweet with oils and magic. And you—beautiful and wide-eyed and so damn soft—stood before him like a vision.

He raised a scarred hand. Let it hover near your cheek. “Say something. Please.”

You stared at him, lips parted, and then whispered: “Why me?”

Azriel exhaled, voice thick. “Because your laugh sounds like something I want to protect. Because when you walk into a room, I don’t see shadows—I see a future. Because your thighs drive me insane, and when you smile at me, it hurts. And because I would burn the world if you asked.”

Your eyes shimmered.

“Let me show you,” he said. “Please.”

And you nodded.

He undressed you slowly.

Azriel had never gone to war with trembling fingers, but he did now—unlacing the front of your tunic, pushing the fabric down your arms, eyes drinking in every glorious inch you revealed.

Your breasts spilled free first, soft and full and gods, he wanted to mouth at them for hours. Then your waist, the slight dip of your belly, the luscious curve of your hips.

You reached to cover yourself, instinctive.

“Don’t,” he rasped. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”

And when you dropped your arms, vulnerable and trembling, Azriel fell to his knees like he’d been commanded by the gods themselves.

You gasped as he kissed the inside of your thigh, his voice shaking with reverence. “I’ve dreamed of this. Every damn night.”

Then his mouth was on you.

Azriel worshipped you like a prayer—his tongue seeking, finding, devouring the sweet bundle of nerves that made you moan and buck against his face. He gripped your thighs with reverent hands, spreading you open wider for him, shadows caressing you like a second touch.

When your thighs clamped around his head, he groaned—groaned—like it was the only place he’d ever belonged.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your slick. “Use me, sweetheart. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You came for him like a breaking wave. Then again. And again. Until your legs shook and your voice was hoarse from moaning his name.

When he finally rose, your eyes were glazed, your lips kiss-bruised from his.

“Bath,” he murmured, lifting you easily into the water.

You curled into him, back to his chest, the warm water cradling you both. His hands never stopped moving—palming your belly under the surface, stroking the curve of your hip, dragging lazy circles along your inner thigh.

“You drive me mad,” he said, lips against your ear.

“I didn’t mean to.”

He smiled. “I think I was waiting for someone like you. Someone who wouldn’t flinch when I said I’m broken. Who would still want me when I got like this—desperate and wild.”

Then he kissed you.

Not fierce. Not possessive. Just full. Devout. Like a man finally drinking water after years of thirst.

Later, as he dried you off with his own hands—slow, careful, utterly in love—he murmured: “You're mine now.”

You smiled up at him. “And you're mine?”

Azriel lowered his head. Rested his brow against your belly.

“I’ve always been yours.”

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[corpsypher]

Pierced through the heart, but never killed || Ghost x Fat!Reader ||

One shot (9.5k) Moodboard Ao3 link. Simon pays the price of his recklessness in the field, but his reward may be worth the pain. CW: reader described as fat/plus-sized/curvier/chubby, Patient/PT dynamics, Perv!Simon, reader is a nervous talker, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of wounds + violence, rehab shit, military shit, protective!Simon, possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, hand kink, praise kink, slight knife play (blink and you’ll miss it), unprotected piv, degradation, lots of cum, oral (fem!receiving), breeding kink, scar worship(?), body worship, clearly 18+ MDNI.

He really fucking didn’t want to be there.

There was no one else to blame for his current situation than himself. Seating in the sterile waiting room of the health services unit of undisclosed location military base, with his fucked up hand wrapped and immobilized in a splint. Simon was bored out of his mind. 

He was waiting for the medical staff to finish their briefing, they were starting him on physical therapy for the foreseeable future. It turns out that all the ligaments and tissue surrounding the carpometacarpal and metacarpophalangeal joints were more complex to heal than one might think. If only he'd known that before using his hand as a shield against a machete.

At least he could take comfort in remembering said weapon buried in the skull of the big Austrian fucker that thought it was a good idea to wear a dirty rag for a mask and come at him with a blade in close quarters, the imbecile.

“Lieutenant. They’re ready for you.” Finally, He stands up and silently follows the nurse who’d accompanied him since they removed the stitches a couple of hours before. She was an older woman, with a stern face and of few words, who hadn’t tried to chat him up while you worked on him, and at first, he thought it was because of his mask, but after a while he noticed she was short with everyone else.

The facility itself had no natural light, only a bright fluorescent-lighted ceiling with sad white and beige painted walls, it was dull and depressing. As they approached the rehab unit, he noticed you, all warm and soft in contrast with the environment. 

A fat birdie in baby blue scrubs that accentuate all your attractive curves, with a beautiful welcoming smile adorning your round, pretty face. Like a sucker punch, It made his stomach clench, and other parts of him stir in interest. 

Like the nurse, you didn't seem to be phased by his typically intimidating looks; it wasn't that he was actively trying to scare you either, it was just how he came across, plus the black balaclava made him look like a double-edged sword, he was aware of it.

“This is your assigned Physio for the time being, she’ll be in charge of your care from now on… I'll leave you to it.” And with that, the nurse was gone.

You seemed too fucking sweet to be in this place (he’d been in military hospitals that were as hospitable as a Man U pub in East London), and that thought is confirmed the second you open your mouth. 

You welcome him like he’d just landed in a beachside resort, he'd never been to one, nor was he opposed to visiting. But now that he thought about it, he could perfectly picture you in a skimpy bikini, lying under the sun, with those tempting lips sipping on a straw from a coconut, that's suddenly turning into a phallic shape-

“Lieutenant, could you please follow me this way?” Your voice -strangely familiar- cuts off his naughty thoughts. Something itches in the back of his mind, like he knows you, maybe from another base, but surely he would remember. He could never forget a face like yours.

“Just Ghost.” He remarks and follows you. Oh boy, does he follow you, like a Malinois taking orders. The moment he gets a good look at your behind, he's sold; that ass and those thighs moving in front of him are his personal version of being hypnotized. Luring him, drawing him in. 

Perhaps being here won’t be so bad after all.

He’d done PT before, for his leg and lower back. Yet he’d grown accustomed to the constant ache. The shot of electricity that sometimes ran down his legs, the fatigue that bullied his lumbar spine after an adventurous mission with the 141. He certainly didn’t expect that a few sessions hooked to the TENS machine would magically heal all the shit he’d put his body through during his years in active duty. 

Yeah, he’d done PT before…

But it was nothing compared to this, never like this. 

Starting with the pretty thing massaging, rubbing, and pampering him. Talking his ears off about everything that had to do with his injury, what the treatment would consist of, what the next couple of weeks were going to be like, what stage of cicatrization he was on, etc. 

It felt like heaven, having a pretty lass all over him. Until you flexed his wrist and sharp pain shot like fire from his fingers to his elbow. 

You apologize, even though it's not your fault, and try to make light conversation in an attempt to distract him. His answers are short and not as friendly as yours, not because he doesn’t want to be, but because he’s concentrating on blocking out the pain, like he’d been trained to do, like he was used to.

Your breast constantly squeezing against the table the two of you were seating on certainly helped. 

The softness of your hands on his scarred one was fuel for his filthy imagination. Your sweet words of encouragement soothed him every time he grew frustrated, and the delicious scent of your perfume made his mouth water, tickling something nostalgic in his subconscious.

And then he started to forget about the pain.

Two weeks go by faster than Simon expected. He was getting better, it was less painful to close his fist, but his strength and fine motor skills were still fucked. He was no longer bored, though, he was using his free time as an excuse to become ambidextrous. 

The image of your soft, delicate hands holding him. The contrast of his scarred, calloused skin against yours, how you studied every uncovered inch with such attentiveness, it fed the thing inside him that wanted to sink its teeth on your neck and lock the fuck in.

Wanking off twice a day to thoughts of his PT was turning out to be quite the exercise. His brain had also decided it was a good time to let his breeding kink resurface -It hadn’t gone anywhere to begin with- because his muse had the perfect body for it. When he allowed his thoughts to wander down that path, he would come so fast it left him dizzy.

And you were so witty, and smart, and so goddamn sweet it satiated his sweet tooth, so attentive it filled his chest with a feeling he couldn’t name. Yet, you were a feisty little thing, a kitty with its claws sheathed. You would banter with him about football, throw bad jokes in reply to his, and scowl at him when he tried to cheat during his exercises. 

Yeah, he was feeling better than ever.

But then came Soap, giving him shit left and right about wanting to visit Simon at one of his sessions. 

Johnny had shown up -uninvited and unauthorized- just in time to see the plump birdie remove the hardened layers of paraffin wax from his hand and start stretching his strained tendons. The tender touch of your cool hands on his hot one and the sudden presence of the Sergeant in his peripheral view made him flinch slightly. It was a small movement, but enough for Johnny to take notice, the bastard smirked, amused, before locking eyes on you, then he lit up like a dog with a bone. 

The thing was, Johnny was also into bigger women. Johnny was into anything with a hole. They’d shared porn links of BBW getting pounded once or twice before (BBW getting pounded and bred to be more specific), so Simon knew exactly the kind of nasty shit lurking on the Scots mind. Chances were Simon had already thought of it.

The second Soap arrived, Simon knew he had to lay down limits. No looking, no touching. Easily communicated with a grunt and a subtle shake of his head. Turns out Johnny boy read that as an invitation, and not as the warning that it was.

Soap had then proceeded to grab a chair, and sat backward on it while facing them in the small table that had become yours since day one. And then the mutt-with-a-death-wish introduced himself and started to flirt with you. Right in front of Simon.

