#week 46 masterlist

[cosmos-coma]

My Sun, My Star

A/N: I'm so weak for Winter soldier Bucky. I cant wait to write more of him, I love this sad guilt ridden man.

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky x Reader

Words: 6756

Warnings: Breaking and entering, Minor violence, Injury and Blood, Winter soldier Bucky, GN reader but also Pregnant reader, mild language, I'm not sure if this is fluff or angst or both??

Summary: You wait up late for your boyfriend Bucky to return from his mission, but it isn't Bucky who finds you.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Epilogue | Bucky Masterlist

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Your eyes blinked slowly, heavier with each passing second, yet you still managed to open them once again. Glancing at the bright white numbers of the digital clock you watched it change to 1:46 AM, causing a groan to pull from your lips. Bucky was supposed to be back tonight (yesterday technically) from his latest mission, but he still had yet to show up at your shared flat. 

You checked your phone again, the lack of notifications mocking your tired eyes. You let out one more sigh before you turned off the mindless babbling of the TV and stood up to get ready for bed. You were sure Bucky wouldn’t want you waiting up so late in your current condition anyway, he had been harping you about getting enough sleep and water and everything in between.

“I’m only four months pregnant, Bucky. I’m fully capable of staying up late” You had said to him. 

“Five months, Doll, and it’s about your cortisol levels. It’s not good for you or the baby, and it could lead to them being underweight” he said, reciting exactly what the doctor had told him during your last checkup. 

“Four and a half,” you argued as you stuck your tongue out at him, “and she was talking about getting chased by a bear kind of stress, not staying up to watch Bake Off.” 

You snorted at the memory of just earlier that week, a small smile coming to your face as you went through your nightly routine. You continued to check your phone here and there as you went, “Did you get back safe? How’d your mission go?” you had texted two hours ago, yet it still remained unread and unanswered.  

‘Maybe one more quick text wouldn’t hurt,’  you thought to yourself as you typed out the simple message and hit send. 

“Stay safe, okay? I love you.”

You sighed as you set the phone down, “it’s okay, everything is okay,” you assured yourself as you pulled one of his large hoodies over your head, enjoying the way the hem brushed against your bare thighs and the sleeves threatened to swallow your hands. “He’s a former assassin and a super soldier! Nothing is going to happen that he can’t handle,” You stated firmly to your reflection in the mirror. Your eyes remained unsure despite your voice’s conviction, but you did your best to ignore it, focusing instead on the achingly tired look they held. 

“Yes, I know. It’s finally time for bed, little one,” you mumbled sleepily as you felt your baby kick against the walls of your protruding belly, being quick to climb between the layers of blankets and lonesome sheets. “Fuck, that's cold…!” you swore quietly as your bare legs hit the icy fabric- having gone unwarmed by your personal space heater and super soldier.

Thankfully sleep came easily, the thought of waking up to Bucky’s sleepy, scruffy face only further urged your body to wind down so the moment would come sooner. 

----

Bucky’s phone buzzed again in his bag, lighting up with your smiling face as your text displayed on the screen, but nobody reached down to check it, as everyone found themselves in a far more urgent situation. 

“Keep him busy, Rodgers! I just need one more minute!” Tony yelled as he dug through the equipment in the quinjet, “For fuck’s sake, who organized this last?” 

“What do you think I’m doing…!” The blond grunted with a justified hint of frustration,” Sam? Any help??” He shouted with a pointed look, telling more than asking as he struggled to restrain his thrashing friend. A swift metal fist flew toward his already battered face, barely giving him time to duck out of the way and attempt to restrain it again. 

“Honestly? Seems like you’ve got this one,” Sam said, holding up his hands.

“SAM.” 

“I’m coming..! God, can’t either of you old men take a joke?”

No one knew exactly what happened, Bucky had gone off on his own in the Hydra base they were exploring. It was supposed to have been recently abandoned, something about the agents leaving in an urgent rush that left files upon files sitting out in the open. It was supposed to be a simple mission; everyone goes off in teams, gathers what they can, and makes sure there are no surprises. But Bucky assured them that he would be fine to go on his own, he hadn’t had a sign of relapse in over a year, and he would only be picking up what looked important. A simple job.

He should’ve listened. 

It was when he didn’t return to the jet with the rest of them that they started to get worried. 

“So, where’s the Manchurian candidate?” Tony jested, looking at his watch. They were supposed to leave maybe 10 minutes ago, not terribly late by any means, but enough to start getting worried about Bucky’s quietness over the coms.  

“Man, come on.. ” Sam sighed at Tony’s joke as he crossed his arms. 

“Bucky?” Steve tried calling over the coms, ignoring both of his teammates, but the line remained all too quiet. 

They found him finally in the basement level of the office building, old discarded computers lining the walls along with cabinets upon cabinets of old files and other equipment. He hadn’t even realized it was a trap until he stepped right into it, triggering a switch that had the computers and hidden speakers flashing images and sounds that assaulted his senses with fragmented memories long forgotten. 

He should have listened. 

Sam had found him first, on his knees in the middle of the floor with hands desperately covering his ears, trying to block out the incessant noise. Hauling his teammate to his feet, he rushed back to the jet, calling everyone off from their search before anything else could be sprung. 

At first, they thought he might be fine- quiet, but fine. He had given them a small smile and a wave of his hand as everyone tried to check in with him, taking a seat as the jet took off to go home. It had all seemed relatively normal until they were halfway back and the unseen battle inside him must have taken a turn. 

“Got it!” Tony yelled as he pulled out the dart gun, aiming quickly as he fired two shots into Bucky’s chest, readying a third as he waited and watched for the tranquilizers to finally take effect. It was slow as Bucky continued to struggle against the drug’s drain, his body and mind turning into slow-moving molasses. Low grunts emanated from his throat as the last of his strength ebbed away, leaving nothing but forced sleep in its wake. 

“Was two really necessary?” Steve asked as his shoulders finally relaxed, the strain and worry now temporarily over. 

Together they dragged the drugged-up assassin into the jet’s small quarantine area for the remainder of the trip, satisfied only when they heard the mechanical locks slide into place. It wasn’t much, and they knew that and if he really wanted to there would be no stopping him from getting out, but it was something- enough to give them a few seconds of preparation if nothing else.  

“I’m not giving a super soldier only a single dose, you two metabolize things like this way too fast and I’m not taking any chances with the Tin man over there.”

Bucky- no, the Winter Soldier, seemed to still be out of it when they finally landed, sat up and leaning against the wall, head slumped forward just as they had left him. 

“Alright, let's just get him into one of the holding rooms for the night. We’ll work on resetting him-” Tony lifted his hands as the two men glared in his direction, “- on ‘fixing him up’ as soon as he’s been secured.” 

Sam shook his head as Tony corrected himself, taking notice of the lit-up phone in Bucky’s bag, buzzing with an only recently delivered message. Sam had quickly become one of your closest friends after you were introduced to the team. He was one of the few people Bucky trusted with his life and between his sarcastic jokes, his incredibly loyal nature, and his willingness to give Bucky shit whenever he deserved it, you knew very quickly how great a friend he would be. 

But now his stomach twisted as he saw your name flash across the screen, the alert quickly minimizing itself as it joined the other messages you had sent that night. How was he gonna break this to you? The last thing you needed was a bunch of unnecessary stress on your shoulders, but it’s obvious you were beginning to worry over their late return. Sliding the phone back into its rightful place Sam told himself that he’d call you once they had things more figured out.

“Heart rate still seems to be resting. With any luck, he’ll remain knocked out until we get inside,” Tony relayed as he monitored the Soldier’s vitals and pressed the button to open the heavy quarantine doors.

The doors slid into their resting positions with a soft click. 

As soon as that click landed on sensitive ears, vibrant blue eyes shot open. Sparing not even a second, the Winter Soldier surged forward from his seat, not nearly as far gone as he left them to believe. With the element of surprise, the Soldier easily knocked past his teammates, throwing his body weight against them and knocking Sam and Steve off balance, leaving him a good headstart as he dashed out the jet’s open door.

“Fuck, Bucky- Wait!,” Steve swore as he stumbled out behind him, having to use his super soldier speed just to keep pace. But between the settled darkness of the night, and the winding alleyways the brunette stuck to, Steve was left falling behind in no time. “Shit,” Steve swore as he slowed to a stop, looking around for any sign of his compromised friend. 

However, the streets lay barren, the fluttering of moths in the streetlights the only sign of life on the entire block.

---

The heavy thud of his boots echoed against the alleyway’s pavement. He wasn't sure where exactly he was headed as his silhouette slunk between the warm light of the streetlamps, but part of him- a currently repressed part of him- knew that safety was bound to be just ahead. 

His heart beat smoothly as he kept his pace, every other step falling in time as he rounded the corner. Blindly, he let himself be led by instinct and his feet maneuvered the city’s countless paths with a mind of their own. They slowed before a little apartment building and as those emotionless eyes looked up, he knew this was it.

The lateness of the hour had almost assured that no one was around as he slipped inside, footsteps padding up the stairs before stopping at the third floor. His heavy boots left nothing but wet prints in their wake as he wandered down the hall, impossibly silent, as even the notoriously creaky boards dared not announce his presence. 

The closer he got, the more the back of his mind itched, as if something- someone- was begging him not to go any further, but he refused to listen; he knew this was where he was meant to be and where he would find what his body was so inexplicably drawn to.

With each step his head turned on a swivel, looking for the sense of safety and familiarity that the other half of him seemed to find here- and desperately wished he wouldn’t discover. Just as his foot was about to take another step he stopped. ‘No. Here.’ His gut told him, turning to the door. 

His door.

Your door.

The former assassin bypassed the lock with ease, quickly slipping in before shutting the door behind him. A dim light illuminated the living room, the little lamp you left on for him casting its orange glow over his surroundings as he surveyed them.

A few mugs stand beside the sink, framed photos dot the wall and side tables, and a veritable nest of blankets lay across the couch. It was obvious someone had been here, and recently. A deep breath pulled into his lungs, causing his head to tilt to the side in contemplation as an unfamiliar scent hit his nose, something just as earthy as it was sweet and speckled with distant notes of… him?

“Hmmph”  

His sensitive ears picked up the soft grunt from down the hall immediately. His shoulders squared and tensed as his body leaned into a defensive position. Cautious fingers pulled the knife from his boot, ready for whatever may come at him as he approached. 

The sounds of soft breaths lead him to a door left ajar. Light just slipped past the curtains into the darkened room. Badum… Badum… Badum… a heartbeat pulsed in his ears as he took a step closer, leaving the door open and letting further light fall onto the source of the noise. 

His wolfish gaze ran down your form as you lay there on your back, swallowed in the extra fabric of the old sweatshirt. Your hand rested casually over your stomach as your other one squished gently against your cheek. Your legs lay bare to the world after having kicked the overbearing sheets away, leaving just a glance of your underwear for him to take in.  

“Mmph” You grunted again as you shifted, your face now turned to him as that earthy scent of yours gripped him like a vice and refused to let go.

Your sweet sleep became interrupted though- much to his dismay- as the phone on your nightstand began to light up and buzz incessantly. Still, as a statue he watched as you groaned, propping yourself up on your elbows as you went to check what your device could possibly want at this ungodly hour. 

With one loose fist, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes away, blinking consciousness back into them until you saw Bucky’s illuminated figure before you, standing tall and quiet as he watched you intently. 

“Bucky..?” You couldn’t hide the grin that spread across your face as you saw the familiar face of your lover lit up by the bright light of your phone screen. But the longer you looked the more you noticed.

His eyes were all wrong, his gaze was devoid, that’s the only way you could put it. Devoid of meaning and humanity, it seemed every gaze- every movement- was a means to an end. Empty… save for a flicker of fear; It was probably the only thing in those eyes right now that registered as human. The fear of someone who was lost, unknowing of their purpose, and confused as to why your gaze was made his cold heart falter.

His expression was flat and stoic, save for the knit of confusion that pulled his brows together. His stance was tense and prepared, the discrete knife still glittering in his hands as he took another step forward, his head slowly shaking in response to your question. 

A gasp caught in your throat as you finally understood. Glancing at your phone you saw it was Sam who was calling, undoubtedly trying to tell you what you now already knew.

“Soldat…” You whispered, trying to hide the way his name sent shivers across your skin. Your phone went black then, as you didn’t pick up in time and you were left blind by the sudden darkness.

 You and Bucky had talked about what to do if you found him like this, “You call Sam and Steve, Okay? You find a place to hide and you stay far away, no matter what you hear. There’s no reasoning with him,” He had told you.

So much for that

Your phone lit up again with Sam’s urgent call, its revealing light sending ice down your spine as you saw the man nearly standing over you now, just a hair’s breadth away.

Your hand rose slowly, shaking as you tested a reach for your phone, stopping dead in your tracks as he let out a disapproving grunt. Your head nodded slowly as you gulped, returning your hand to your stomach as you watched his gaze finally shift away. 

With unbothered calmness, he looked toward your phone to see Sam’s face and name scrawled across your screen. Wordlessly he reached over and pressed the ‘decline call’ button, cutting the call short and leaving you two in perfect silence once more. 

Panic began to rise in your throat as his gaze turned back toward you, darkened now only by the lack of light. With slow movements the Winter Soldier reached out, putting the knife away as he crouched down, as if trying to attract a skittish animal. 

Your whole body tensed as his reach came closer, eyes screwing shut as you waited for the worst, “Please… Just don’t hurt her…” You whispered, fear and desperation rattling your voice, just as it did your anxiety-filled body. 

But the pain never came. Instead, the cool touch of metal fingers ran down your cheek, barely denting your flesh as he relished in its softness. Your eyes peeked open cautiously, as his fingers moved along the slope of your jaw, tilting your head up as he came to your chin. 

His eyes had changed, you noticed, instead of being a harsh blizzard, they had now settled into something more human, something warmer and… yearning? 

“Soldat..?” You questioned as you watched his lips part, his senses focused only on the way your body reacted to his touch. You were sure he could hear the rapid pattering of your heart beneath your ribs, its pace only increasing as his fingers moved down your neck and to the exposed collarbone in your loose neckline.

“Красивый [Beautiful]...,” was all he could reply. It came out so soft you weren’t sure you heard it at first, it’s quiet reverence meant for your ears and your ears only. “Из-за тебя он чувствует себя здесь в безопасности...? Замки дерьмовые, видимость слишком высокая, но ты… [Are you why he feels safe here…? The locks are shit, the visibility is too high, but you…]” He continued, quiet and unbothered as if he assumed you couldn’t understand him. 

“He’s been bugging me to get better locks all week…” you replied with a huff, quickly shutting up as his stare found your eyes again. Between Bucky’s ramblings in the night and Natasha’s tendency to only gossip in Russian, you had made an effort to learn it; You were still learning, and your pronunciation was shit, but your understanding had gotten far better. 

“And you have a good ear…” He spoke in English this time, the vague hint of an amused smile pulling at the assassin’s stern lips. You couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever done that before. If that odd little smile had been seen by anyone else- anyone still living that is.

A breath of relief left you as your lips stretched to mimic his, the tension easing out of your body a little by little.

His metallic touch continued to linger, running down your covered chest until it settled on the waistband of your underwear, the cool metal trailing across your ticklish skin. 

“Ah, wait, Sol-” You jumped at his touch, grabbing his wrist, despite knowing you wouldn’t have the strength to stop him if it’s what he wanted.

But instead of dipping his fingers lower, he simply tugged the oversized hoodie up, gathering it over your chest and exposing the firm baby bump concealed below. His head tilted to the side as he listened to the tiny heartbeat that fluttered in your belly as well as the thuds of its little movements against your skin. Slowly, still with that inkling of a smile, he turned to look at you, his hand hovering just above your vulnerable midsection as if awaiting permission. 

Heat rose to your cheeks as you hesitated. On one hand, you felt a surprising amount of calm under the assassin's touch, his need for your approval only increasing your sense of security. But on the other hand, Bucky would never be able to live with himself if something happened to you or the baby, accident or not. 

“Oh. I-” 

CRASH.

You nearly jumped out of your skin as were cut short by the loud noise. The door to your apartment slammed open, surely breaking the hinges with the sheer force of it. Over a dozen heavy boots stormed into your apartment as the lights turned on, flooding your senses and forcing the Soldier’s attention elsewhere. 

Your hand found his instantly, the heat of his calloused skin a comfort to you just the way Bucky’s was, especially as it squeezed around yours just the same. Sitting up properly now your sweatshirt swallowed your pregnant form once again and you peeked out to see just what was going on. 

Through The Winter Soldier’s defensive stance in front of you, his knife is now drawn once more, you watched a small armed group, covered in black tactical gear raid your home, all guns pointing towards you- or more accurately- the former assassin attempting to shield you. You recognized the symbols on their vests as the team’s secondary security force, having even met a few of them over the years. But where was the rest of the team? Where was Sam, and Steve, and Tony?

“Step away from the civilian!” “Put your hands in the air!” “Sir, drop the knife!” They all shouted, overlapping with each other as each of them rushed out their demands. 

“Don't shoot! It’s okay! It’s okay!” You rushed.

You tried to slip your hand from his, but he only held fast, “Soldat, please… It’s okay, just do what they say… They don’t want to hurt us. Please,” You urged, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, 

His defenses faltered as he listened to you beg him to stand down. It wasn’t the usual begging he heard in his line of work, and coming from your lips had his walls cracking in an unprecedented way. 

He shouldn’t have looked back at your eyes, wide and pleading, as they shook his walls further. Moving slowly he turned, kneeling before you despite the way the armed group yelled at him not to. You just held up your hand to them, pleading for them to be as gentle with him as he was with you. 

“Мое солнце [My Sun]...” The warm flesh of his hand came up easily to cradle your face and a small smile pulled at him again as you leaned into his large palm. “Я только что нашел тебя. Я не потеряю тебя снова так быстро[I’ve only just found you. I will not lose you again so quickly]. ”

Your heart both swelled and pained for your Soldier. You looked into his eyes and saw a sense of certainty, a sense of knowing, you hadn’t seen from him earlier. “Oh… my soldier, my star,” Your fingers entwined with the hand holding your cheek, ”You can not lose me in any way that would last…” You whispered to him past the shouts, the commotion, and the tension, like you were the only two in the room. 

“Sir, put the knife down!” A young squad member called again, his voice far more concerned than his superiors. You didn’t recognize him or his number and you figured he must’ve been new. His gun trembled in his hands as he shouted again, but as the Soldier failed to move and the kid’s finger unexpectedly twitched, there came a sudden- 

BANG.

“Ah-!” Your face twisted with pain as you pulled away, “Fuck…!” Your hands instinctively grabbed your leg, clamping over the shooting pain in your calf that hit you- well- like a bullet. 

You winced again as you pulled one of your hands back, the raw skin of your leg angrily letting you know that it did not like being brushed against. Warm, wet crimson covered your fingers as you looked down, becoming slightly dizzy at how much had already covered your palm. You were thankful it only seemed to be a graze, but the burn you already felt and knowing you were losing blood had your stomach lurching in uncomfortable ways. 

Concern painted the assassin’s expression as you recoiled away from his doting touch, but as the unmistakable warm, metallic smell curled into his nose, his expression darkened dramatically. What was once kind, curious blue eyes now saw nothing but red as he caught sight of the wound slashing across your skin. His jaw set firmly, almost audibly grinding his teeth as he stood and turned to the young kid. 

You looked back at the newcomer as you tried to breathe through the pain, the horrified look on his face telling you that he knew he was a dead man walking. His face went ghost white as the super soldier stalked toward him and through even worse trembling hands he raised his gun to shoot again. 

“No…!”

A sickening thud rang out as the bullet hit the assassin square in his good shoulder, getting lodged in the muscly flesh. His shoulder jerked back at the force, but it wouldn’t stop his stride as he closed the gap. Another shot rang out, but with the solid vibranium arm now covering the barrel it did little to help this poor dumb kid. Snatching him by the neck, you watched as your assassin held him up until his feet kicked uselessly in the air. 

Every gun immediately trained on him and with their proximity you knew they wouldn’t miss a fatal shot if it came to it.

“Stop! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! Soldier, put him down!” You yelled as you maneuvered towards the edge of the bed. “Please, don't shoot, I can fix this!” you continued, trying to convince yourself as much as you convinced them. Familiar voices joined in on your plea as Sam and Steve finally entered the picture, urgently trying to talk down both the Winter Soldier and the secondary security team. 

“Bucky, It’s okay... Just put the kid down, alright?” Steve tried to reason with him, “He’s new, he doesn’t know what he’s doing yet.” Steve tried his best to stay calm and patient, but the young man was beginning to change colors now. “Bucky, put him down before you do something you can’t come back from.” But Bucky’s ears were deaf to the outside pleas and the Winter soldier refused to listen.

“Ah..!” You whimpered as you tried to stand and approach the commotion. The pain in your leg reached new heights as you tried to put weight on it, causing you to tumble to your knees almost immediately. You clutched your belly, hoping the sudden jostle wouldn’t upset the baby too much as you tried to get up again. 

“Hold on, Y/n. Stay down for a minute so we can wrap your leg…” Sam asked of you, moving over to help as soon as he saw the blood on your hands, “You’re losing plenty already.”

“No, I have to…. I can’t let him get hurt,” you argued, pushing away his helpful hands as you tried to stand again. You heard the crashing thud and rushed voices as you shakily got to your feet, leaning all your weight on your good leg. As you looked up again you came eye to eye with worry-filled icy blues.

“Sol-”

“Мое солнце  [My Sun]...” He interrupted, his metal arm snaking around your waist to pull you in possessively and away from those who threatened your safety. On the other side of the room, the nervous kid now coughed and wheezed for breath, but you were just happy to see he was still alive. 

“Please just listen to them. You’re already hurt, don’t get yourself killed…” you pleaded, your hand barely brushing over his bleeding wound before pulling his hand to your rounded belly. He tried to keep his expression steady, but you saw the way his eyes widened slightly as he looked down. “She needs someone looking out for her and I can’t do this on my own. I can’t keep away all the dangers of the world…” Your forehead rested against his as you tried to shift your weight, whining as you gave up and moved back. You couldn’t deny that this part of Bucky was her father too, even if he had been hidden away for ages, she was still his too. Whether Bucky would see it the same way you weren’t sure, but right now you were just concerned with making sure he got out of this alive. 

“I can’t do this without you…” 

The silence felt deafening as he considered. He never had to think about other people relying on him, not like this. His orders had always been to leave no threats, to finish his job and move on, no matter the cost to him. But the pain in his soft, fleshy shoulder was getting harder to ignore. The way his blood-soaked shirt clung to his arm now climbed to the forefront of his mind as he watched your big eyes stare back at him, desperate to understand. He was between a rock and a hard place. 

“I’ll be right beside you the whole time..” You assured him, “We both will, but please let everyone get us some help.” 

A gentle nudge pushed against his palm as his thoughts swirled around him, snapping him back to a single line of thought and he knew then. Defeat laid heavy on his shoulders as they slumped, accepting what must be done., “Мое солнц [My Sun] …”, He said, “Если вы так хотите, то я не буду жаловаться [If it is what you wish, then I will not complain].” 

You couldn’t tell just how long you had been holding the breath you let out, your muscles relaxing as he finally held his hands up. The security squad began coming forward with an array of cuffs, but it was Sam who stopped them this time, glancing back at you for confirmation as he assured them that they could take it from here. Despite the arguing and the hesitation, they seemed to relent, shifting their focus now to their injured colleague. 

Both Sam and Steve looked tired but relieved as they turned to the two of you, bloody and pained in your current state. Though they weren’t quite better; both of them looked like they had been the unfortunate punching bag of a certain super soldier mere hours before. Sam had bruises lining his arms from where he was surely blocking blow after blow and Steve smiled a bit with his busted lip, dried blood still stuck in the corner of his mouth.

“Let’s get you two to the tower…” 

----

The journey to the tower was quiet, your soldier never letting you out of arms reach as you all boarded the armored truck, and made your way up the tower and to the lab. 

Doctors tried to treat the both of you, but as soon as anyone dared to come close your assassin was right there to growl them back. They’d hardly be able to get past his possessive hands even if they could manage to get close, his touch keeping you pulled beside him at all times.

“Soldat…” you warned him, but he was too preoccupied gathering the medical bag they had been dropped. Coming over to you, there was no warning as he scooped you up from the ground and set you on a table to get to work. 

“Oh-!” You exclaimed as you held onto his strong shoulder, quickly getting plopped back down on the corner of the cold metal table. A shiver ran down your skin as you shifted against the sleek table, watching as practiced hands scoured through the medical bag, producing everything he needed as he went about fixing up your leg wordlessly. 

You were beyond thankful for the haze of the (baby-safe) painkillers as his fingers slid over the raw flesh. Despite the gentle numbing of the painkiller your fingers still lay tangled in his hair as he worked, only tugging in discomfort as the gauze wrapped tightly around your leg.