You were oblivious, laughed at Soap's usual shenanigans and threw cheeky comebacks here and there, keeping the conversation light and as professional as you possibly could while dealing with Johnny. 

“Poor Bonnie, ye probably exhausted after dealing with mean ol’ Lieutenant.”

“You’re wrong there, Sergeant. Ghost is one of the best patients I’ve ever had… You’d be surprised at how rude patients can be sometimes.” That last part was said quietly, and by the expression on your face, you immediately regretted saying it. Simon wanted to delve more into that, but Soap kept talking and changed the subject.

“Bet ya wish it was me in yer care, we’d have a fun time every time…”

When it was over, after the nurse kicked Soap out of the rehab unit for his boisterous behavior, Simon grabbed him by the scruff (with his good hand, he wasn’t going to fuck up your progress) and shoved him into a wall, he made it clear to Soap that he was not to do that again. “A’ight, no messin’ with yer doc, got it, now let off Lt.” He giggled in between forced breaths. Only then did Simon lift his forearm from his throat.

The next day, he decided to go in earlier to apologize for his squad mate's behavior. What he stumbled upon, was an example of your accidental confession. 

“I’ve said it a hundred times already, I can’t fucking do it! What’s the fucking point? I’m just wasting my time.” He heard the pitchy shouts before he saw them. A rookie soldier in crutches, towering over you, face red and nostrils flaring. While you were holding onto the handrail of the parallel bars like a lifeline. 

“Let's just give it a try, this is the last exercise for the day, alright?” Even dealing with the man's tantrum, you kept your polite demeanor. 

“I don’t fucking want to, I’m done.” The soldier started to maneuver his way around the bars, and you followed him, still unaware of Simon's presence. The nurse was arranging some papers on the other side of the room, watching everything unfold silently.

“Sir, we’re not done. I’m here to help you recover, there’s no need to be uncivil.” This time your words were stern, your face frowning in determination. Simon thought it was cute.

“There is no need to be a pain in the ass either, fat bitch!”

And that was enough of that, with a few long steps Simon was in the young man's space, looking down at him and sizing him up, ”Quiet.” One word was enough, the thin veil of anger that disguised the soldiers' fears vanished from his face. “Stop your whingin’. Apologise and sod off.”

“Apologies, ma’am.” the soldier said over his shoulder grudgingly. You acknowledged it with a single nod. 

“Not good enough, look at her and say it like you mean it, boy.” Simon ground his molars and clenched his fist to stop himself from doing the violent things he wanted to.

The soldier turned clumsily on his crutches and muttered another apology, slightly more sincere than the first. Simon took a step aside to let him go, he didn’t give a fuck about pulling rank over the lad, he just wanted him gone and away from you. He would deal with it more thoroughly later. He was sure Johnny would enjoy giving him a hand.

Once the shell shock case walked out, Simon approached you. Even though you didn't seem upset from the confrontation, he noticed that your chest was heaving as you took deep breaths to calm down. You were staring at the floor, eyes a little hazy, with a hand resting on your soft belly, working on controlling your breathing. 

“Y’alright?”  

“No, yeah-” You paused and tilted your head up at him. “Yes, yes. I’m fine.” Your cheeks seemed flushed. Simon assumed it was anger, yet he found you deliriously hot. 

Raising the hand he was jealous of from your navel, you comically looked at your naked wrist, “Well, look at the time, right on the dot,” He was not, it was still early. “I’ll just… grab a cup of tea, and then we’ll begin our session. I’ll be back in a moment.” You dashed away, leaving him with the nurse, who now looked at him with her arms folded, one brown raised and lips pursed, clearly not amused by the situation.

After that day, things were… different. Since you were usually the one to start most of the conversations, your frequent chats became strained. In fact, you hardly spoke to him anymore (well, not really, he just got used to your constant yapping), only to give him instructions. 

He found that he missed it, your sweet attention talks, what he normally detested in others, he found charming in you. Not having that made him feel uneasy. Not only that, but he desperately wanted to return the gesture. He knew that his usual nonchalant and sarcastic tone wasn’t gonna cut it this time.

You made every effort to avoid meeting his gaze, as it would only become more intense as it sought to meet yours constantly. Because if he couldn’t have your voice, he’d settle for your pretty eyes. He was aware that he was behaving a little insane -like a hunter stalking its prey- but he was unable and unwilling to control himself.

One day, you caught him by surprise and set a gun on the table. A Clock 17, unloaded and  with an empty mag, a cleaning kit laying beside it. You told him to get into it and put those fingers to work, then you pulled a .19 from the pocket of your thigh, sat beside him instead of your usual spot on the other side of the table, and started to disassemble it with an efficiency that rivaled Kyle’s. He wanted to fuck you right then and there.

He grunted while appreciating you with a warm smile hidden by his mask, but still evident in his eyes. You turned at the sound, finally meeting his gaze, you gifted him a bright smile that blinded him and made him feel a little hazy.

He blinked slowly, pulled himself together and started to go through the motions of a deep cleaning for a Clock. He could do it in his sleep, blindfolded, and hog tied. Only to find he was a sloppy mess that somehow could not even pull the slide from the frame without struggling with the catch levers.

“You got it, Lt. Slowly but surely.” You encourage him. He carried on, watching your soft hands handle the weapon felt like you somehow were touching an extension of him. Another thought to not share with his therapist.

As he got lost in his thoughts, Simon still had that nagging feeling in the back of his mind. You felt so familiar, there was just something nostalgic about the way he felt about you. Like he was longing for something he couldn’t quite remember, a word on the tip of his tongue. Or maybe he was getting too attached, too fast.

A few weeks after the incident with the rookie, he graduated from the rehab center and was back at the gym (still with some limitations) and other duties, but still you insisted on going down to the shooting range with him. You wanted to monitor his improvement during work activities, which in his case meant shooting big guns, reloading them, and throwing sharp knives. He’d not been given the all-clear on hand-to-hand combat yet.

It was a mistake. Simon knew it the second you left the comfort of the indoors behind. You were out of your usual scrubs and instead were dressed up in a pair of cargo pants, tan army boots and a black compression shirt that stretched to sinful limits around your shape. It was torture. All the men watching you parade through the base made his hands itch to pull eyes out of sockets.

And then you were pampering him again, carefully massaging and moving his hand before he started shooting at a target. Standing close to him to better assess his hold on the guns, you called him out when he misplaced a shaky finger to avoid discomfort, reminding him that it was important to practice without any compensatory movements, so he didn’t develop bad habits.

You were all over him again, all your attention was on him, on the way he stood, on how he unloaded and reloaded, on how he shot round after round. Not even Price and Gaz introducing themselves diverted your focus. It was elating, he felt intoxicated.

By the time you were done for the day, Simon escorted you back to the barracks sporting a semi. Then he practically jogged to his room and proceeded to jerk off like a madman with the smell of gunpowder and your scent still on his nose. Fantasizing about coming inside you, filling you so full of him, claiming your little holes and-

He was hanging on to his self-control by the skin of his teeth, one little nudge away from losing it.

It should've been no surprise to him that in the end, it was knives that did it.

Oh, the irony.

You were alone, standing in the small warehouse next to the shooting range. It was poorly lit, equipped with big wooden circles with targets painted on them, a marksman table bolted to the floor and a utility wall full of all sorts of sharp paraphernalia. 

You were closer than the day before, again in your new uniform, looking hot and smelling as tempting as ever. Meanwhile, he was fucking up all his throws. 

You’d been at it for half an hour now, and he was getting more frustrated by the second.

“You are holding them too tightly, you have your full strength back now. The goal is to practice micro-dosing it when it requires gentle movements. Let me show you.” You said while studying his form.

You stand on your tiptoes to reach his injured hand that's been holding the KaBar knife over his shoulder in a throwing stance. Your soft front brushes against his side. Your fingertips lightly touch his tense fingers gripping the handle, and then your voice is right by his shoulder, whispering dirty-sounding words of encouragement.

“Relax a little bit, yes. Just like that.” Your breath caresses his skin, and he suppresses a shudder, “Yes, yes, perfect! Now, do it!” He throws the knife. 

Neither one of you sees it land with a thud in the center of the target. 

He’s on you before he can stop himself. 

With his hands wrapped around your throat, he pulls you impossibly closer to him, you gasp and instinctively grabs his wrists. His thumbs on your soft jaw tilt your head to make you look into his eyes. You moan, an involuntary noise that escapes your throat. The sound travels like high voltage through his blood to his groin. 

“Lieutenant…” you whisper, voice cracking with fear and a hesitated question.

Simon growls, slightly tilting his hips against your belly, wanting you to feel his hard cock, his need.

"Always on top of me, touching me, tempting me."  He turns slowly, keeping you in his grasp, and you move with him. "You have no idea how long I’ve been stopping myself from putting my hands on you," two steps forward, and he traps you against the old marksman table. Left speechless, your hands fall to his hard chest. Not punching him away, he notes.

His hands travel from your throat down to your hip, gentle but heavy petting your curves, He leans close and nudges your cheek with his clothed one. Your breathing becomes more labored by the second. "So sweet, yet so oblivious to the effect you have on me." He whispers next to your ear as he tightens his grip on you, his fingers digging on your softness, "But I can show you."

Simon picks you up, you shriek and throw your arms around his neck as he sits you on the table. He swipes one hand behind you, clearing the table of the clutter that falls loudly to the floor, purposely missing a small knife, he grabs it and brings it up to point at you with the sharp tip, “You’re gonna owe me a mask after this.” 

He lifts the bottom of his balaclava and cuts a piece off to reveal his mouth. Pink and plump lips split by a long scar all the way from his nose, down his cupid's bow, to just above his dimpled chin. 

He doesn’t give you time to appreciate the new exposed piece of him, because Simon leans down to claim your mouth in a passionate, claiming kiss. His eyes flutter close as you share the warmth of his body, and the truth of his confession. Your hands slid to his arms, gripping his biceps as you pulled him closer, your tongue tentatively meeting his in an unspoken invitation for more.

The kiss grows more urgent, his tongue diving into your mouth as he tasted the sweetness of your submission. His hands roaming your body, familiarizing themselves with every curve, fingers tracing circles underneath your breast and on the softness of your waist. Your own hands started to explore him, your nails digging into the skin of his exposed arms as you traced his muscles like you’re memorizing him.

Pulling away from your mouth, he nuzzled his masked nose against the apple of your chubby cheek, "If you don’t want this, now is the time to say so, before I lose myself." He was giving you a way out of his possessive grasp before it was too late, before he sunk his sharp teeth into your juicy peach and decided he was not going to let go.

“I want you!” Your voice was a desperate whimper at the mere notion of stopping. You want it, all he would give you, you’ll take it. Your hands grabbed his shirt and tugged, trying to take it off, you managed to untuck it from his pants before he grunted and grabbed both your wrists in each of his hands to stop you.

He kissed you once more and bit your lower lip, making you gasp, He took the opportunity and licked inside your mouth. “Tongue.” he barked, you obeyed and shyly stuck your tongue out. Simon licked, sucked, and bit again. It was utterly erotic. 

He pulled away from you and made quick work of undressing, took off his shirt, and then undid the button and zipper of his cargo pants. He was so big, all over. Packed with muscles and a layer of fat that made it seem like he was naturally bulletproof, even when you knew that wasn’t the case. The scars he wore were a crude and raw testament of the truth.

He moved close again, reached for your knees, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive flesh behind them, causing your legs to fall apart slightly. You watched, transfixed, as his hands moved closer and closer to the apex of your thighs. The teasing was agonizing, but you didn't want it any other way. Instead, you took a deep breath, your chest rising and falling with each stroke of his hand.

With a predatory grace, Simon leaned over you, his eyes never leaving yours as his hand traveled up your leg over the thick fabric that separated you from his touch. You felt the anticipation coil tighter in your stomach, a knot of excitement and fear that made your breath hitch. He paused just before he reached your center, his fingers tracing your sensitive inner thigh. You could feel the heat of his body, his scent mingling with sweat and arousal.

"You know," he said, his voice a low growl, "I’ve been dying to know what you taste like." His thumb hovered just above the fabric over your pussy, the pressure of it making you tremble. "Do you want to help me with that, baby?"

Your eyes widened, and you felt a rush of warmth spread through your body. You had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable while still being clothed. But there was something about the way he talked to you, the way he looked at you, that made it feel so sexy. "Yes, Ghost," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "I want that."

The Lieutenant's smile grew, his teeth a dangerous sight in contrast with the dark fabric of his mask. "Good," he said, his thumb finally sliding over the seam at your center.

With swift motions, he kneeled down to unbutton and yank your camo pants and panties off, making your hips rise and fall involuntarily, revealing your fuzzy, glistening wet pussy. The coolness of the air made you gasp, and you felt a thrill as his gaze locked on your most sensitive parts. Simon leaned in closer, his nose just inches from your sex. He took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled your scent, his eyes closing in pleasure.

The sound of his deep inhale made your stomach flip. You felt a strange sense of power, knowing you could elicit such a reaction from him. His eyes snapped open, and you saw the hunger in them, the raw need that was no longer hidden behind the veil of indifference he usually donned. "Mm," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "You smell so good, baby."

Without another word, Simon leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on your fat mons, his stubbled cheek brushing against the naked skin of your inner thigh. Your hips jerked upward at the contact, a gasp escaping your lips, the intimacy of the moment almost too much to handle. He kissed you again, this time a bit closer to your clit, the stubble grazing your skin again, sending sparks of pleasure through your core.

"Your pussy is so perfect," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "So soft and plump. Just like a ripe little peach." He placed a hand on your hip, holding you in place as he continued to shower you with wet kisses, each one closer to the center of your desire. It was so bewildering, the way he was rough and gentle with you at the same time.

Your breathing grew ragged, your body trembling with each tender touch. Then, without warning, you felt wetness on your clit as Simon leaned in and let a bead of saliva fall from his mouth onto your sensitive flesh. You gasped at the sensation, the coolness of his spit mixing with the warmth of your slick. His tongue followed the droplet, tracing a wet line up the center of your pussy, and you felt a bolt of electricity shoot through your core.

"Ghost," you whimpered, your hands clutching the edges of the table.

"Shh," Simon soothed, his eyes never leaving yours. "Just relax, sweetheart. I got you." He slid his middle finger along your slit, the tip of it teasing your swollen clit before delving into your wetness. Your back arched as he pushed the digit into you, his knuckles grazing your sensitive skin. "So tight," he murmured, his voice filled with fascination. "So perfect."

He began to pump his finger in and out, the motion sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. You felt so full, so overwhelmed, still you craved more. You could feel your body responding in ways you didn't know were possible, so out of control, it was like an outer body experience. He had barely touched you.

“This was all I could think about every time you were holding my hand,” Simon said as he watched, transfixed, at the way his finger moved. “Making me all better just so I could repay you like this.” Your pussy clenched around his finger, begging for more, and you couldn't help but rock your hips in time with his movements.

"Tell me how it feels," he murmured, his voice a firm command that made your body quiver. "Does this pussy like when I play with her?"

Your cheeks flushed, but you couldn't lie. "It feels… amazing," you admitted, your voice shaking. "I've never felt like this before." You leaned back on your elbows and let your head drop back.

Simon's eyes lit up with excitement. "Good," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I want you to feel good, baby. I want you to know just how much I appreciate you." His thumb began to circle your clit as he continued to fuck you with his finger, the dual sensation making you moan even louder. "But we're just getting started. There's so much I want to do to you, so much more I want to do with you."

He stood up and with his free hand grabbed you by the nape of your neck to pull you upright, “Show me your tits sweetheart, take that fucking shirt off.” You hesitated for two heart beats and he amped the pace of his thrusts, “Take. It. All. Off.” 

You swallowed the nervous knot that formed in your throat and started to strip off your shirt. Once you were covered in only your sports bra, you took a deep inhale and straightened your back, reassuring yourself that there was nothing to be self-conscious about.

“You gonna make me repeat myself?” His tone dropped lower, his words a playful threat. You shook your head and off went your bra. As soon as you were bare before him, Simon ceased to move, his fingers still inside you, you even thought he stopped breathing for a moment. A nasty, insecure thought scurried across your mind, but it got squashed by the way Simon was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.

Then he snapped.

He leaned closer to you, his breath hot against your neck. You felt his hand move from your neck down to your chest, his calloused thumb grazing your nipple before he took it into his mouth. It was overwhelming, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as he began to suckle. The sensation of his mouth on you, combined with the new relentless rhythm of his finger inside your pussy, left you on the brink of a form of pleasure you had never experienced before.

With each second that passed, your breathing grew more erratic, your body moving in time with his. The sound of his mouth on your skin blended with your moans and the distant sound of the shooting range. The warm flush on your face was a stark contrast to the coolness of his saliva as it dripped down your chest. His free hand moved to your other breast, kneading and rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. It was a symphony of sensations, each one building upon the last until you felt like a supernova.

"Do you like that, baby?" he murmured against your skin, his teeth scraping your nipple before capturing it between his teeth. "Do you like how I make you feel?"

Your breath hitched, and you nodded frantically. "Y-yes, Simon." you managed to gasp out, your voice tight with need.

Simon's smile grew wider when he finally heard you say his name, and he leaned closer, his face inches from your chest. He took your other nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the tight peak as he began to thrust his finger faster, your pussy clenching around his digits with each vicious stroke. He swapped back and forth, his mouth moving from one breast to the other, never letting the sensation ease.

As he sucked, he let out a low groan, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through your body. His hand moved to your other breast, giving it a playful slap that made you jump. You felt so aroused, so desired, the thought of someone walking in any moment made you forget about any insecurity, and you couldn't deny the thrill of it. It felt like he owned you, and you were his to do with as he pleased.

With a sudden, almost feral growl, Simon pulled away from your breasts, his eyes locking onto yours. He leaned back slightly, taking in the sight of your finger fucked pussy, his hand still working your clit. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he leaned between your legs, his cheek brushing the tender skin of your inner thighs. You felt a strange mix of fear and excitement as you watched him, his massive frame casting a shadow over your most intimate parts.

"Fuck." he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. And then he lowered his mouth to your pussy again, his tongue sliding through your folds with the ease of a hot knife through butter. The sensation was overwhelming, the combined feeling of his rough stubble and the warmth of his mouth sending you spiraling into a whirlwind of pleasure. You felt the muscles in your stomach tighten, your legs trembling as you tried to hold herself still, and your throat tightened, trying to not let out a sound.

Surprising you with his strength, He lifted one of your legs and placed it over his broad shoulder, his hand wrapping around your thigh to keep you in place. The new angle made you feel even more exposed, your pussy open and vulnerable to his every whim. He took full advantage of the position, his tongue delving deeper, reaching places you didn't even know existed.