"Thank you..” You said when he finally finished, moving back to appreciate his work before giving it a satisfactory nod. His eyes had grown distant again, bits of confusion and uncertainty swirling in the storm of his eyes, and you reached out to stroke your thumb across his cheek. His stony cool expression remained as you touched him, his mouth staying a firm line as he instinctively leaned into your palm. You watched him for a moment before you continued, knowing that his thoughts must be far away.

“It's your turn now, big guy.... your shoulder is still seeping and you can’t keep losing blood like this," You urged him just as you had on the ride to the tower. He had refused to listen then, letting nothing else occupy his mind until he knew you were fully taken care of. But now as you sit safely before him, the only looming threats being Sam and Steve who seem to haunt the hallway outside, he finally relented.

You moved to stand, needing the angle to effectively dig out the bullet still lodged in his muscles, but he held you still with a single large hand on your shoulder, "Stay," he urged you with that low rumble of his. His eyes lingered on yours, ensuring you would do as he asked before he began to move again, gathering the supplies you would need.

He slid his bloody shirt off, revealing the weeping wound beneath and the scars of many wounds past. You expected him to stand in front of you, maybe sit so you could take care of him, but that didn’t seem to be the important thing right now.

He climbed up onto the cold table where you sat, curling onto his side with his back facing the door so his wounded shoulder sat closest to you. His head lay in your lap with a look of unmatched serenity as he pressed his forehead against your rounded belly. And there he rested, quiet and unmoving as he took his quiet moment. But he was far too exposed like this, far too trusting of “threats” lurking outside, and he almost reminded you of Bucky again. Was Bucky fighting to come back…? Was the Winter Soldier trusting you to watch his back? … or was he accepting of something you weren't sure he knew yet?

"Are you sure? It's going to be harder to take the bullet out this way. I don’t want to hurt you more than I have to," you tried to explain as you pulled out the forceps.

But he simply shook his head, "I know my time here is short, my Sun..." he said with an even tone, no semblance of fear to shake his voice, "Please let me enjoy it like this…."

Your voice caught in your throat as he answered, his blunt acceptance and knowing catching you off guard. You wished beyond anything that you could soothe him, to tell him no one was going to hurt him or take him away again. But you wouldn’t lie to him, so instead you said nothing, Your words rasping as you replied, "Of course, My star…."

The room was quiet as you worked, the only noise the sweet mumblings from your boyfriend's lips as he filled your baby’s ears with loving promises. His body let out a grunt and a soft squelch as you finally tugged the crushed bullet out. Pain creased his brow but his words never faltered and neither did the nudges or kicks he got in reply.

Carefully you cleaned up the blood, packing the wound as best you could, but you were sure Tony and his team would be redoing it soon nonetheless.

A sigh escaped him as he heard you putting away your tools, "My Sun?" he asked.

"Yes?"

“Is it time…?”

You cast your eyes downward, looking into those confused and swirling blues as they watched you with unbridled hope.

You nodded, wiping away the tears that welled in your eyes, “It’s time…” you whispered.

He nodded, thinking quietly as he looked down at your belly again, his hand smoothing over the skin he’s exposed, “Will I see you two again…?” 

Your heart broke at the slight waver in his voice, “Oh, my star…” you said, resting your palm against his cheek, “It’s just like I said, ‘you can not lose me in any way that would last’. I’ll see you again and again, in this life and the next,” you assured as you leaned down to kiss his temple, a small smile forming at the corners of his lips. Tears blinked from your eyes as you continued, “I don’t know when, or for how long, but you will see us again. You can always come home to me, and I will always be there to welcome you.” You leaned, slow as not to scare him, and kissed him gently as he turned again to look at you.

 It was awkward at first, but you didn’t mind, you couldn’t imagine the last time the Winter Soldier had felt such gentleness, let alone a kiss. 

But the moment was ripped away as the door opened, Steve, Sam, and Tony all standing in the doorway. “We’re ready for him,” Tony said simply, “Let's get this started so my lab techs can go home….” 

-----

You watched behind thick glass as Tony and his team of technicians attached various wires and machinery to Bucky’s body. Sam and Steve’s hands lie on your shoulders, trying to comfort you as you watch them finish tuning and placing everything. You watched as his blue eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, as still as a statue as he let them do their work.

“I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to watch this…” Steve tried to comfort you, but you only shook your head. 

“No… I promised I’d see him off,” you replied, then thought with a pause, “Despite all the warnings Bucky gave me I’m happy I got to see him face to face…” 

“Well, it helps that he wasn’t trying to beat the shit out of you…” Sam mumbled, getting an immediate nudge from you right in one of his bruises, “ Ow…okay, point taken.”

You smiled and shook your head. It was true though; despite the fear, blood, and death that dripped from his moniker, despite the pain you endured in his presence, you would do it all again. Bucky had hidden this part of him from you for so long, only ever showing you half of his face. And though you know he wouldn’t like it, you’re happy to finally see him in full light- to know and love him completely as he’s meant to be.

Tony says something that’s hard to make out through the glass, but you see him give a thumbs up to you all so he must have been ready. He moved to the switch, hesitating for a moment to let you say a quick goodbye. 

Your Soldier’s eyes found yours right away, but there was no trace of sorrow for you to see, no discomfort or fear. In fact, he seemed almost excited; excited and hopeful that when he saw you next he’d have a bundle of joy to look forward to as well. 

“Мое солнце [My Sun]...” you watched him say beyond the glass.

“I’ll see you again, My stars. I’m sure of it…” You replied with a soft smile.

He had just enough time to smile softly back at you, an image now pleasantly etched in your brain before Tony flipped the switch and the reset procedure began. 

You covered your eyes quickly as Bucky’s body began to convulse, his strained grunts and shouts breaching containment despite the way he tried to hold it all back. The sounds of pain continued for minutes, but it felt far longer. Though, it wasn’t until it got quiet that you began to worry. 

“Is it done? Is it over...?” You asked the men on either side of you, afraid to peek past your hands for fear of the worst.

“Doll…?” you heard the familiar voice call, gritty and rough from its recent use but still carrying that same soft tone he used with you.

Your heart swelled, “Bucky...?”

_____________

Taglist: @writingmysanity @simpxinnie (sorry I forgot to tag!)

It's been a while since I've written for our favorite sad man, so if I've missed you/you want to be added to the taglist, DM me to let me know!

[myownwholewildworld]

a man called joel (part 3)

↪ a "a man called otto" inspired fic ― jackson!joel miller x f!reader

series masterlist | follow @arranupdates for notifs! | AO3 summary: it's been four weeks since your patrol with joel. and while you try to forget about him and settle into your new life in Jackson, there's an inside voice screaming at you. one that you can't ignore and, thankfully, you don't. author's note: i, uh... well. part 3 is here! this is the scene i envisioned when i first thought of this series. not gonna lie, i'm nervous about posting this one. i hope you guys enjoy it (as much as angst can be enjoyed, that is). as always, please heed the warnings and if you like what you read, please consider interacting with this post or come yap at me! love you all <3 tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. ANGST. ellie makes an apperance and she's ruthless with joel (i'm sorry). joel breaks. suicide attempt. vomitting. tiny mention of blood. wound tending. a load of angst yes, but this time there's some angsty comfort too! dual pov. quotes from "a hundread years of solitude" on joel's pov; quotes from "chronicle of a death foretold" on reader's pov. reader is female, has hair. no use of y/n. joel is 61 and reader is 46. wordcount: ~8.6k. divider by @\saradika-graphics

Hurt wouldn’t even cover it. Disappointed was more like it—not with Joel, but with yourself. For allowing yourself to care too much about a stranger, for worrying over those who didn’t bother to at least be nice in return.

Should have learnt this was not how the world worked anymore, decades ago. The apocalypse had changed humanity, brought out the worst of people. And yet again, every time you encountered someone in need, you’d lend a hand. Only to have it bitten off by the harsh crudeness of this new reality that had been haunting you since the beginning of it all.

Time and time again, you had stumbled with the same stone—the stone of hope. When the virus took hold of what little remained of societal decency, you told yourself people were only scared, that was why they were cruelly acting out. When your partner became bitter and erratic, you again told yourself it was only because of desperation. When havoc caused division within your group, you tried to assuage them.

You’d always tried—it was in your nature, part of who you were. And if there was something you were proud of, was that you never let go of the values your parents taught you. Perhaps you were too kind-hearted for this vicious world. But you refused to allow the circumstances to change who you were at your core.

Despite the conviction, it was terribly hard to constantly extend a hand to others. You were drained. Not of purpose, but because of rejection. Having lost everyone who had accompanied you since the beginning, finding yourself alone now in this decrepit world… It was taking a big mental toll on you. And when you saw the pain disguised as bluntness in Joel, a piece of you reached out to him—the fixer in you had clung to the last dregs of him. Perhaps you didn’t know him but knew his harrowing agony. Knew what being the outcast felt like, what loneliness was. Knew the torment of what if, the misery of why didn’t I.

You were drowning in your own thoughts, overthinking the situation until you worried yourself to sleep. And in a moment of weakness right after your patrol with Joel, you had asked Tommy if you could move to a different house. Not your proudest moment.

“Anything wrong with the one you are in now? Pipes all good?” Tommy had asked you when you approached him in the community hall after ensuring Joel was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, no. Yeah, pipes are good now, thanks,” you had lied, still feeling guilty about having to block one to match the excuse you’d given him. “It’s just, uh… It’s too big of a house for just me, I’m sure a family would make good use of it. I’m happy to live somewhere smaller.”

And somehow, he’d seen through your lie this time around. The way his brows had furrowed as the inner working of his brain put the pieces together was eerily familiar—a shared mannerism between the Millers.

“Has Joel done or said something stupid?” When you didn’t reply, trying to hide your betraying expression, he had huffed. “Such a fucking prick. Is that why you’ve asked Maria to change your patrol shifts too? I swear, when I catch him!”

You reassured Tommy over and over again that neither of those two asks had anything to do with his older brother. Theatrics was never your forte, so whether he bought it or not, you didn’t know.

Now you just felt silly for letting Joel doubt yourself, what you stood for. His rejection shouldn’t set you back.

He doesn’t want my help? Fine then. I’ll help someone else.

But as that thought formed, your mind drifted away to that fateful patrol day. How you found him, frozen in front of that clicker. How the despair and regret flickered in the brown bark of his eyes. How the knife slipped from his hand—Wait, or did he drop it? Did he mean not to put up any fight? Did he mean to give up? Did he mean to let the infected kill him?

Did he mean to commit suicide?

No. He wouldn’t. He’s got a family, you thought, your mind jarring and struggling with the daunting idea of someone ending their life.

But did having a family really mean anything? Did having a family mean you didn’t feel alone? You knew it didn’t.

Perhaps I didn’t see it right, perhaps the knife did slip.

But if it did, why would you find him crying? Looking down at your hands, you rubbed your fingers together—you could still feel the dampness of his tears, the wetness of his desperation, from when you cradled his weathered face and brushed the tears away.

Your mind drifted back to your conversation with Tommy three weeks ago, the unsettling feeling returning to your belly.

“Have you checked in on him lately?” The question had slipped before you could refrain yourself from asking. Because despite how rude he’d been, you still worried about him, especially after what you thought you saw with the clicker in the outbuilding.

“Who? Joel? He’s fine. He’s always been this grumpy, don’t worry about him,” Tommy had said with a laugh and a wave of his hand. “Why you ask?”

You did really consider mentioning what you had witnessed on patrol, but didn’t want to cause any more trouble between the brothers if you were wrong. Besides, it was obvious Joel wasn’t seeking any help.

Are you fucking stupid or are you just pretending to be?

Your muscles stiffened suddenly, the disrespect of his words rummaging in the fresh gaping wound in your chest. How some simple sentence almost had you folded—a slap in the face would have hurt less. The despise in his eyes, how he backed up like a cornered animal when you reached for him again—as if the mere thought of you was disgusting, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of you putting your hands on him again.

Your heart stirred uncomfortable in your chest, a heavy, surrendered sigh escaping from your lips. How could a stranger’s rejection have such a big impact on you?

Just let it go. He doesn’t want your help. Move on.

A knock on your door startled you. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you untucked your legs from underneath you before throwing the blanket aside and standing up off the couch. It was almost midnight, the deadly quiet of the night amplifying the sound of the wind rustling leaves nearby, and you were not expecting any visitors.

Leaving the book—the one where you had gotten stuck reading the same paragraph repeatedly while your mind drifted away—on the side table, you tiptoed to the front door. Looking through the peephole, your blood froze.

Right there, standing on your porch in the dead of night, was the personification of your hurt. Joel Miller. In the darkness, he still looked tired and restless. When was the last time he slept? you wondered. Joel Miller looked like a man with one foot in the grave.

Your fingers curled around the handle, but you hesitated—what could he possibly want at this ungodly hour? He’d probably seen the orange shadow your lamp casted on the living room’s window, so there was no point in pretending you weren’t awake. But still, you stalled.

Joel raised his fist to knock again but thought better of it. You saw the doubt dancing in the whisky hue of his irises, all resolution abandoning him. His lips fell into a flat line and then nodded to himself before turning around.

Your heart raced and before he could walk away, you swung the door open.

“Joel?” you whispered, switching on the porchlight and hugging yourself when the cold breeze hit you.

Joel’s bowed head snapped up, his shoulders squaring instantly. For a brief second, he paused—as if he considered playing deaf and running away. Slowly Joel veered around and faced you.

His worn expression took you aback. Perhaps the cast of the porchlight magnified the dark circles under his orbs, the yellowish tint of the bruise kissing the exposed skin of his neck, the deep creasing lines around his eyes and mouth.

Joel Miller was a man who looked… defeated? Torn? Exhausted? Purposeless?

“Uh, hi,” he muttered in return, his eyes taking in the sight of you after your name rolled easily off his tongue.

You felt more self-conscious now—you were barefoot, hadn’t taken care of your hair today, and you had the worst pyjamas on, holes and old stains included. So unwittingly, you hugged yourself harder.

“Hi, Joel,” you repeated. “What do you want?”

You didn’t intend for your question to have a resentful hint, but it did. It just slipped, like the knife off his hand.

“Uhm,” his hand flew to the back of his neck, his lips flattening even more. “I, uh… Well…”

He hadn’t said much yet, but you sensed what this late-night visit could be about. Was he about to ask for your forgiveness? An actual, heart-felt apology for the crudeness of his actions and words. In all honesty, that was all you needed to acquit his behaviour. Everyone deserved a second chance, deserved to right a wrong.

You watched him struggle for words as your heart raced expectantly, fighting back the tiny smile that threatened to curl your lips a tad too early.

“I… Yeah. I was wondering if I could borrow that book you recommended on our last day of patrol?” Joel stumbled over his own words, his jaw locking. “Chronicle of a Death Foretold?”

The warm feeling swarming your belly soon turned cold. Heavy, churning, your disappointment so thick you had to swallow to untie the knot in your throat. Why should you expect something different? An apology from him? You almost scoffed at your risible occurrence.

“Is that it?” you mumbled in a vain attempt to hide your frustration.

Joel paused, mouth opening and closing fast as thunder. His Adam’s apple bobbed, words hitching at the back of his throat. You could see the pulleys of his mind at work in the windows of his eyes, the only tell he couldn’t govern.

And yet again, disillusionment followed.

“Yeah,” another uncomfortable silence. Joel’s posture shifted, his fists clenching. “I just finished my book, so I have nothing to read.”

“No, sorry,” you gritted, sensing your own annoyance building up. “I haven’t finished it yet.”

If your retort took him aback, you couldn’t tell. Joel just gave you a stern nod instead, his determination deflating behind his brown eyes. Was he so proud he wouldn’t admit he’d treated you wrong?

“Right, sorry to disturb. Night,” and as fast as he came, Joel was gone.

You saw him crossing the thick blanket of snow, head buried between his shoulders, before he disappeared through his front door.

Every day for the next week, you warred with yourself. Perhaps it was your people-pleasing tendencies, but more than once you caught yourself before walking up the steps of Joel’s porch and offering him Gabo’s book.

It was a losing battle though. Eventually you’d wave a white flag, stick it in the middle of the street between Joel’s and your house. Claim that it was his fault that you hadn’t given in for not opening up, for not being brave enough to say what he came to say—or what you thought he came to say.

But upon reflection, forcing someone to acknowledge their grief, their solitude, their struggles, was not the best approach. Trust required time, and it was obvious Joel Miller needed more than that. You were now convinced that he truly was at the end of his wits. The knife hadn’t slipped, he’d dropped it—it was as clear as the sun would rise tomorrow over his roof.

You wondered if his family knew, if he had at least confided in someone. Because if he hadn’t, then this secret you were keeping was eating away at the confines of your contrition. It would tear you apart, being complicit in his pain.

Sat on the bay window of your living room, you read again the last paragraph of the book.

“Santiago, my son,” she shouted to him, “what has happened to you?” “They've killed me, Wene child,” he said. He stumbled on the last step, but he got up at once. “He even took care to brush off the dirt that was stuck to his guts,” my Aunt Wene told me. Then he went into his house through the back door that had been open since six and fell on his face in the kitchen.

The last word echoed in your mind, so loud you had to whisper it. Kitchen. You said it again with a trembling sigh, wearing it out, flushing it out of your brain.

Why did you suddenly have this déjà vu, anxiety-like feeling sinking in the pit of your stomach?

As you’d done at least a dozen times in the last two hours, your eyes moved away from the yellowed pages across the street. In his porch, Joel was still in the same position as you last checked on him. Impassive like a statue, you wondered if he’d frozen up with the chilling temperatures. He’d been sitting on that bench for over two hours now, staring into the distance as his only pastime. Waiting. For something to happen. Or someone to show up.

It worried you how he hadn’t moved an inch, what was in his mind that had him under such a numbing spell. Perhaps you should intervene now, talk to him, ask him why he was out there alone wrapped in the blanket of such misty night.

But before you could make up your mind, someone did appear. Getting closer to the window glass, you watched from behind the curtains how the girl approached the porch. Her stance was rigid, her features young. She was clearly a teenager, then it hit you. Did Joel have a daughter?

The moment Joel saw her, he jumped up to his feet instantly, his posture as stiff as hers. The girl huffed, her shoulders slouching, as she walked past the steps where Joel was standing. He must have shouted back, because her head sank between her shoulders—a gesture you had seen Joel do just a week ago.

The teenager turned around, her face fierce as she replied something you didn’t quite catch. By the way her hands moved as she spoke, and how Joel’s demeanour soured even from the distance, you knew a heated argument had ensued between the two. It only lasted a minute or two before the girl stormed off, walking around the house and heading towards the garage at the back.

Your attention drifted back to Joel, who was still at the top of the stairs. You couldn’t fully see his face, only his profile—but whatever had just happened, had affected him. His right hand curled around the banister while his eyes tracked his daughter walking away and his left clutched at his chest, his stance shifting as if he was in unbearable pain. Joel remained still for another minute, and you wished you knew what was crossing his mind at that precise moment.

He looked so lonely. So broken. So… lifeless. The stillness of his posture spoke of something deeper, a sorrow so heavy it would compete with Atlas carrying the weight of the world. As if he tiptoed on the edge of life—staring into the abyss, pondering, weighing his worth.

Your heart clenched at the sight of him alone on that porch. Only if you could reach out, tell him whatever it was, it would be okay.

Why doesn’t it register in your fucking brains that I want to be left alone, huh?

But as you saw him steeling himself and walking back inside, your insides churned. You knelt on the window bay, watching the ajar door Joel had left behind.

An impending sense of doom flushed through you, your heart racing wildly, your breathing quickening.

“The truth is I didn’t know what to do,” he told me. “My first thought was that it wasn’t any business of mine but something for the civil authorities, but then I made up my mind to say something in passing to Placida Linero.” Yet when he crossed the square, he’d forgotten completely. “You have to understand,” he told me, “that the bishop was coming that day.”

But did you? Did you know what to do? Would you intervene, even if there was only a very thin possibility you were right, when your mind, your soul, was screaming at you right now?

Your heart jolted in your chest, mind fuzzy with doubt. While the Vicario brothers had been the ones to skew Santiago Nasar’s life, Joel’s Grim Reaper could be someone scarier—himself.

Maybe I’m just overreacting, reading into it far too much, you tried to convince yourself.

But as minutes went by, eyes glued to his front door, not doing anything wasn’t an option. Not when your heart and mind knew there was something wrong. You couldn’t explain why or what it was, just that it was.

Getting up, you grabbed an old cardigan, slipped your feet into the winter boots laying on the floor by your front door, and sprinted outside with the book tucked under your elbow.

You sprinted across the blizzard, reaching Joel’s porch within seconds. And even though the door was clearly not shut, you still knocked.

“Joel?” you called out, controlling the tremor in your voice. “I finished the book. I was wondering if you wanted to borrow it now?”

No reply, silence followed your feeble attempt at reconciliation.

With your heart climbing up your throat, you knocked again, the door cracking open a bit more.

“Joel?”

Nothing.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed the door open and walked inside, putting your guard up to whatever you would find. The hallway was dark and cold, the wintery breeze whistling past you. Softly closing the door behind you, you put down the book on the console table and peeked inside the living room.

The decoration was rustic, some dark woods contrasting with the soft blue on the walls. Every piece of furniture looked crafted, curated, not like the mustard couch you had falling apart in the middle of your living room. The fireplace was still crackling, the embers glowing under the soft light of a standing lamp in the corner. But it was empty.

Your instinct told you to move further down the house, and you did in silence. It was so quiet, you were sure your heartbeat could be heard from a mile away. Trudging past the dining room, you got to the kitchen.

“There had never been a death so foretold.”

Your breath hitched; your heart stilled. Under the doorframe you froze, like a rabbit in the presence of a predator. Only you were no prey—Joel was.

Prey to the drowning solitude of his home, of his own loneliness, of life itself.

Prey to the forgetfulness of death—an omen that now made sense, a subtle hint you hadn’t first fully comprehended when he recited those words to you three weeks ago.

Prey to a desperation so thick, it was literally killing him.

Prey to masquerading his pain, deceitful in his actions, in his rude, careless demeanour.

“He was healthier than the rest of us, but when you listened with the stethoscope you could hear the tears bubbling inside his heart.”

Perhaps you couldn’t hear the bubbling of his heart, but you could definitely see the foam pooling at the corners of his mouth as his legs twitched on the floor of his poorly-lit kitchen.

The ephemeral moment stretched for a second too long as your mind tried to grasp what your heart already knew.

Joel was ending it—his life. The suffering. The heartache. The desolation. The guilt he carried, for whatever he thought was unforgivable.

No.

And in the blink of an eye, you lurched forward, your knees skidding on the scratched wooden planks as you landed by his side. His whole body convulsed, his limbs shaking the life out of him, draining him. The chattering of his teeth gritting made your belly churn as tears welled up.

“Joel. Oh my God, Joel!” You whispered, trembling hands hovering over him as your eyes roved over the gut-wrenching vision in front of you. “No, no, no!”

Your desperate wails became louder, but your mind got sharper. This couldn’t be happening. You needed to act now if you were to save his life, there was no time to run out and scream for help. Joel had no time left.

You rolled him over to his side, an inner debate happening as you did.

Should I? If this is what he really wants, if his pain is so great he’s decided to end it, should I intervene? Who am I to take the choice away from him?

But at the end of the day, the real question was: could you live with yourself if you let him die? Could you look at Tommy’s eyes, at Benji’s or Maria’s, and tell them you didn’t dare intercede? That you rather watch him die than having him resent you even more?

What is one more ounce of hate?

And with that thought, your selfish decision was made. Craning his head back a little and holding his jaw with your left hand, you sank three fingers down his foamy mouth, pressing them down on his tongue.

Joel retched, even in his almost gone state.

His eyes fluttered open for an ephemeral moment, tears smudging the beautiful chestnut of his irises, to then shut while his limbs kicked everywhere.

“No, Joel, please,” you pleaded in a sob, forcing your fingers deeper down his throat and pressing down on his tongue again. “P-please come back to me.”

Finally—thankfully—Joel heaved, and you let go of an audible, relieving cry when you felt the warmth of his vomit running past your fingers. You gently held his head tilted towards the floor so his airway wouldn’t block and removed your fingers from his mouth.

“Oh, thank goodness,” you sighed tremblingly, rubbing his shoulder before you raked your fingers through his soft, silvery curls, so his hair wouldn’t be in his eyes. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Oh, God. Please, be okay. Please, Joel.”

He had a nasty cut on his left temple running down to his brow, probably from plummeting onto the floor and hitting his head on the countertop. It was still bleeding, but there were more pressing matters.

Joel stayed down for a minute while you whispered your relief, it was obvious his brain had been battling for oxygen and was trying to come back to reality. You brushed his cheek with your thumb before he showed signs of wanting to sit up.

Wrapping an arm around his waist, you did. Joel leaned back, back resting against the kitchen island. It took him a second before his misty eyes focused on you, his breathing as shaky as your soul.

Under his intense stare you froze again, kneeling in front of him. His eyes were windows to a profound desperation, a grief so deep you’d only dared to imagine, but one you felt down to your core, in your bones. It hit you like a massive wave, flooding your chest with a dread you hadn’t let yourself feel since you arrived at Jackson.