Your moans escaped you and grew louder, filling the closed space of the warehouse as the cool air caressed your heated skin. The fabric of his mask kissed your bare thighs as he moved between your legs, it tickled your sensitive flesh as he licked and sucked. You could feel his hot breath against your clit, the sensation making your hips buck involuntarily, nobody had eaten you out like this before, with such desperation.

The Lieutenant's tongue was playing your body like a fine instrument, he knew just how to touch you, just how to make you whimper and beg for more. Each flick of his tongue was a sweet torture, bringing you closer and closer to the edge, without pushing you over just yet. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, your teeth digging into your bottom lip as you tried to hold back the scream building in your chest. You could feel the tension coil tighter and tighter, your body hanging on the precipice of something you had only ever read about in your stash of romance novels.

"Simon," you gasped, voice a needy whisper. "I'm… I'm going to… "

Your words dissolved into a whimper as you felt the heat inside you build. Simon's tongue had become relentless, swirling and flicking against your clit with a skill that seemed to defy his brusque exterior. 

His teeth grazed your sensitive flesh, the slight edge of pain mixed with pleasure, sent you spiraling higher and higher. You could feel your pussy tightening around his finger, the muscles in your soft stomach seizing up, your body shaking with the strain.

Your obscene sounds grew louder, filling the air with the sweet symphony of your impending orgasm. Simon's eyes remained locked on you, the intensity in them unwavering as he felt your body tense beneath his touch. He knew you were close, and the thought of making you come sent a jolt of excitement through his own body. 

"That's it," he murmured in between licks, his voice thick with lust. "Let go for me."

He moved one of his hands to spread your pussy lips apart even farther, using his thumb and forefinger, he kept the speed of his tongue while doing it. You could feel the orgasm growing, a rush of bliss that stole the breath from your lungs. His mouth was a brand of fire on your sensitive flesh, and you couldn't hold back any longer. You let out a keening cry, your body arching off the table as you came, your pussy convulsing around his fingers. The waves of ecstasy crashed over you, leaving you trembling and gasping for breath.

Simon didn't stop. He continued to lick and suck, your juices coating his lips and chin as he drank in your sweetness, dampening the fabric of his balaclava. The feeling of his tongue on your clit was exquisite torture, each stroke sending another wave of pleasure through you. You could feel the muscles in your pelvis spasm, your legs quivering as you rode out your climax.

When the last tremor of your release faded, Simon pulled back, a smug smile on his face. His cheeks and lips were wet with your cum, a glistening trail of saliva connecting his mouth to your pussy. He licked his lips, savoring the taste. "Mmm," he murmured, his dark eyes never leaving yours. "You taste so delicious, baby."|

You felt a flush of embarrassment as you looked away, your pussy still spasming slightly with aftershocks of pleasure. Reality started to creep in on your lust-addled mind. But the way he talked to you, the way he looked at you, it distracted, you felt beautiful, desirable. He was overwhelming. "Si…" you whispered, unsure of what to say.

Simon chuckled, a satisfied sound that resonated in your very bones. "Look at me, baby," he said, his voice a gentle command that you couldn't ignore. You lowered your eyes, meeting his gaze. "You're so beautiful when you cum," he murmured, his thumb still rubbing lazy circles around your clit. "Your whole body just lights up."

He bent over you, the weight of his massive frame pressing you into the table. You could feel the heat of his chest, the dampness of his skin against your own. His breath tingled your skin as he leaned in, his breath hot on your face. "You liked that, didn't you?" he whispered, his eyes searching for approval in yours, his hand still playing with your pussy.

You nodded, unable to find the words to describe the wave of emotions that surged through you. You could feel your heart racing, your chest heaving with each ragged breath you took. He pinched your clit, the sensation sending aftershocks of pleasure through your body, overstimulating you.

"Good," Simon murmured, his eyes darkening with satisfaction. "Now, give me that sweet mouth."

He shifted his weight, his powerful muscles flexing as he moved to lie on top of you. His body was like a blanket of warmth and security, his weight pressing you into the table. You felt your heart race even faster, your eyes never leaving his as he lowered his face to yours. The edges of his mask and his scruff brushed against your cheek, the scent of him -musky and manly- surrounding you.

His lips found yours in a kiss that was consuming and possessive. You felt his tongue slip into your mouth, tasting, exploring, as if he couldn't get enough of you. Your body responded instinctively, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer, your legs spreading to accommodate his thick thigh between them. The strokes of his tongue slowly became more forceful, and you could feel his hard cock pressing against your soft stomach.

The kiss grew sloppier, wetter, as you both succumbed to the overwhelming passion that had been building for a long time. His spit mingled with yours, the salty taste of flesh mixed with faint remnants of nicotine and the lingering sweetness of your juices. It was messy, raw, and utterly consuming. The stubble on his chin scraped against your skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

With one hand on your jaw and the other still buried between your legs, a sudden primal need took over Simon, he pulled back and spit into your mouth without warning. It was an act of dominance, a claim that left no doubt of his intentions. The saliva slipped over your tongue, warm and slightly bitter. Your eyes went wide with shock, but you didn't pull away. Instead, you swallowed, the gesture feeling almost like a declaration of acceptance.

"Mm, such a good girl," he murmured, his hand sliding up your body, over your curves, to rest on your hip. His thumb stroked your skin, his eyes never leaving yours, feeding all the eye contact you had starved him off. "You're so soft, so precious. Yet I could crush you with my bare hands if I wanted to."

You felt said massive hand grab your waist, his fingers spread wide and sinking into your love-handles as flesh spilled out from between them. He was so much larger than you, his body a testament of his strength and power. You felt like a mere slip of a thing in comparison, it sent a thrill of euphoria through you. 

"Nearly became a lefty, and not because of your little exercises, love. I had to jerk off every time I left you." Your eyes went wide, and you felt your cheeks flush. The feeling of being so fervently desired by him was electrifying.

"Do you want to see my cock?" he tilted his head slightly, it was almost comical, but his deep and gravelly voice rumbled over you.

You had seen a few before, nothing bad but nothing memorable either. The thought of seeing Simon Riley's cock was dizzying. "Y-yes," you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.

With a predatory grace that defied his size, Simon stood up, his towering form casting a shadow over you. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his cargos and boxers, and pulled them both down with a swift move, revealing his thick, muscular thighs and the massive cock that jutted out from between them. 

It was huge, the size of which you had only ever read about in books and seen in the most exaggerated of porn, but still so pretty. The sight of it made you gulp, your eyes widening with anticipation and excitement. You could study it and write prose about it if given the time.

"Look at it," he said, his voice filled with pride as he took his cock in his scarred hand and stroked it slowly. The skin was velvety and pink, the veins standing out in stark contrast against his pale flesh. "This is me, baby. This is your man."

You couldn't help but stare, your eyes drawn to the thick, pulsing length of him. His pubic hair was a wild blonde thicket, a stark contrast to the rest of his body, which was mostly hairless. His balls were massive, heavy, and full, hanging low with desire. He cupped them in his other hand, rolling them gently, the motion causing his cock to bob and sway. "See how big they are?" he asked, his voice a low purr. "These are just for you."

Your eyes flicked up to meet his for a second as you nodded, only to drop back down to his movement, feeling too overwhelmed to find words. He was so imposing, so commanding, and you were at his mercy. "They're huge," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper.

With a wicked smile, Simon leaned back over you, his cock still in hand. "You make me feel things I thought I never would," he said, his voice a low growl. "Can you believe that?" He began to stroke himself more vigorously, the sound of his hand moving up and down his shaft a wet, slick sound that echoed through the air. "Lust, for one. Possessive, for another. Just for you."

Your eyes remained glued to his cock as he spoke, the size of it making you feel intimidated and incredibly turned on. You had never seen anything so brutally masculine. You swallowed hard, your mouth feeling dry as you imagined what it would feel like inside it.

"Tell me, baby," Simon rumbled, his hand moving faster along his shaft. "Do you want to know how it feels to have me inside you?" he asked like he could read your thoughts.

You nodded frantically, the words trapped in your throat. Your pupils were blown wide with desire as you watched him stroke the pre-cum beading at the tip of his cock. You were craving the feeling of being filled by him.

"Good girl," Simon praised, one hand moving to squeeze the base of his shaft and the other grabbing your thigh once more, his cock hovering just above your pussy. "Now, let's put those pretty feet of yours over my shoulder," he said, his tone a gentle command.

You complied, your legs shaking with a mix of excitement and nerves as he lifted your hips off the table and moved you closer to the edge. He positioned you so that your ankles rested on his broad shoulders, your pussy at his mercy, your soft belly and breast offered like a banquet to indulge his appetite. The buzz of anticipation of what was to come making you squirm beneath him, it was almost unbearable.

With a wicked grin, Simon began to drag the tip of his massive cock over your slit, teasing your clit with every pass. It was exquisite, the slickness of his pre-cum combining with your own wetness created a deliciously slippery path. You watched as he worked himself over you, his muscles tensing and releasing with each stroke, his hand moving with the determination of a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

Your breath caught in your throat as he guided the full length of his shaft over your core, the sheer size of him making you feel small and unbearably empty. It was so different from when he used his hands and mouth, so much more intimate, it had your entire body quivering. You could feel the head of his cock nudge against your opening, the bluntness of it hinting at the pleasure to come.