“Joel…” you hushed faintly, one hand reaching up to his shoulder, a comforting caress.

He didn’t reject your advance. And that was when you knew he was broken inside. All pieces of him scattered around like shards of glass, a puzzle with missing bits—the most important ones. The ones that made him, him.

And then Joel swallowed hard before covering his eyes with one broad palm. His shoulders shook in silence, and with that your heart shrank and fell freely into the pit of your stomach.

“Oh, Joel,” you mumbled shakily, scooting over towards him and embracing him, wrapping him in your warmth.

Instead of denying his own tears as he did on patrol, Joel cried. Soft, heartbreaking sobs that found root in your heart, and you just couldn’t help yourself but hug him tighter, fighting your tears back at how low he’d fallen to be openly vulnerable with you.

“It’s okay, Joel, you’re okay,” the words stuck to the back of your mouth. “Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise. Whatever it is, I will help you. You’re not alone, Joel. You aren’t. I’m here. I’ll always be here if you need me to. It’s okay.”

You cradled the back of his head with one hand while the other was firmly on his back, bringing him closer to you. And when you felt one of his on the small of your back in a half embrace, thick tears sprang to your eyes.

You held him tight, allowing him to brush some of the weight he carried off his shoulders. And then, your own guilt began suffocating you. Was he crying because you took the choice away from him? Because he wasn’t dead? Because he wasn’t resting?

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t… I just… I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you go. Please, forgive me. I just couldn’t,” you begged of him, a plea for lenience that escaped before you could wish it back.

Fifteen minutes earlier...

“You’re very late, Ellie,” Joel reproached, arms folded at the top of the steps.

He fought to keep his tone steady, he hated doing this. He’d been worried sick all night, wondering where Ellie was. The catastrophist in him had already imagined every single scenario where she’d be hurt or left for dead in a trench. He’d felt so anxious for the last three hours, Joel had to set aside the carving he had been working on after messing it up twice.

Seeing her walking towards the house had filled him with an immense relief, his heart beating so fast he was afraid it would grow legs and run away. But dread quickly followed—the father in him couldn’t just sweep it under the rug. Ellie needed to be reminded of the rules. And she’d put up a fight, make him the bad guy.

And despite being okay with becoming the villain in her story, it still hurt him. A wound so deep that his heart was splintering, because he didn’t really want to do it. Didn’t want to grow further apart from her, the abyss between them so big now it seemed insurmountable. Their relationship was almost beyond repair—he was painfully aware of it—and telling her off for coming home late would only complicate it more.

But he couldn’t just ignore it. He had to do something.

Ellie’s shoulders dropped as she walked past him towards the garage, blatantly disregarding his presence.

Another chink in his already hollering heart.

“Ellie, I’m talking to you,” he raised his voice, warring with himself to keep a calm demeanour. “It’s past two in the morning. You should have come home at least three hours ago.”

Ellie stopped right in her tracks, turning around to face him. The despise in her eyes was as fiery as it was seven months ago when she learnt the truth. And despite the passage of time, it hurt all the same, if not more.

“Who do you think you are to control my every move?” She hissed between gritted teeth, cocking a querying brow.

Your father, was the innate response that burnt the tip of his tongue. Joel fought back the words, knowing full well they would only aggravate the situation.

“What? Do you really think you’re my dad?” Ellie scoffed loudly, an instigating smile curling her mouth.

It didn’t reach her eyes, more of a frustrated grimace than anything else, but still a knife through the heart would have hurt less—Ellie’s words so perfectly aimed, they’d hit the bullseye, causing internal bleeding. Joel felt a stabbing sensation behind his eyes but reined the feeling in with a deep breath.

She doesn’t mean it, she’s angry, he reminded himself.

“I may not be your biological father, but—”

“No, Joel. There’s no but. You aren’t my dad,” Ellie gritted in frustration, her hands moving as she kept on going at him. “My real dad wouldn’t have lied to me for more than four years about what happened in the hospital. My real dad wouldn’t have taken away from me the only thing that made me valuable to this world. My real dad wouldn’t have promised to not kill Eugene to then fucking shoot him while I was gone!”

She knew how to twist the knife, how to make the wound even worse than it already was. Joel’s mouth ran dry, a gurgling void consuming the pit of his stomach as the words settled in his brain. His heart was beating so hard, his eardrums were about to explode.

Joel needed to redirect the conversation before Ellie said something that would tip him over the edge. He needed to keep a cool mind, try not to let her accusations take root in his heart. Joel had to bite back, “I did do all of it because I love you like my own blood, Ellie. You are more valuable than your immunity, that’s not what makes you, you, not to me. And I would do it all over again if I had the chance.”

“Why are you late? Who were you with?” he said instead, swallowing the suffocating knot in his throat.

Ellie laughed in disbelief, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation.

“Why do you want to know? So you can go and kill them too for keeping me away from this dreadful house?” she retorted back, huffing. “Since that’s how you deal with every fucking problem in your life. Kill them all, right?”

“Because I’m your guardian—”

“—I’m nineteen, Joel. I don’t fucking need you—”

“And as long as you live under my roof, you’ll play by my rules,” he finished, ignoring her interruption.

“Then perhaps I should move out!” Ellie shouted at him, taking a step back. “God, were you this insufferable with Sarah too? Because if you were, I’m sure she hated you for being the worst dad ever. Perhaps it was for the better.”

Ellie didn’t need to specify what was for the better, Joel caught the meaning instantly. That she died.

That was a way to take the knife out of the gaping wound to have him bleed to death. Her cruelness left him speechless, the prickling feeling at the back of his eyes returning. That was the lowest blow he’d ever received; one he didn’t expect from someone he held so dear despite the souring of their relationship.

“You don’t mean that,” Joel whispered, forcing himself to swallow.

Ellie paused—her expression faltered for an instant, perhaps realising the damage she’d caused, but her anger blinded her, stronger than the side of her that wanted to apologise.

“I’m tired,” she mumbled suddenly, her anger slowly deflating, taking a few steps away.

“Ellie,” Joel called under his shaky breath. “I—”

I’m sorry. I wish I could have done better. I just wanted to protect you. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing another child, of losing you. Perhaps you don’t understand how much I love you, how there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you. Maybe one day you’ll know, you’ll understand why I did what I did. I’m really sorry.

“It’s late,” Ellie cut him off. “And I better go to bed before you kick my ass.”

And with that, she disappeared into the gloomy night.

I’ve already lost her too.

The realisation hit him like a sledgehammer, so hard it made him stagger. Joel grabbed the handrail for support, his other hand flying to his chest. His heart was pumping so hard, it almost felt like that muscle was about to give out.

It felt like his heart had been ripped out, chucked on the floor for someone to stomp. Joel truly had no reason to be here anymore―the only tether to keep him earthbound had just been severed.

Ellie wasn’t angry with him, no; she hated him. So much that she hadn’t hesitated to bring Sarah up in conversation, knowing how much of a touchy subject it was for Joel. His memories of his daughter were fading, so ethereal now Joel almost thought he dreamt her. The only ones that were vivid in his brain were the bad ones—all the poor decisions he made, in the last few hours of her life.

Grief was a funny thing—how it gave a loud voice to his mistakes and drowned the actual good things he did for her, how it made him focus on the bad rather than the good. He sometimes even doubted if he’d ever been good to Sarah at all—good enough at least, better than his own father was.

“The heart’s memory is selective, which is the basis of its deceitfulness.”

Ellie throwing that accusation at him had only enlivened his most dreadful fear. Had he been the worst dad to Sarah? Had she hated him too? Did she blame him for her death, for his low reaction response, for not taking the bullet for her?

I wanted to. I wish I could have. I wish it had been me.

Taking a big, shaky breath, Joel made the decision he’d been postponing for four weeks now in the hopes that the situation would get better, that he would feel better. However, it had only gotten worse. Ellie had been very clear that she didn’t need him anymore, that he was just a hindrance to her life—a reminder of how she’d failed humanity. Tommy didn’t need him either; he had a thriving family of his own, and Joel was convinced that his sombre presence would only do more harm than good.

And without his family, there was nothing left for him to do on this earthly plane. Joel was exhausted—the kind of mental fatigue that only a deep, forever sleep would cure. And he was done with it all; with this feeling of harrowing melancholy, of drowning loneliness, of death sniffing at the cuffs of his pants.

He couldn’t bear the thought of one hundred years of solitude, not anymore. Joel had lived his life and had nothing left to give.

In a blurry haze, he walked inside his home.

“[…] not knowing what he was doing because he did not know where his feet were or where his head was, or whose feet or whose head, and feeling that he could no longer resist the glacial rumbling of his kidneys and the air of his intestines, and fear, and the bewildered anxiety to flee and at the same time stay forever in that exasperated silence and that fearful solitude.”

It all happened as if he wasn’t even in control of his own actions. As if he was watching himself from outside, completely detached from his own body. A void in his mind so big, there had been no room for thought. With trembling hands, Joel had taken out the two letters he’d written to Tommy and Ellie and smoothed them down on the kitchen counter besides the sink before he’d headed to the medicine cabinet. Anything he could blindly reach for would do.

It had only taken a few minutes for all the pills to make him feel sick.

Next thing he knew, Joel was on the floor, sweating and drifting away in agony—his mind spiralling, his throat itching with bile, his stomach burning.

And when he blinked alive again and saw you there, Joel thought you were a vision, that you really weren’t there. That perhaps, finally, he had succeeded, and you were there to guide him into the afterlife.

But the moment you hugged him, the moment he felt himself bound to Earth again, Joel knew he wasn’t dreaming. This was real—you were real. The person he’d mistreated at every opportunity, so much he’d seen the hurt in your eyes and regretted it.

Joel tried to mend his mistake—tried to apologise the night he walked up to your porch at the stroke of midnight. But his resolution had wavered, and his stupid ass had asked for the book instead. The disappointment in your features still haunted him, even at Death’s door.

And yet, here you were, comforting him at his lowest, seeing the ache he’d carried for so long pour out into the world.

Joel had not been able to contain the tears, the desperation trickling out the cracks of his shattered soul, soaking the fabric of your cardigan. And as much as he hated being vulnerable, he just couldn’t rein his demons back in.

The loss he felt was greater than anything he’d experienced before. So loud, yet so quiet in its disguise; so alien, yet so eerily familiar in its pain; so suffocating, yet so freeing in its release. He’d lost so much of himself over the past few months, there was nothing left of him—just a carcass of his existence, a cocoon that kept the jagged pieces of his being feebly glued together, just enough to keep him standing for the people he loved.

Not people, just the one person who grounded his world, Ellie. And with her deeming him expendable, what was there left to fight for? What was his reason for existing if not to be a better version of himself with Ellie by his side?

At sixty-one, all joy and happiness had snuffed out of his life.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t… I just… I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you go. Please, forgive me. I just couldn’t.”

And then there was you, apologising for bringing him back, for pulling his strings like an expert puppeteer. For undoing his choice without a second thought. For forcing him back into a dark, soul-crushing world.

Should he be mad? Yes, but Joel had no energy left to confront you nor anyone. His throat was ablaze and sore, the aftertaste tingling on his tongue. And then the exhaustion—he was so fucking tired, his arms felt heavier than usual, his legs almost paralysed. His tummy churned, another wave of nausea overtaking him.

His head snapped to one side when the bile rose up his throat. He couldn’t stop the retching before he vomited again, fire climbing up his mouth with a pungent, acidic tang.

You didn’t even flinch, didn’t even step back away from him when he almost puked on you. Instead, you patted his shoulder before your hand travelled up the back of his neck to skim his curls back and away from his forehead. The caress was so gentle, so comforting and almost intimate, it made his skin crawl.

“Why… why are you here?” Joel asked gruffly, brushing his mouth with the back of his still shaky hand.

Your fingers dropped from his hair, your eyes full of a compassion he’d never witnessed before. They were warm and calming, bright under the orange glow of the overhead light. But they also had a sadness to it—almost as if you understood him, as if you knew what he was going through.

Sitting back on your heels, you sighed. “I… I just finished reading Chronicle of a Death Foretold and thought you might wanna borrow it,” you uttered under your breath, your hands twisting on your lap, but your eyes were transfixed on him. “The truth is, I saw you on the porch with your daughter. And then I had this… urge to come see you.”

Joel didn’t correct you about Ellie. Despite how adamant she’d been about him not being a father to her, despite her cruelness, he still believed himself to be her dad. Because that was what fathers should do—love their kids unconditionally, even when they would hurt you with their spiteful words. Even when they would walk away and never look back. Even when they would banish you and disown you. Because even then, even after Ellie had implanted the seed for his descent into hell, Joel still loved her as his own, always would. No words or argument could ever change that.