"Look at that," Simon murmured, his voice low and filled with fascination. "Look how eager you are for my cock." He leaned down, his mask brushing against your cheek as he whispered in your ear. "You're going to be so tight… So tight around me."

Your breath hitched, your eyes still glued to the sight before you. The tip of his cock was now perfectly aligned with your entrance, the head nudging gently against it. You could feel the warmth of him, the pulsing need that seemed to radiate from his very pores. "Simon," you breathed, your voice trembling.

He was going slow, almost agonizingly so. Simon watched the head of his cock finally breaching your slick folds, and he groaned. Your eyes went wide, your body stiffening as you felt the first inch enter you. It was glorious. He was so big, so thick, it felt as though you were being split in two, like there was a “you” before and after this.

"Look at that," he growled, his voice thick with satisfaction. "So tight, so wet for me." He began to move, inch by inch, filling you up with his massive girth. With every push, you felt yourself stretching, accommodating more of him, and you couldn't help the moans that slipped from your lips. "That's it," he encouraged, his eyes fixated on your pussy. "Take it all, baby. Take every last inch of your man's cock."

There was a faint pain despite being prepared to take him, it was laced with something pleasant. Each time he pushed forward, you felt yourself opening up to him, your body reshaping itself just for him, for his cock, every cell of your being responding to his steady thrusts. His breath tickled your neck, hot against your skin, as he whispered sweet taunts that sent shivers down your spine. "You're such a good little slut," he said, his voice a low growl. "Letting me fill you up like this."

Your cheeks flamed with both embarrassment and arousal. The words should have offended you, but instead, they made your pussy clench around his cock. You could feel yourself getting wetter, your arousal making it easier for him to slide deeper into you. His movements grew more deliberate, the slow, torturous pace driving you crazy with need.

"Look how much of me you can take," he said, his voice a sensual purr. "You're such a good little slut for me, aren't you?"

The words were like a brand, searing themselves into your soul and leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You liked it, the way his words made you feel both dirty and desired. With a final, agonizingly slow push, he bottomed out, fully buried inside you, his balls resting against your ass. The sensation was indescribable, a mix of pain and pleasure that had you panting and writhing beneath him.

"Atta girl," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with hunger and lust. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips with the same demanding force as his cock had your pussy. The taste of him filled your mouth, mingling with your own sweetness.

As the kiss deepened, Simon began to move, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm that had your eyes rolling back in your head. He pushed in to the hilt, filling you completely, before pulling back almost all the way out. The sensation was maddening, the friction of his cock against your inner walls making your toes curl, and your nails dig into his skin.

With each thrust, he grew more aggressive, his grunts growing louder, filling the quiet warehouse with the sounds of your sexual consummation. Your moans grew in tandem, your breath hitching with every stroke. You felt like you were being claimed, owned, and the feeling was intoxicating. The pleasure built inside you, a heat that grew with each stroke of his cock.

Simon held your hip with a tight, possessive grip, his strong hands pinning you in place as he fucked you with a brutal efficiency that defied his gentle touch from before. The look in his eyes was like a storm, swirling with emotions that you couldn't quite decipher. Was it just desire? Lust? Or something else, something far more profound? You didn't know, and you didn't care. All you knew was that you needed more of him, you needed him deeper, harder.

Your eyes fluttered shut, unable to bare the weight of his stare, but he was relentless. Forcing you to meet his gaze, "Look at me," he growled, his voice thick with passion. "Look at me when I fuck you." your eyes snapped open, and you found yourself lost in his gaze once again, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he fucked you.

He went rougher, his balls slapping against your ass with every deep thrust, the sound echoing off the walls of the warehouse. It was a primal, carnally satisfying sound that seemed to resonate through your very core, driving you closer and closer to the edge. Each thrust sent a jolt of divine pleasure through you, mixing with the pain of his intrusion to create a cocktail of sensation that was more addictive than any drug.

He lowered his head to your neck and murmured, "I can feel your heartbeat around me. It's driving me fucking crazy, baby." His teeth nipping at your skin. "You make me feel strong when I'm inside you. Like I can conquer the word." More heat bloomed in your core, "You're going to swell up with my cum, love."

Your eyes widened, shock and arousal coursing through your veins, the thought sent a thrill through you. "You like that, don't you?" Simon asked, his voice a low rumble. "The thought of being filled with my cum, growing round and lush with my seed?" He leaned down to nip at your ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "You're going to be the best little breeding slut, aren't you?"

Your cheeks flushed at his words, but you couldn't deny the way your pussy clenched around him, the way your hips began to lift to meet his thrusts. He noticed the change in you immediately, the way you moaned louder, the way you arched your back and pushed your breasts up towards him, like a heavenly offer. "Oh, you do," he said with a smug smile, his strokes becoming more forceful. "You want my cum, don't you?"

"Yes," you whimpered, the word torn from you as he hit a spot deep inside you that sent waves of pleasure through your body. "I want it."

"That's what I thought," Simon said, his grin wicked as he leaned back and began to fuck you with a viciousness that left you gasping. Each thrust was a declaration, a claim, a promise of what was to come. "You're going to be so full of me, baby. So full of my cum." His words were sweet, almost tender, laced with a brutal certainty that had your pussy spasming around his cock.

He placed his scarred palm over your opened mouth like he was trying to suffocate you, his fingers were spread apart and roughly grabbed your face. ”Kiss it,” He demanded, “Lick it, baby.” He gripped you by the waist with the other hand, your soft flesh giving in to his ruthless hold. 

You did as he commanded, making out with the flesh you knew so well, licked and kissed the scar you healed. You got lost in the feeling of worshiping the creased skin of his hand. Worshiping him.

With a roar, Simon plunged two of his fingers into your mouth, thrusted in you one last time and you felt his entire body tensing as he reached his climax. You felt the hot, thick spurts of his cum fill you as you sucked on his fingers that still tasted like you. It was exhilarating. His hips jerked against you, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself inside you. 

The feeling of his seed spilling into you was unlike anything Simon had ever experienced before, a primal rush that resonated through his very soul.

Your own orgasm followed quickly, your body shaking with the force of it. Your scream muffled by his digits, your nails digging into the skin of his thighs, you held on as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Simon never took his eyes off of you, watching you fall apart beneath him with a ferocious and possessive stare. 

The sound of your combined release filled the air, a symphony of moans and grunts that echoed off the walls surrounding you. His cock swelled even larger, his spurts of cum painting your inner walls and claiming you as his, you could feel his cock jerk with each one, filling you to the brim, stretching you impossibly wider.

"Ten," he panted, his body finally stilling above you. "Ten spurts of my love, baby." He leaned down, kissing you softly, his tongue slipping into your mouth, sharing the taste of the moment with you.

You felt boneless, the scale of your climax leaving you trembling and overwhelmed. You could feel his cum inside you, a warm, thick presence that filled you completely. The reality of what they'd just done settled over you, a mix of shock and euphoria.

Simon's cock twitched one last time before sliding out of you with a wet pop, leaving your pussy gaping open and exposed. He watched you with smug satisfaction, his chest heaving with exertion. The head of his cock was still coated in your combined juices, a white foamy ring around the base showed how good the sex had been.

You lay there, your chest heaving, your legs trembling as you tried to come to terms with what had just happened. You felt… changed, somehow. Different. The intimate nature of the encounter only served to amplify your afterglow, leaving you feeling both sated and yet insatiably hungry for more.

Simon’s cum was slowly trickling out of you, the sticky warmth of it reminded you of the unhinged way you’d acted. You couldn't believe you had begged for it, begged to be filled with his seed. But you had, and now you felt both ashamed and strangely proud of yourself. It was as if a switch had been flipped inside you, awakening something you didn’t know was there.

Simon stood up, his massive cock still semi-hard and wet with your slick. He looked down at your pussy, a proud smile playing on his lips as he gently removed your legs from his shoulders. "You did so well, sweetheart," he said, his voice still gruff with desire. "Can’t wait to get you on my bed."

You felt a swell of hope at his words, he wanted more too. Despite the anxiety and confusion that fought within you, you had never felt so alive, so desired. "Thank you," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Still standing over you, he offered you a hand up. As you took it, you felt the tremble in his fingers, the residue of his own climax. He helped you to your feet, his gaze lingering on your naked form, committing every detail to memory.

"I could just bend you over right now and fuck that sweet, tempting ass," he said, his voice a gruff purr. "But I've got to get you cleaned up. Somebody is bound to show up, so we’ll leave that for later." He playfully slapped one ass cheek, making you jump and shriek. It stung, leaving a warm imprint off his palm, a clear gesture of ownership. "You stay here while I look for something to clean us up," he ordered, his tone gentle.

You watched as he strutted away, his muscular frame flexing with every step, the wetness on his cock glistening under the dim light. You couldn't help but admire him, the way his cock bobbed slightly with each movement. It was an erotic sight, one you could get used to.

As he looked around, and the afterglow cleared from your foggy brain, you pondered how to tell him the story; about a young soldier you met in the ICU years ago, when you were just an intern. A handsome young man who had a tube down his throat and a wound on his lower back from ricochet shrapnel. How you had been the one assigned to move all his joints and stretch all his muscles, two times a day, every day, while he was unconscious. How you would talk to him about anything and everything, even if he didn’t answer. How you were the one who took care of the man until your rotation ended, and you were sent elsewhere, never knowing what became of him. Never seeing the soldier again. 

Until Simon “Ghost” Riley decided to use his hand as a shield against a machete.

Taglist: @partygetsmewettexxx @staley83 @madokawrites, Happy Birthday! @blacksilks

[the-warlock-syndicate]

See, I am just thinking about my own personal bugbear, in that I am deeply disgusted by mobile games basically turning themselves into barely disguised casinos to get money out of children.

Like, in fairness, it isn't exactly hard to trick small children. But in the same breath, I am willing to bet that most 11 yr olds don't have strong opinions on the validity of the psychology in the field of advertising or scams. And if they do, probably not very nuanced or well informed ones.

Regardless, we see it all the time. Mobile games offering various alternative currencies(probably to divorce the thought of them from the real money being spent), bright lights and shiny pop-ups, satisfying reactions and sounds to actions in game, offers for limited time offers and deals to get that fear of missing out.

Like, I am not a psych major, nor have I ever engaged with that academically, or felt the need to seek therapy. That said, I feel like from a pure layman's perspective, we can define psychology as trying to understand people's thought processes from a scientific bent. Even if only aspirationally.

Like, I firmly believe that applied psychology is crucial to the very concept of advertising, and advertising is crucial to actually get people to buy stuff they don't need. And a distressingly large percent of the US economy(which I am most familiar with) runs off of advertising.

Put it this way, I think that homeopathy is the purest type of pseudoscience, because it is just straight up false. It does nothing. I can eat as many sugar pills as I want, and no results, good or bad, will occur.

I am hesitant to apply the same label to psychology, because while I don't have any practical or anecdotal information about its beneficial side, it seems pretty clear to me that the malevolent uses are indeed doing something. Advertising does seem to work and powers all of our megacorps, scam calls are profitable enough that people keep trying them, and nation states local and domestic invest huge amount of money in online propaganda campaigns.

I can easily accept people having bad experiences with psychology who are turned off from it forever. But to claim it has no basis in reality is just absurd. Demonstrably absurd.

being a psych, econ, or polisci major is like an anti-degree for me i think you've had knowledge blasted out of your head with a men in black laser basically

[cameronsbabydoll]

hii !! i dint know which rafe fits in this req but basically i loove mangoes although im a messy eater.. and i was thinking of they went on a date to a farm..ish? like a field full of fruits. and reader and rafe was offered fresh sweet mangoes, rafe being rafe was able to eat it the proper and neat way, meanwhile reader keeps dropping it on her shirt or the juice spilling to her arm if you understand what i mean 😓 then rafe saw so he kind of scolded her, he’s like saying “baby that’s not the proper way to eat a mango” something like that 😭 and he helps her out and a fluffy ending if you want.. i was also thinking this is how rafe eats his mango

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZShwYBhTq/

he just asks for a spoon or just slurps it up I DUNNO!! ive been thinking about it

MANGO MESS ૮₍´˶• . • ⑅ ₎ა

rafe cameron x puppy!reader

warnings: foodplay (mango juice, messy eating), soft puppyplay dynamics, light scolding/praise, fluffy doting rafe, mentions of having a meltdown over stickiness, lots of babying

a/n: divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more !! and i def imagined this with my puppy!reader

you were bouncing in the passenger seat before the car had even turned off.

“rafe!” you gasped, nose practically pressed to the glass. “look—look, look, the trees! they’re all yellow!”

he didn’t need to look. he could hear the smile in your voice. see the sticky fingers in his future.

“yeah, pup,” he said, resting a hand on your thigh to stop you from wiggling too much. “they’re mango trees.”

your eyes went wide.

you’d been waiting for this all week. a whole fruit farm, just like the ones you saw on pinterest, with baskets and trees and sunshine and bees and pretty dresses. you picked your outfit special — a gingham dress with frilly straps and a bow that tied in the back, white eyelet socks and your little mary janes. and in your tote bag, carefully zipped into the front pocket, was your favorite sonny angel. the orange one to match the mangoes.

when you finally got out, your arms stretched over your head like a sleepy puppy, rafe just shook his head, smiling a little.

“this place is huge,” you breathed. “do they have strawberries? and peaches? and and—mangos?”

“that’s what we’re here for, baby,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder as he led you toward the rows of trees. “just mangoes today.”

you nodded dutifully, trying not to get distracted by the buzzing bees and bright flowers. and for a little while, you were good. listened while the farmer talked about ripeness and harvesting. held rafe’s hand and squeezed it every time you saw a bird.

and then he handed you a mango.

bright orange and warm from the sun, soft like your cheek when rafe cups it at night. you held it in both hands like a treasure, eyes round.

“i can eat it now?”

“go ahead, pup,” rafe said, already peeling his with the little knife he brought from the truck. he was neat. clean slices. perfect cubes. didn’t spill a drop.

you, on the other hand, immediately took a bite.

slurp.

juice squirted down your chin. dripped onto your chest. sticky golden syrup smeared down your wrist and splashed onto your dress.

“mmmfff—issssooooo good,” you tried to say around the fruit, talking with your mouth full.

rafe paused mid-cut.

“…baby,” he said slowly, trying not to laugh. “that’s not the proper way to eat a mango.”

you looked up, cheeks puffed out, mango string in your teeth. your lip trembled just slightly.

“‘m sorry…” you mumbled, voice wobbly. “i got it on my dress.”

your hands were sticky. your chin was sticky. your knees were sticky and you didn’t even know how.

rafe exhaled through his nose, crouching down in front of you.

“give me that,” he said, taking the mango from your hand. “jesus, pup.”

“don’t be mad,” you sniffled.

“i’m not mad,” he muttered, wiping your mouth gently with the edge of his shirt. “just knew this was gonna happen.”

you blinked at him with big, wet eyes as he wet a napkin and dabbed at your hands, your neck, your elbows (how??).

“you’re a mess,” he muttered. “my messy little baby.”

you sniffled again.

“don’t cry,” he said, holding your face in both hands now. “i got you, yeah? just lemme help.”

and help he did.

he cleaned your hands. kissed the tip of your nose. unwrapped the sticky bow from your ponytail. even held your mango for you and fed you tiny neat bites — holding the fruit to your mouth while you licked around the edge, juice running down your lips, your lashes fluttering when he called you so good, pup. that’s it. such a good girl.

by the time you curled up in his lap under a mango tree, sticky and sleepy and full, your sonny angel tucked into your pocket, your chin tucked under his, you were content.

“think that orange doll brought you good luck,” he whispered against your hair.

“mhm,” you yawned. “gonna name him rafe junior.”

“jesus christ,” he muttered, but he kissed your forehead anyway.

and the mango juice on his shirt? worth it. every drop.

[baigepueckers]

Paige Bueckers X Reader

Practice Girlfriend

Bright, white hot, and relentless like they’re trying to peel her skin back, layer by layer, until all that’s left is something for them to dissect. Paige smiles through it. She’s good at that now.

“Paige! Paige! Over here!”

“Looking gorgeous tonight, who styled you?”

“Paige, are you seeing anyone?”

That last one sticks.

Her expression doesn’t flicker, doesn’t even flinch. She’s been trained for this. Smile, nod, say something witty if it’s not invasive and deflect if it is. She’s wearing a tailored navy suit and sneakers, the sleeves pushed up just enough to flash her wrists and the internet will eat it up.

“Nope” she says easily. “Just me, the gym, and my jump shot.”

A few reporters laugh. Cameras flash. The next question comes. But you catch it, the way her shoulders hitch, just slightly, as she walks away.

You’re close behind her on the red carpet, press pass swinging from your lanyard. Your job isn’t glamorous, you’re technically part of her “personal digital content team,” which basically means following her around with a camera and trying to keep her from melting down under pressure.

You’re also her best friend. Or something like it.

It’s gotten blurry lately.

Inside the car after the event, it’s quiet. Paige sits back in the black SUV, scrolling through her phone. You watch the way her brows pinch together, the faint crease between them that never used to be there.

She exhales a long, tired sigh and turns the screen toward you.

#PaigeBaeWatch trending on X. Again.

Some fan account had zoomed in on a photo of her standing too close to a teammate at warmups and captioned it: “idk guys this feels a little too friendly 👀👀👀”

“God” she mutters. “I can’t breathe without someone thinking I’m dating someone.”

You offer her the second Diet Coke from the mini fridge, cracking the tab open and placing it gently in her hand. “To be fair,” you murmur, “you are very photogenic.”

She lets out a half laugh, but it dies quickly. “It’s just… distracting. I don’t even care what people think. It’s that I can’t do anything without it being a story.”

You watch her for a second. Her face is tired. Pretty, still. But tired.

Then she mumbles it under her breath, more to herself than to you.

“Maybe I should just fake a relationship or something. Give them what they want so they shut up.”

It’s supposed to be a throwaway line. Something sarcastic. But something about the way she says it quiet, resigned…makes your heart clench.

You look at her from across the car.

And before you can stop yourself.

“Want me to be your practice girlfriend?”

Her head turns so fast you’re sure she didn’t expect that. Her eyes flick to yours, wide but unreadable, like she’s trying to gauge if you’re serious. You’re not even sure if you are. It came out too naturally. Like it’s been living in the back of your throat for months.

You try to save it with a smile, make it seem light. “I mean, I already know your angles. I’m basically your emotional support assistant. We could absolutely pull it off.”

She’s still staring.

“You serious?”

You shrug. “I’m just saying. It’d be easy. Post a couple photos, let people freak out, and boom mystery solved. Everyone gets off your back.”