The irony of your words didn’t escape him—had you foretold his death? This urge you spoke of, was destiny getting in the way of his not-so-well-crafted plan?

Joel cleared his throat, sitting up a bit, the back of his head still resting on the side panel of the kitchen island.

“You shouldn’t have,” was all he managed to whisper.

You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have saved me. You should have let me die.

Your gaze dropped before your eyes flickered back to his. Remorseful, but determined. A beacon of hope, a lighthouse in the middle of a thunderstorm.

“I know,” you mumbled with a little shrug without breaking eye contact.

Joel’s chest felt suddenly heavy—like a stone had lodged itself between his ribs, his throat clamping up and it had nothing to do with wanting to puke again. Such a feeling was foreign to him, its warmth slowly flushing through his body.

“I’m tired. You should go,” was his way of disclaiming this alien sensation.

You quickly sprung up to action, his petition for you to leave fell on deaf ears. Squatting by his side, you slithered your left arm around the back of his waist to help him up, the other hand wrapped around his front to clutch at his ribs. Too tired to reject your assistance, Joel managed to get up to his feet.

He staggered back, the whole world spiralling around him as his mind felt extremely buzzy. His fingers curled around the rim of the kitchen island to steady himself, all the while you were still holding him.

“I’m not going anywhere. Let’s get you to bed.”

The side glance you threw his way admitted no discussion, so for once Joel kept quiet. Trudging on wobbly legs, he made it upstairs with you by his side, his right arm draped around your shoulders for stability and your fingers intertwined with his.

You opened the door to the bedroom he’d nodded to and walked him inside. You pushed him towards the bed and almost forced him to sit down on the mattress. Without saying a word, you knelt before him to undo the knots of his boots and slide them off his feet.

“Where do you keep your pyjamas?” You asked unfazed by it all, towering up to your full height.

Joel’s Adam’s apple bobbed. It felt too intimate, too… close for comfort.

“I’m just gonna get them for you and then I’m gonna step out while you change,” you explained with a soft smile. “You can’t sleep with those clothes on, Joel.”

“First drawer of the dresser,” he mumbled, mind still hazy.

You grabbed his plaid pyjamas and left them on the bed by his side. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Joel saw you disappearing through the doorframe. Moving at snail speed, he managed to change into his night clothes before you returned with a tray. You were balancing a jug, a glass and a small bowl on it, a clean cloth perched on your shoulder.

“You’ve got a nasty cut on your temple. I’m not good at stitching, but we should clean it up before it becomes infected,” you explained while placing the tray on the nightstand before sitting beside him.

Joel had no energy left to oppose your care, so he just let you do. Your feather-like touch on his temple was soothing—so much that his eyes shut close while you delicately wiped the blood off his skin. You were so gentle he didn’t even wince once, or perhaps his mind was so fuzzy there was no room for physical pain.

“All done,” you announced after a couple of minutes. “You gotta drink all that water, okay? You may feel sick again too, although I think you’ve thrown everything up now. But just in case, that’s what the bowl is for.”

Joel nodded thoughtlessly, taking the glass you had just passed him and downing it. He gave it back to you, who put it down on the nightstand again.

“Do you want me to go get someone? Your brother? Your partner? A doctor perhaps?”

His head snapped up instantly, his heart mildly racing in worry. Joel quickly shook his head, the world spinning some more.

“No, don’t,” he husked out, swallowing a raspy groan, his hands curling into fists.

“Okay, I won’t,” you brushed his knee with yours. “Get some sleep. I ain’t going anywhere.”

“You don’t need to stay—”

“I want to stay, Joel, and I will stay. You’d have to kick me out of your house, and I don’t think you’re in a position to do that right now,” you said with gentleness before palming your thighs and standing up. “If you need me, shout.”

Your mind was still racing from everything that had unfolded. When you ran towards Joel’s house an hour ago, despite the doom pooling in your belly, you definitely had not expected to find him on the verge of death.

Your hands were shaking from the adrenaline running wild through your system, trying to come to terms with what had happened, what had pushed Joel so far as to take his own life. Because there was no denying what you had seen—it hadn’t been an accident. Which then made you wonder about the other times you’d found him.

Had he tried to end his life when you saw lying on the floor through the window? At the time you just thought he had fallen, an unlucky misstep on a ladder while changing a lightbulb. But now… the pieces of the puzzle started fitting together. Same with the mishap with the infected—he’d definitely dropped the knife on purpose.

How long had this been going on? Had he sought help? Was his family aware? Tommy? Maria? His daughter? Had Joel become so good at hiding his own misery that no one had really noticed how the light in his eyes was dwindling?

How alone he must have felt after at least three attempts without no one spotting the signs.

At least you had. Late, almost too late, but you had. And while you knew he wasn’t appreciative of your intervention, you just couldn’t let it happen. Your first instinct had been to help—like you always did. That part of you had almost died in the first few years of the apocalypse, but as time went on and people’s humanity waned, you found yours. You had been the voice of reason in your group, the kind-hearted one that would welcome strangers in despite your friends’ reticence. You had a knack for telling who was a good person, and that sixth sense had never failed you.

And that was why you were sure about Joel. He was pretty rough around the edges, but his core was good. You just knew.

Your mind kept on drifting away, running through everything that had happened over and over again until you almost made yourself dizzy with worry. You were now in the kitchen, having finished cleaning up the mess on the floor so Joel wouldn’t have to deal with it tomorrow morning.

I’ll just go and check on him, make sure he’s still breathing and doing okay, you thought to yourself while washing your hands in the kitchen sink.

As you grabbed a kitchen towel to dry your skin, your eyes landed on two brown, folded letters near the sink. One was addressed to Tommy, the other one to an Ellie. Your heart began beating wildly in your chest.

They are goodbye letter, suicide letters to his loved ones.

“Who are you and where is Joel?” A snappy voice brought you back.

The interruption startled you, heart jolting against your ribs, as you turned around.

The teen you’d seen on Joel’s porch earlier was standing a few feet away from you, gun cocked and pointed at you. You raised your hands up in the air instinctually, still clutching at the kitchen towel, fearing the worst. Joel’s daughter clicked her tongue when you didn’t respond.

“Uh, hi. Ellie?” You ventured, remembering the name on the letter. A glint in her eyes confirmed you were right. “I’m your new neighbour. I came to Jackson around a month ago. Please don’t shoot me.”

Ellie’s head tilted to one side as she scanned you from head to toe. Her eyes momentarily sparkled with some recognition, and she sheathed her gun again.

“I’ve seen you before. You live across the street, right?”

You took in the biggest breath of your life and nodded, dropping your hands and twisting the towel.

“Yeah. Sorry. Your dad’s not feeling well. He’s gone to bed,” you excused Joel’s absence the best you could without giving away what had transcended tonight. You didn’t want his daughter to worry.

A sudden realisation dawned upon you—had you not intervened when you did, Ellie would have found Joel dead on the kitchen floor. Your eyes watered at the idea, but you blinked the tears away before they formed.

“Is he okay?” Ellie asked, an instant worry washing over her young face as she took a few steps towards you.

The letters, she can’t see them.

Thinking as fast as you could, you threw the kitchen towel on the counter, aim perfect, and it landed on top of the letters, covering them completely.

“Yeah, he’s fine,” you quickly put her at ease, walking towards her and patting her shoulder. “He must have eaten something that didn’t agree with him, that’s all.”

 “Shit,” Ellie muttered, sitting down on one of the stools by the island.

Then you remembered the heated argument you saw between them, and your heart silently cried for the young lady. Ellie must feel terrible now, her troubled expression darkening while she picked at her nails.

“Don’t worry. Joel’s okay now, Ellie. I promise,” the last word came out in a whisper. You didn’t want to lie to her but couldn’t tell her the crude truth either. If she was to find out, it couldn’t be through you. “Was there something you wanted?”

“I, uh… Just came to get an apple,” Ellie shrugged, reaching for the fruit bowl on the kitchen island.

You could tell that wasn’t the reason she was here. Perhaps she had come to apologise after the fight with her dad. If they two had something in common, was their reserve for apologies, that was for sure.

“Better get going,” Ellie muttered before biting into the apple and hopping back on the floor. “You staying?”

“Yeah. Just want to make sure he’s okay, then I’ll go back home.”

“Alright. Night.”

“Night, Ellie.”

Ellie lingered in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs for a second, probably considering going to check on Joel herself. But thought better of it, and a minute later she was gone.

You let go of a heavy sigh, eyes returning to the envelopes. Thank goodness she hasn’t seen them.

You couldn’t just let them lay there, so you grabbed them. Not that you were going to read them—it was a blatant invasion to anyone’s privacy—but you had to get them out of sight in case Ellie returned. So you folded them and slid them in the pocket of your cardigan.

You never went back home that night. After you went to check on Joel, who was squirming around in bed but otherwise asleep, you sat down on the armchair in the corner of his bedroom. You fought against your own fatigue as best you could but ended up slipping into a light sleep.

A few hours later, you woke up to the whisper of your name.

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[gigiwritess]

BACK TO EARTH

dr. jack abbott x f!resident!reader!vega aka "wildcard"

wc: 2,100 synopsis: the weeks go by—until the pittfest happens. jack wasn't even supposed to be working, but there he was. he didn't expect to have to save vega from herself, too, as her personal dark spiraled out of her control.

contents: 20-year age gap (vega is 26, jack is 46). vega's worsening mental health issues; she's having an anxiety attack, but it's not heavily described. usual pitt dynamics. probably lots of medical inaccuracies that i'm not gonna apologize for. this is totally self-inserted and vega is totally based in lots of aspects of myself. this list is concerns general warnings and specific chapter warnings—i'm gonna keep updating it as i go

gigi's notes: hi people!!!! i'm sorry for not posting the 3rd piece sooner. besides work, classes, organizing and academic conference, my depression keeps getting the best of me and i dissociate and don't do all the shit i need to do and it's an endless cycle. so it took me a bit longer to be able to flesh it out exactly how i wanted this to go and to find the right voice for the things i wanted to write. i really loved this piece and i hope you like it to. i'll try my best to write the next one sooner <3 about the 'jack abbot x reader x frank langdon love triangle', i can tell she's here and she's called TRAITOR (based on the song TRAITOR by elley duhé). i'm nowhere near finished but i'm already at 3k soooo it might take a bit longer to finish cooking it. i should probably make a list of jack abbot's works in progress because i have many lol i'm also gonna write jack abbot x firefighter!reader bc it's my alter-ego, probably a mini-series shorter than BRIGHTER, and i'm also thinking of somethinng like jack abbot x brat!reader in nessa barrett's vibes. as you can tell, jack abbot is rotting my brain :()

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There was something wrong.

The worst of the Pittfest chaos had passed. The ER wasn’t quiet—it never was—, but now the screaming had dulled down to murmurs, the steady beep of machines, the last critical cases being dealt with. Even though it wasn’t over, there was finally a small semblance of quiet starting to spread.

Jack was hands-deep in a tracheotomy when it happened—a kid. Couldn’t have been older than ten. Vega had been working on him since he arrived; Jack caught a glimpse of her across the room as she stopped her compressions and called time of death. He saw the way she stilled for a second, the way something in her eyes cracked. She didn’t lose it, didn’t panic, didn’t break protocol. Just took a deep breath and moved on. But he saw the look in her eyes. He knew that look.

He knew, the moment she stepped out of Trauma Two, her shoulders sagging, her hands shaking as she pulled the latex gloves off with far more force than necessary, there was something wrong.

The beeping from the monitor finally went back to a steady rhythm; his patient was stable. Jack could finally breathe normally again; no one else was calling out his name to go help another patient. He ripped off his gloves, shoved a blood-soaked gown into a bin, and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. By the time his patient was finally handed off, Vega was gone.

He probably shouldn’t have been paying that much attention to her all this time working together, but he couldn’t help it—he was, by nature, an observant person; he had thrived in workplaces exactly because of that. But Vega was the biggest mystery Jack had ever faced—the most fascinating one.

Every time they worked together or were near each other—which happened way more frequently than it should’ve, considering they worked opposing shifts—, he noticed something about her, sometimes without even meaning to.

It was almost as if she were a giant magnet and he was made of iron (part of him was, at least). He noticed the way her forehead would furrow whenever she was in deep thinking; he noticed the way she would let a quiet groan escape when stretching her back, always a grimace of pain she was quick to disguise when there were people around. He noticed how picky she was with her fingers, always scratching something, filing her nails, finding something to fix in her cuticles. He noticed how expressive she was; how her face always showed what she was feeling, even when she was trying to pretend otherwise.

He noticed a lot of things about her. Especially how well she held herself together, but her eyes gave her away—he always saw right through them.