Paige leans her head back against the seat, exhaling like she’s actually considering it. You didn’t expect that. You expected her to laugh, roll her eyes, make some joke about how you’re the worst fake girlfriend on the planet because you’d forget to text back.

Instead, she says, “I trust you.”

Your throat goes tight.

She glances at you again, more tentative this time. “You wouldn’t think it was weird?”

You force yourself to shake your head. “Nah. I mean unless you make it weird.”

She smiles at that. Not the big, media ready grin. A small one. The kind she only gives you when it’s just the two of you.

Then she says, “Okay. Let’s do it.”

And for a second, your heart stops.

“…Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” she says, voice calm, but her fingers fidgeting slightly with the Coke can. “Let’s fake date.”

You try to swallow the rush of adrenaline, the stupid hope buzzing in your chest. It’s fake. This is fake. You offered this. You don’t get to panic.

“I’ll need a contract,” you say, aiming for lighthearted. “Weekly coffee payments. One forehead kiss per game day. Access to your closet for oversized hoodie privileges.”

She snorts. “Done. But I get plus one rights at every event and I’m picking the first Instagram post.”

“God, you’re already drunk with power.”

Her laugh lingers in the small space between you. Then quiet again.

You sit back, let the city lights flash across her cheekbone as she stares out the window. You don’t know what she’s thinking. But you do know this:

This won’t be easy. You’ve liked her for a long time. Maybe too long.

And now you’ll have to pretend to be the one thing you’ve always wanted to be for the whole world to see.

Just pretend, you remind yourself.

You can handle pretend.

Then Paige turns toward you again, eyes soft and unsure.

“You know this might… get messy, right?”

You nod. Your voice is steady, even if your pulse isn’t.

“Only if one of us falls in love.”

And then she says it…quiet, teasing, but her gaze lingers too long.

“No promises.”

[ochacoca]

hey could u write an angsty fic where the reader thinks akaashi is too good for them pls thank youuu

I WOULD GIVE YOU THE MOON

3rd year!akaashi x gn!reader

now playing ♫ moon song by phoebe bridgers

IN WHICH your boyfriend doesn't let the thought of you not being good enough for him haunt you.

word count: 1,286 words

content: angst, hurt/comfort, 3rd year!akaashi, 3rd year!reader, pre-established relationship, happy ending

Ever since you began dating, you never understood how someone like Keiji ended up with someone like you.

He was so attentive, so thoughtful, and so kind. He had his weird quirks that made him unique. Keiji remembered every small detail about you. How you liked your tea, how to calm you down, how to put you to sleep at night when your mind won't stop running laps. He was an amazing partner and you couldn't ask for more.

You'd consider yourself a good partner as well. But, you were just.. you. You were the one people approached to ask about your other friends, not you. The one who was always asked to take a picture of the group instead of being asked to be in the photo.

Anytime you tried, you couldn't find anything unique about yourself. Not your personality, not your looks, you were just average. That's what you thought of yourself and that was what you've grown up to think, even though Keiji insists otherwise.

But more recently, you've felt this weight on your shoulders. Anytime he'd bring you breakfast in bed, anytime he'd show you affection, or anything else he does on a regular basis, you would feel this churn in your stomach.

I don't deserve this.

The thought used to come and go before you even had time to acknowledge it. But now, it's all you think about.

And you become more fixated on your appearance. You couldn't blame it on the bright white lights in your bedroom or the warm yellow lights in your bathroom. Your hair was dry and frizzy, you had deep eyebags from the late nights you stayed up overthinking. You looked sick. But this never stopped his compliments.

“You look so pretty, my love.” He'd whispered in your ear when he sees you staring at yourself in the mirror for so long. He'd wrap his arms around your waist as he stood behind you, resting his chin against your shoulder.

You would always smile and thank him. But deep down, you always thought he was lying. Just trying to make you feel good about yourself, or trying to convince himself in the process.

You couldn't bring this up to him though. You wouldn't. All you could try to do was to try and be enough for him so he wouldn't find it in somebody else.

The hangout had been Bokuto's idea. After the third years graduated, there wasn't much time where the old volleyball team was able to see each other, so he curated a get-together where everyone was able to come. Even her.

You didn't hate Yukie Shirofuku. You could never. She was such a sweetheart, but you envied her with everything inside you.

She was so confident in herself without lifting a finger. So effortlessly gorgeous when you had to put hours into yourself to look at least a bit decent. When she laughed at something Keiji said, throwing her head back and holding her stomach, you felt your stomach twisting sickeningly. You hated getting jealous with every bone in your body. You wanted to brush it off, but it was hard. You didn't want to be that type of partner.

With her shine in the room, you felt invisible.

You tried to be active all night. Engaging in different conversations and such so it wouldn't seem you were in a bad mood. You didn't want to ruin the atmosphere with your negativity. But Keiji being Keiji, he already knew something was up with you.

“Are you okay?” He whispered in your ear, placing his hand on your thigh and rubbing it softly.

You moved your head to face him, slapping on a fake smile in hopes he wouldn't notice how badly you wanted to leave. “Hm? Yeah, I'm fine.”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously but nodded, not wanting to push it any furthur incase you got uncomfortable. But after a few minutes passed, he could see it in your body language. The way you shifted in your seat, how you picked at your nails and cracked your knuckles.

“Do you want to go back home?” He whispered again in your ear. You sighed, you couldn't deny it anymore. You nodded and he nodded back before standing up and gathering your things.

“Okay, I'll drop you off.”

You stood up beside him and gently grabbed his hands. “But what about your friends?” You said. You didn't want to be the reason he didn't hang out with his friends.

But he only smiled at you and shook his head. “I have more opportunities to see them again. Let's go.”

You had been avoiding his gaze since you left Bokuto's house. You would see through your peripheral at every red stoplight in the car how he'd look at you, with his eyebrows furrowed and his lips slightly parted. However, you continued to look out the window. Now, you're standing in front of the door to your house, waiting to go inside. You unlock the door and twist the knob to step in, but Keiji's hand catches your wrist before you could open it wide enough.

“Wait.” He mumbled. He gently tugged you towards him, placing his hands on your shoulders and rubbing them softly. “Just wait for a minute.”

You finally met his eyes for the first time in an hour. He had concern etched all across his face. You could see it in the way he furrowed his eyebrows, the look in his eyes, his lips pursed. “You're not okay.”

The lump formed in your throat immediately. You swallowed it down, letting out a broken laugh before speaking. “I'm sorry.” Your voice broke slightly. “It's just.. I didn't like seeing her around you.”

“With who? With Yukie?” He asked with a tone of disbelief. There was a pause in the air, and he already knew with your silence that he was right.

“I'm sorry-” You started but he cut you off before you could finish your sentence.

“Stop,” He said quickly while shaking his head. “you don't have to apologize, darling.”

“It's just..” You trailed off.

“Just what?” He asked as he tried to coax out the answer from you, with the same softness he only showed for you. You took a shaky breath and exhaled.

“Sometimes I just think you can do better, you know?” You avoided his gaze as the lump in your throat grew stronger. “I feel like you’re wasting your time with me. I can't give you what you deserve.”

“What?” His expression softened. It looked like your words physically pained him to hear. “Stop it..”

“Keiji–”

“Stop.” He cut you off as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours while softly taking your head in his hands. “Y/n, I would give you the moon if I could.

He peppered soft kisses all over your face. On your forehead, your cheeks, your temple, before finally pressing them against your lips. “Why would you think you wouldn't be enough for me?” His voice cracked and it broke you.

You didn't have an answer. You could only shrug and try looking away from him as you fought off the tears that formed in your eyes, only for Keiji to gently direct your face to look in his eyes again.

“You are perfect for me.” He whispered softly to you, pressing his body even closer against yours as he embraced you. “All I want is you.”

©OCHACOCA 2025 | please do not copy, translate, or repost my work onto other platforms!

[scriptseekstories]

I have an idea for an AU that’s kinda inspired by the “if y/n’s mom never died” AU, where instead of Y/N becoming the queen bee, their mom did. Even if she dosent remember a lot, a mother never forgets her baby.

So like, I picture Queen Bee Mama coddling Y/N and the hive (if Mama ever built one) also coddling them like how a hive provides for Larvae. This would give the Batfam an even bigger obstacle in trying to get Y/N and M/N into their family unit.

It just popped into my head and I wanted to know what you thought of it.

Girl…

You opened a whole new world for me

Queen Bee’s Hive: What if?

If your mom became Queen Bee, then hoooo boy, your dad fell harder for her.

Let’s say that she got tired of others looking down at her work, saying it’ll never work, her baby will never be provided with her dead end studies.

The last straw was when one of Bruce’s attempts to win her back. As much as he played his alter ego as Brucie Wayne, he took it too far by joking about her research and say that you might be better with a doting mom and a billionaire working dad.

“Is that all you see me as?” His face drained of color at what he said, making him backtrack and stammer while your mom was ready to murder him.

So obviously, she had to think of you and her worth, finally taking the risk and testing her results on herself. Once she got rid of Bruce from her house (and his kids who were so obviously trying to hide amongst her furniture), she came to your room.

You stirred in bed when you felt a kiss on your cheek and heard the door close. Waking up to see a note on your desk saying that your mother will be doing something very stupid and dangerous, but it was all for the sake of the family’s legacy… yeah, you immediately ran out and followed her.

It was only when you burst through the doors of the warehouse that you witness your mom hunched over while whimpering in pain, a beacon splattered down on the floor.

Guess what? The previous Queen Bee fell into the honey she had and dissolved, resulting in a similar fate that happened to you, only this time you watched a giant mass burst through her spine and hit the top of the roof.

If you think your bee form was tall (7ft) then you ain’t ready for her Bee form size.

Because oh my lord- imagine the size of Ponyo’s mom in her giant form, cus she’s HUGE. She almost broke through the warehouse’s roof.

Her bee form is similar to yours, just different patterns and more insects like. I guess you looked more human and cuddly as your bee form is because you’re still young, and your mother is a fully developed adult.

And her glow… my goodness she looked like a goddess that blessed the world with her presence.

Anyways, you freaked out at first, because HOLY SHIT your mother just turned into a giant bee monster!! But then, her eyes trained on you, no longer thrashing and screeching, instead she slowly bowed down to inspect you closely.

“H-hey… mama…?” You awkwardly gulped, giving your nervous smile before slowly lifting your hands to try and touch your mother’s face.

“B-Bu…Bumblebee…” She croaked out, feeling your tiny hands touch her face, her eyes slowing closing as her glow was so bright it looked like a true beauty to behold.

After that, mother quickly adjusted to what has happened to her, her memories weren’t fully there, yet she remembers you very clearly.

Being a giant bee woman, she easily cradled you and coddled you whenever you visited her with flowers from a particular botanist vender, who was more delighted to sell you flowers when she saw you, as if she knew you very well.

Coming back to see your mom still trapped in the warehouse you still loved her all the same. She has done so much for you and now you’ll have to do the same for her.

Which was hard, seeing that Bruce kept on asking where your mother was whenever he “bumps” into you, making you run away and shouting that a pervert was after you. (It made Jason cackle when Bruce replayed what happened with a horrified expression)

Eventually Bruce finds out by following you as Batman, entering the warehouse and watching in shock that the inside was covered in honey and wax, where in the middle of the building was a giant

Naturally he assumed this thing took your mother and brainwashed you, so he immediately called in the Robins and burst through the windows. Your mom growled as you were more annoyed than scared.

The other kids burst in, and Damien instantly went against Bruce’s commands and charged before he stopped with his sword inches away from your face as you stood between your mom and them.

“Don’t you dare hurt my mama!!” You hissed, knowing damn well they could beat your ass easily as you were a nerdling of a 16 year old, but god dammit leave your mom out of this!!

“Mom?! That’s our mom?!” Tim shouted, “Don’t call her that!!” You hissed back, before being pulled back by the gentle hand of your mother.

“Father, our soon-to-be-mother is that thing?!” Damien shouted in shock and disbelief. Dick, hearing that Bruce hadn’t made a sound, turned to him only to see the Dark Knight staring up at your mother, eyes wide and mouth opened while she glared down deadly daggers at him.

“Batman?” Steph poked him, before seeing the blush under his cowl, and she immediately bursted out into hysterical laughter. You and your mother looked at each other, her confused and you disgusted.

“Back off Batbrain!! First that Wayne guy and now you?! Stay away from my mama!!” You shouted at them all as Bruce kept still, in his love trance because we all knew he was freaky, and seeing your mom as a giant woman bee creature had sent him to the edge of love and horniness.

Don’t even get STARTED on what would Joker would’ve done seeing your baddie of a mom now turned into a goddess like-bee beast. Bro would’ve killed Bruce for a taste (I mean every villain would want your mom, and you stood between them because why are they wanting your mother 😭)

Taglist: @pix-stuff @jellystar-star @moon0goddess @bad4amficideas @lettucel0ver @lithiumval @degenerates-posts @ryuushou @deathbynarcisstick @silverklaus @artistwithcreativeburnout @middevil465 @jsprien213 @1abi @oliviaewl @redkarmakai @nxdxsworld @the-dumber-scaramouche @sc3n3mo-t3to @tw-om-gi-hs-56387 @bunniotomia @welpthisisboring @rad4bean @ithoughtthinks @reeyy0-2 @ceramic-raven @danart501 @esposadomd @trashlanternfish360 @jjoppees @nervousalpacalady @ghostlyworld

[kimberly-spirits13]

Batboys Dating Cat-like Reader HC (Request)

Warnings: mild language

Note: not really sticking to a request list or anything but I thought this would be a good one- Still on the Damian and Jason trains so expect some more of stuff for them in the future I think. Also, y'all the recent tumblr drama kept me up so late last night, I was fully enthralled by the circus that was last night 💀

Dick Grayson:

He definitely isn't the chill laid back type- Dick is the bubbliest person you could know and it translates onto the field

The two of you have known each other since he was Robin so he's familar with all of your facets

He jokes that you're two different people when it comes to personal life and fighting

You're total opposites in the regards that he likes to go full throttle, brights colors kind of personality, and you're fine laying back and reading a good book for the entire day

Dick appreciates that you teach him to settle for a moment before jumping around to something new

When the two of you first fought together, he was shocked to see you be almost as serious as Bruce

Had to do a double take

You were swift and calculated, not taking a moment to relax and stay in place

You scolded him for paying attention to you rather than the fight at hand and he snapped out of it but couldn't stop thinking about it

When he found out about your ability to transform into a cat, he was thrownnnn

he thought he was confused seeing you fight? now he's just bamboozled

It isn't often that you use these abilities, but it comes in handy for collecting information on people

There's nothing inherently suspicious about a stray cat roaming around shady allywaya or docks in Gotham City so no one is suspicous towards the feline after Nightwing comes crashing in unexpectedly

He's a total tease about it too- has probably pointed a lazer at you to see if you'd react before having his dreams smashed by your intense eye roll and the book that smacked across his forehead

Jason Todd:

Probably the type to seek out a laid back person as a partner

He wants someone to sit around with so that he can read Jane Austen in comfortable silence

Favorite spot is infront of the fireplace in the library of Wayne Manor

always joked that you were drawn to the heat like a cat in the sun

He thought he was kidding until the first time during patrol that you shrank down into a little grey and white cat before jumping off the ledge of whatever you were on to get a better idea of what two goons were talking about

When you came back up and reverted to regular form and told him that Penguin was planning a jewelry heist, was dead still trying to process

"what the fuck Y/N?" his brain is going at 100mph going "huh, how what, why, when, HUH?"

"I was just kidding about you being like a cat..."

You grin at him and he accepts that he's seen weirder and moves on

When it comes to fighting, he likes that you're not playing around about anything

There are times where he's worried that you could hurt yourself in the intensity of the entire affair, but you sooth his worries by promising that you wouldn't do anything stupid if there wasn't a good reason for it

If he's feeling funny one day, he will totally wave a string of yarn in front of you with the most devious look plastered on his face

"Really, Jason?"

"What?? I'm just checking!"

he likes that he often finds you curled up on the couch doing something engulfed in his clothes

like, they're comfortable, what are you gonna do?

Jason loves that you're able to get him to sit back and take a breath when he's worked up instead of letting him think that the world is going to come down on him

Sometimes he just needs a bit of a reality check

Tim Drake:

Loves, LOVES that you're fine just sitting with him while he works on cases

You don't nag him about things and are content keeping him company without pushing him to do things that he either doesn't want to do or can't do

You're often metaphorically talking him off the ledge and making him see things through a more realistic perspective instead of the end all be all that he can wrap his mind into sometimes

Thought that this would all translate into sparring until he's pinned on the mat with no way to escape

Not only is he sore and tired after the first sparring match that he has with you, he's confused

like- what?

consider him more confused when you offer to stalk out a few goons he was tailing by shifting into an inconspicuous cat

"you can do that?"

"yea Tim. This isn't new love"

well then..

He often asks that you do this for the sake of gathering information, but he secretly feels guilty because he's worried that you could get hurt somehow

He'd definitely notice if a cat was stalking around and then all of his plans were foiled everytime

You assure him that it's not hard to mimic an actual cat and that the goons are often too stupid to notice anything

Besides, it's not like you don't blend in with the rest of Gotham's stray cat population

Tim finds peace in the fact that he doesn't have to worry about you getting hurt in the field due to inexperience or lack of effort

He's more worried for the run of the mill underpaid goons who just got swept up in the whirlstorm of your patrol

Damian Wayne:

I feel like it would take him a second to get used to the cat thing

sure he knows Beast Boy, and that's not weird to him anymore, but at first it was a bit torturous considering that he wasn't a massive fan of his demeanor but still really likes animals

the difference here is that Damian vibes super well with your demeanor

He doesn't worry about you running around and acting a fool

Loves that you're basically always in his company, even if it's in silence

He likes to sit and either read or draw/paint while you're doing your own thing

it's a peaceful presense that he knows won't get ripped away by some instability or shift in the world

He didn't realize that this calmness didn't translate into fighting until you're sparring for the first time

he offers to teach you and improve your skill so you play along

"Try to attack me." He said with a tone of confidence

There's not a moment for him to think before you've laid him out of the mat and knocked the air out of his lungs

"How was that?" You asked with a smirk in your voice

"that was... unexpected."

That moment ends the era of him worrying so much about you on the field

He doesn't tense up as much when you suggest that you could collect information by stalking the suspects as a cat

He knows that you can certainly handle yourself without his assistance

Wouldn't mind if you curled up in his lap as a cat, but he would never voice that outloud

at least not for a LONGGG time

you have caught him intensely observing your interactions with Alfred the cat

He wants to know if Alfred will have either some sort of reaction to you, or like you more than the average person

Don't tell him that you know about these "little observations" or he'll sink into himself and die out of embarrassment