It took him longer than it should’ve to find her. She wasn’t in the break room, wasn’t in the stairwell. Not in the far supply closet that staff usually went to scream into empty shelves, not in the ambulance bay.

It was one of the old, near-empty trauma bays, half-lit, curtain drawn. Vega sat on the edge of a gurney, knees close to her chest, elbows on her knees. Her hands were covering her face, her palms pressed against her eyes as if she could absorb back her own tears.

Jack didn’t announce himself. He just stepped inside, quietly closed the door behind him, pulling the curtain shut. For a moment, he just stood there. The room felt too small, the air too heavy.

“Vega?” He called out in a low voice, rough from a long, chaotic day.

No response—she didn’t move. He could hear her small, soft sobs.

He crossed the room in two strides, invading her space, her knees touching his chest. Carefully, gently, Jack took her hands in his and slowly pulled them away from her face, her eyes, wet with tears, sealed shut as he lowered her hands to her sides.

“Look at me,” Jack said, both his hands coming to cup her face, firm and steady, warm palms against the sides of her neck.

She did. Her eyes, usually so full of fire and life, were dark, red-rimmed, almost vacant as they met his. It was as if an angry, destructive storm had passed through them, taking everything in its wake, taking a piece of her with it. A storm that had been hidden deep, brewing for some time—not just the Pittfest.

“Breathe.” Quietly, she did. “In and out.”

Her breathing hitched, the tears subsiding, the tremor in her chest slowly fading away. His thumbs brushed the sharp line of her cheekbones—not soft, not tender. Grounding. Just enough to tether her back to Earth, back to the present, away from her spiraling thoughts, back to him.

“Good girl,” he muttered as her breath came in shaky but obedient, almost even now.

It was meant to come out as a tease, something for her to laugh, to bring her back to reality. But it didn’t sound that way, not as she shivered, not as his thumb grazed the corner of her mouth. Not as her gaze fell to his lips once, twice before flicking back to his eyes. It shouldn’t have made his stomach twist—but it did. They stayed that way for a moment, just breathing, just looking at each other, existing in each other’s space. Simply being with each other, her pulse a steady rhythm against his fingers.

But his eyes betrayed him—his gaze dropped to her lips before he could stop himself. Maybe it was the tiredness. Maybe it was the blood stuck under his nails, or the way his chest still ached from all the patients he’d lost. Or maybe it was the way that here, in this room, right now, with her, none of it mattered.

Jack leaned in—Vega met him halfway. It wasn’t a careful kiss, not sweet. It was like a collision of exhaustion and adrenaline, and months of looking at each other as if they were two souls who knew something about each other, who recognized something in each other. Her hands gripped the collar of his scrubs, his palms sliding to the back of her neck—it was a kiss meant to ground them both. Hard and a little desperate, meant to translate everything that couldn’t be said yet. No promises, no words, no soft confessions. Just here, right now.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads stood almost touching for a moment. Jack’s breath was ragged; his hands still cupped her face.

“Keep looking at me like that, old man,” she said, voice hoarse, “and I might start thinking you like having me around.”

The wicked smirk on her lips, swollen from his kiss, was the first real thing he’d seen on her face all night.

It took a moment for her teasing to hit its mark, for him to realize she was back. “Yeah, yeah,” he laughed. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

Jack was the first to pull back, hands falling away slowly, reluctantly. The air between them still crackled, was still charged as they stared at each other for a moment longer, the memory and the weight of the kiss too fresh, too sharp. For a second, neither of them spoke.

Outside, someone faintly asked about more negative O units—the world hadn’t stopped.

He jerked his chin toward the toward.

“Come on, Wildcard,” he said, the usual sharp-edged version of him settling back into place, “you’ve got a shift to finish.”

There was something about the way he uttered ‘Wildcard’. It was not in the usual teasing, mocking way people did. It felt personal—he spoke it like a secret kept between just the two of them.

She slid off the gurney, her hand brushing his as she walked, her pinkie tangling with his for a single moment before she put distance between them. Her expression was the same as it always was—cool, a little cocky, composed. But her pulse was still visible at her throat.

Jack noticed. Of course he did.

The world was calmer now as they sat down on the park benches, Matteo happily handing beers to whomever would accept. Life still went on around them—music thudding faintly against the night air, sirens going off in the distance—but here it felt quieter. Slower.

Vega looked up; the night sky was clear and bright, stars twinkling faintly. Jack sat beside her on the same worn-out bench. He was sitting close, almost too close. His thigh brushed hers, solid and warm; his arm bumped hers when he shifted slightly to accommodate his prosthetic leg, but he didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned closer, the barest tilt of his body, casual enough that no one would notice.

She noticed—every single second. She could’ve inched away, could’ve created a little space. She didn’t.

They hadn’t spoken since leaving that trauma bay, hadn’t worked together—only traded stolen glances throughout the ER, glances full of everything they didn’t recognize yet.

“You held up good today,” Jack said, nudging her leg with his left knee, beer in hand, “better than most.” He angled his body towards her, looking at her profile.

She nudged his leg back, turning her head to look at him, finding his eyes. “Even with a breakdown?”

“Even then,” he said, sipping his beer and staring intently into her.

Vega tried to play it off, act cool—but her throat still tightened all the same as she held his gaze, as she tried not to think about the anxiety black hole she’d just barely clawed her way out of. She tried not to think about how everything had been spiraling each time worse than the previous, each time getting far out of her control, until his warm, steady hands pulled her out. She didn’t want to think about how grounding his touch felt—or how his kiss felt like a lifeline she didn’t know she needed, how his kiss felt like being above the surface after being underwater for so long, how his kiss felt like feeling a spark of something after being numb for so long.

But that was all she could think about as she looked into his eyes, as the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them under the amber streetlights.

She looked away; her heart sounded stupidly loud in her ears, overwhelming. She took a breath, trying to quiet it down.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” she said, breaking the moment, pretending like it didn’t weigh heavily on her chest. “But thank you.”

“I know,” Jack said after a beat, a half-smirk ghosting across his mouth. “Guess I just have a thing for trouble.”

Vega let out a breath of a laugh, genuine, small, and surprised, meant just for him. Something warm started to spread over her chest, something good. When she turned to him again, her eyes were brighter, crinkling just a little at the corners. She shouldn’t say anything—or at least say something else. But she couldn’t help it when his eyes had a spark of something daring, of something dangerous, something familiar.

“Yeah? That why you keep hanging around?”

The air between them went still. Heavy, charged. Like something coiled and tense, just waiting for someone to make a move—any move.

Feeling just a bit emboldened by the spark in his eyes, she reached out and snagged the beer right out of his hand. Jack’s eyebrows shot up, surprised, but he let her do it, watching as she lifted it to her lips and took a long sip. Brave. Almost defiant.

Vega handed the beer back. Eyes still locked on Jack’s hazel ones, his fingers closed around hers, slow, deliberate, and his head tipped toward her, just a bit, like he was going to say something to Robby instead—he didn’t.

Jack’s mouth brushed near her ear, low enough that only she caught it, meant just for her.

“Careful, kid. Keep that up and I’ll think you’re flirting.”

It was her turn to stay silent, her breath caught like a deer caught in a trap, just for a split second before she masked it into a tiny, sly smile. Her cheeks, her whole face, felt like it was on fire. She didn’t need to look at him to feel the wicked grin tugging at his mouth.

Vega leaned back against the bench, purposefully pressing her shoulder against his. She said nothing as she stole his beer again, brushing his fingers—and he let her—, acting as if her heart was beating normally. It wasn’t. Not since his kiss brought her back to earth.

@cosmoscoffeee @mackycat11 @sunfairyy @starkgaryan @amandarobertsboyce @starlight-starbright-8080 @patatesliomlet @saynotononsense @sweetestcowboy @diaryofafeelsaddict 

[angstywaifu]

Black Dahlia - 46. Coffee Talk

Summary: Just some cute Dahlia and Garrick post RSC Land Nav. A/N: Another bonus post because you guys are ridiculous with the follows this year. Enjoy! Black Dahlia Masterlist | Masterlist | Links |

I shiver as something ghosts over my shoulder, rousing me from my sleep. I go to roll over to see what’s the cause of it, but my answer is given to me when a large arm drapes itself over my hip, pulling me back against a warm and hard chest.

I relax in their arms as the familiar scent of Garrick washes over me. “Maybe I need to get kidnapped more often.” I joke, Garrick’s arm tightening on me as he holds me against him.

”I’d rather you didn’t.” He grumbles against my shoulder before pressing another kiss to my bare shoulder. “Had me in a fucking panic till I realised you’re squad and Bodhi were all gone. Fucking RSC.”

I roll in his arms, finally getting a look at Garrick whose eyes soften as they meet mine. I note the slight shadows under his eyes, he looks exhausted. Though wouldn’t surprise me if he’d gotten very little sleep. It had only been a few weeks, but it hadn’t taken me long to notice how quickly and soundly Garrick slept when I was around. Especially when he’d just started staying in my room or taking me to his every night. Anytime I'd tried to kick him out or leave he'd practically manhandled me back to bed.

”I was fine. We got out mostly unscathed.” I tell him with a shrug, which has him narrowing his eyes at me.

”You nearly didn’t though. Want to explain that one?” He asks with a raised eyebrow, his body tensing up.

Shit. Of course he would have heard about that somehow. He probably ran into Bodhi or Imogen last night before coming to my room.

”I had it under control.” I explain.

”Then why did Proth and Cath have to burn that infantry cadet if you had it under control?” Garrick’s eyes narrowing at me as he questions me.

”Because sometimes violence isn’t always the answer. Didn’t exactly want my head on a silver platter because I killed an infantry cadet.” I tell him as I lower my eyes to his chest, raising my fingers to trace over the relic on his arm.

Garrick’s body relaxes under my touch, feeling the anger leave him as he raises his hand to cup my cheek. “He wasn’t just some infantry cadet though. Was he?”

My body goes rigid, something I know Garrick notices as I look up at him, seeing the questioning look in Garrick’s eyes. “How much did he tell you?”

It’s already clear it’s Bodhi he’s talked to based off his comment. Imogen hadn’t been close enough to hear most of the conversation, only coming in at the end to comment about not needing me to be like Dain.

”Just mentioned there was more to the incident and I should ask you.” He admits as his eyes search mine. At least Bodhi had kept his word in regards to letting me tell Garrick the story.

I nod slowly at him before pushing my self upright, leaning back against the headboard as Garrick moves to sit in front of me, giving me his full attention as I wrap my arms around my legs as I hold them to my chest. Garrick doesn’t blink an eye as I tell him the same story I told Bodhi, just sitting and listening as I get it all out. But I can feel the anger practically rolling off him in waves. I know how much he's holding back as his hands ball into fists. Telling Bodhi was somehow easier than telling Garrick. Bodhi had be a constant friend by my side all year. He'd seen right through any wall I'd put up. It was like Bodhi already knew me better than I knew myself. But opening myself up to Garrick was mildly terrifying. As if sensing my nerves he reaches out and clasps my hand in his as I finish my story.

”So you’ve been shunned since then, for something you didn’t even do? Your own father and brother?” Garrick asks me after a few moments of silence.

I give him a tight lipped smile and nod. “It took me years to realise no matter what I did to show I was sorry, to show that I would do anything to take back accepting that dare, that he would never accept me as his daughter again. Not even my own grandfather could convince him. And once he was taken care of, I had no one.”

”What do you mean taken care of?” Garrick asks, sitting up fully as if what I’ve said has peaked his interest.

”All I know is my father sent him and his squad out to an outpost. One nowhere near enemy activity that suddenly got over run. No survivors except for one dragon. Everyone else gone. They say it was Gryphon fliers, but…” I furrow my brow. What did I think happened? It was clear it wasn’t Gryphon’s. But we had no other enemies. No other kingdoms that could have travelled that far and caused that much damage for us to not be on high alert. And the only ones that could were fairy tales. Not real.

”But what?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. Something just doesn’t add up. Everytime I ask I get yelled at for meddling where it’s not needed. And Proth is vague on the details when I ask him.”

“What do you mean Proth won’t tell you?” Garrick probes as his hand tightens on mine.

”Proth was there.” I tell him. “Proth was the dragon that survied. My grandfathers dragon.”

For a split second I swear I see Garrick’s eyes widen before he catches himself. Almost as if the news of who my dragon belonged to interested him. He was probably just shocked to learn Proth had been part of my life long before I came here and bonded him. It was extremely rare for dragons to know their riders prior. Even rarer for them to bond within the same family. Something that seemed to concern leadership whenever the detail came up.

”Seems he’s your guardian angel.” Garrick jokes, slipping back into his usual joking tone as he pushes off the bed. “Now let’s go get you some food. You’re probably starving after RSC and I’m not being around you if you haven’t had coffee in your system.”

I roll my eyes at him before taking the hand he offers me as he pulls me from my bed. He wasn’t wrong. We’d had limited food while out on land nav, and I was in desperate need of a coffee. Bodhi had taken the brunt of my early morning anger on our second day of land nav when I didn’t have coffee. Imogen had pissed herself laughing when I’d snapped at him over a stupid comment he’d made.

It seems we’re the last to get to the dining hall, most of it starting to empty out already. Being a Sunday most people got in and out quickly to take advantage of a free day if we got it. It just so happened today was one of those days. Bodhi waves us over to a table that has most of our squad minus our first years, plus Imogen and Quinn who seemed to have joined them.

”About time you two joined us.” Imogen notes with a smile and wiggling her eyebrows at me, causing Quinn to snicker at her comment.

”Sorry, someone was worrying about where I’d been for the last two days.” I tell her as Garrick mumbles something behind me as we take our seats with everyone, Garrick pulling me into his side as he rests his arm around me. Possessive asshole.

Bodhi looks between us confused before shaking his head and standing as he grabs his mug and an empty one from the middle of the table. “Right. Anyway I’ll be back. How do you like it Dahlia?”

”Oh you know depends on my mood.” I start, playing along with Imogen’s implied comment even though I know what Bodhi is actually asking. “Sometimes just plain sex is fine, but sometimes you gotta mix it up with some choking or being tied up.”

Bodhi looks between Garrick and I in shock, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red. The rest of the table bursts into laughter, Kai nearly spitting his drink across the table, and Imogen looking like I’ve given her the best moment of her life as she smiles at me.

”You’re coffee Dahlia. I was asking about your coffee. I did not need to know what you and Garrick get up to in your room!” He exclaims, sending everyone into a fit of laughter.

”Oh we haven’t got there yet, but now I have some ideas for later. Thanks Durran.” Garrick quips as he reaches across and takes the apple sitting on Bodhi’s plate, smirking up at him before Bodhi walks off to get more coffee.

@imtoanonymousforyou @simplyme-fornow @omalmal @lalaluch @wolfbc97 @leptitlu @fullmoon-94 @the-fandom-ness @fan-of-many-bands @awkardnerd @heeseungthel0ml @acourtofsmutandstarlight @fairchild06 @freyagallileaevans @pit-and-the-pen @hannraumari @elliot-rain @thestarseternaal @stupid-and-contagious01 @hyperfixation-train-station @lxnvmvrzx @thebreadisthetruevillian @red0202 @fangirling-galore @craftytrashprincess @taliyahvermillion @xadenswhore @fenixyrie @lagrandeourse @hellodarling1357 @iambored24601  @thegiftofacreativemind @fanfictionjunkie1112 @mysticalfuncollectorus @ohlookitsasinglepoeceofpopcorn @emoravenwolf

[daydreamgoddess14]

The Reading Rooms

Another week down... they just keep coming, don't they?! Sometimes I think it might slow down but then I realise that this is probably just my life now 😅

Previous weeks Masterlist

Always remember to heed the warnings posted by the individual authors. What I'm happy to read may not be what you're happy to read, so I take no responsibility if you find something you're not into.

And finally, Tumblr is a community. Reblog, gush like you've never gushed before - I promise you, the authors below will love it, and love you for it! We write because we love to, but we share our work because we love the community of it. If you read something you like, let the world know! 💕

The List

Such an exciting week! I hit 800 followers - considering I haven't planned anything for 500/600/700 yet I really need to get on with some kind of event 🤭 Lets see in a couple of weeks. I have an assignment due at the end of next week so if you see me here, no you didn't - ok? Writing wise, I posted the first chapter of Strategic Interests! It landed initially with a bit of a whimper more than a bang - but I have FOUR chapters in the bag and I hate sitting on them so I'm going to post chapter 2 tomorrow 🙌 For my Hollywood AU lovers out there, For Your Consideration is coming, I promise - she's just being an angsty diva is all 😅

Onto the reading!

Bucky Barnes

Tension is a Loaded Gun by @keithyp00 - YESSSS this was so good, absolutely delicious!

@mercurial-chuckles - Yield to Me - that bloody cat! So cute and angry but not at you Bucky is just perfection!

where the quiet lives by @cursedheartsclub is literally the most beautiful. An absolute must read this week - it's divine.

@sunday-bug knows the way to my heart. Light as a Feather was the cutest, fluffiest, perfectest little nugget of joy I needed!

I recommended Jenga a few weeks ago... there's a Part 2! Now go and thank @skaye44 nicely!

A Home with You @donaweasley so romantic, so sweet, so lovely! 💕

Wounded Pride by @orellazalonia was so fun!

I will never apologise for putting Declassified on this list every bloody week. @dreamwritesimagines posted chapter 9 and I remain utterly obsessed with the HURDLES she puts in their way! Meanwhile I'm itching for these dolls to kiss already!!

That Was Mine by @societyfolklore YUMMMMY Bucky is the only snack I need.

holy SHIT @buckyseternaldoll - knifes edge AND eighteen hours AND every inch, every corner were ALL so hot. SO HOT!!! Also, Elle has gone from about 70 to 700 followers in about two days. RIP her notifications but so, so deserved! Congratulations sweetheart! 😘

The Escort by @azriona was EXCELLENT and everyone slept on it! and I also read Even on a Thursday (Peggy x Steve) In fact, you all need to haul ass to Azriona's blog and catch up with the many deaths of Clint Barton AND her new Stucky x Reader fic Reflections which I need to catch up on!

John Walker

From the Bottom of my Heart; fuck you. by @rissararity - I mean, the title alone is incredible, right?! This was so great!

Harder by @geeky-politics-46

Bob Reynolds

Pouring My Love onto You by @feelingdozy was adorable 🥹

I am confessing my eternal shame here. I read a gorgeous Bob fic where he grows a little bit of a beard and reader has a glorious oh shit moment when she realises how hot he is.... and NOW I CAN'T FIND IT!!! When I find it - and I will, I promise I will reblog the shit out of it. In the meantime, if you know the one I mean - link it!!

Joaquin Torres

Misunderstanding by @lives-in-midgard was so super cute!! I love Joaquin so much 🥹🥹

Jake Seresin

Feels Like Home by @crossskylinesandcontrails - gorgeous!!!

And that's the week. I'm calling it there even though there are about 956,934 fic in my drafts to read. I need to stop writing for a hot minute so I can read instead... but the muse is here and I don't want to kick the bitch out so I'm afraid I must write!

[gremlin-girly]

Kinktober Day 8

Kink: primal / hunter x prey Pairing: Halsin x f!druid!reader Tags/warnings:  SMUT, hunter/prey dynamics, ik bears don’t hunt deer but hey its for the plot, but what plot really?, being tracked/chased,  no one stays as animals!!!, p in V, forest sex (just on the floor), biting(marking), doggy style, multiple orgasm, size kink if you squint

Summary: As a young druid you don’t heed the warnings of shifting to wildshape at night, believing that the animals in the wild forest would be easy to handle. But an encounter with a large brown bear sets in motion an unforgettable night under the tree canopy. Word Count: 1.7k

As always I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, translated or copied. My warnings are non-exhaustive (even though I do try to capture everything) but please read at your own risk. I am not responsible for your content consumption.

I hope you enjoy; likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

A/N: This is my first time writing this kink and yk Halsin works haha. Welcome to week 2 ig x Prev | Next | Masterlist

The woodland at night was always the most serene. What was once vibrant greens were hues of black, illuminated only by glowing mushrooms or the light of the moon.

Treading carefully thought the undergrowth, your new elongated neck whips around at the sound of a twig snapping in the distance. Your ears twitch fretfully, your large doe-eyes like saucers, scanning for more movement.

The elders had warned you about the dangers of shifting into wildshape at night. You hadn’t given it much credence because, well, you were you. You were one of the better druids of your grove, always looking to improve your magical abilities and – if what you’d read were correct – there was a particular herb you needed that only bloomed under the waxing moon that ordinary eyes just would not cut it. If you were being honest, you preferred to be in your wildshape. No elders to bother you as you sniffed, skipped and jumped through the undergrowth. No worries. No responsibility.

Another twig snap – closer this time. You flicked your tail.

You were at the awkward age of a half-elf; older than most of the children but still far younger than the elders for you to be taken seriously, despite your skill. The ripe old age of 46 years old. That angered you. Unable to break from the responsibility of babysitter made you do reckless things like this.

You sniffed the air tentatively, wet, black nose twitching hurriedly. The musky smell that followed wolves was non existent, which was a relief. Pack animals like that had a tendency to throw caution to the wind, and were harder to deal with when you were on your own.

 You huff and look to the murky trail ahead. You wait a moment. Then another. You’re straining your ears but all you can hear is your own heart pounding. You still, standing like a statue amongst the rustle of trees in the wind.

There’s no sound.

Forests are not supposed to be quiet.

Immediately, you break into a leap; prancing wildly through the undergrowth as something growls – no roars – from behind you, giving chase. Your thin amble legs stumble over rocks and stumps – suddenly you feel like a doe was a ridiculous animal for wildshape as there are just too many legs as you frantically push yourself to your limit to get away from whatever was chasing you.

You can’t see through the darkness. You can only hear – and what you hear makes your hackles rise in terror. Guttural grunts and deep growls fill the crisp summer night, alongside the pounding of your heart and your wheezing as you try to catch your breath.

Whatever it is it’s fast. And large.

Suddenly the noise stops, the rhythmic pounding of heavy footfall gone. You stop again, turning, searching for any sign of what chased you. You’re met with darkness.

You sniff the air again, I haling deeply as you try to regain control of your breathing. This time you don’t smell nothing; there’s an earthy scent in the air, a little musky; somewhere between fresh water rivers and forest moss. If you could furrow your brows you would. That doesn’t smell like any animal you have encountered.

It’s a person.

But the thought comes too late. The large thing tackles you to the ground, and you scream – well bleat – in terror, flailing all four of your hooved feet wildly. One manages to connect with a snout of some kind, that growls and nips at you and two large clawed paws, pin your forelegs painfully either side of you.

You can’t dismiss wildshape fast enough, fear of being eaten alive  ripping you from your panicked prey stupor and you ready a spell, calling out before you do;

“Stop! Stop! I’m a druid! I’m a friend!”

The animal seems to register your words, as the growling temporarily ceases, but a large wet nose is shoved into your neck, taking a deep breath. Moonlight cascades through the trees illuminating the creature before you as an abnormally large brown bear. The bear blinks down at you and you feel slightly embarrassed.

You are stark naked in the moonlight – you hated wearing clothes whilst gallivanting in wildshape, they had always felt too constricting. Now, you were realising maybe an outfit with a concealed knife would have been a lot more useful.

The bear chuckles but doesn’t release you. Instead, a golden light appears around it and the abnormally large bear transforms into an abnormally large elf, who also happened to be naked.

“you should always smell downwind,” his deep voice rumbles, his scarred handsome face smiling down at you, keeping you pinned with large, strong arms.

You suck in a breath. Oakfather preserve you, he was possibly the most beautiful elf you had ever seen; biceps as big as your head and with those scars? They complimented him as much as his chestnut brown hair.  Your eyes wander and widen at the sight of his cock, making your legs squeeze together as you look up at him bashfully.

“I’ll try to keep it in mind.” You say quietly.

He smiles and seems rather smug that you were caught eyeing his form. He still doesn’t move away from you, instead he leans closer, looming over you.

“If you don’t, I may end up trying to eat you again,” he flirts shamelessly, making your body rush with heat.

“Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Which would you like it to be?"

"A promise." You breathe out, watching his face carefully. His body rumbles with a deep chuckle that sounds deliciously melodic and you wonder, briefly, if this is the Oakfather himself. He leans ever closer, his hair tickling the sides of your face, his lips millimetres from yours.

"Consider it promised," He murmurs against your lips. You are the one to initiate; leaning up to close that marginal distance between your lips in a hungry kiss. His grip on your wrists tightens as he growls deeply in response, pushing back against your lips with fervour. Once your head is against the ground again, his hands release your wrists and begin to wander. And you let them.

He's still kissing you, pressed against you in the moonlight with nothing but the trees and stars surrounding you, groping you, feeling your soft skin under his large hands as you mewl beneath him. He peppers kisses along your jaw to your throat, leaving small bruises in his wake as he teases at your wet folds. You gasp out and wrap your hands in his hair, pulling his thick neck down to your mouth with a snarl, marking him back. He curses into your ear and you feel his length twitch against your thigh.

"By Silvanus," He mutters thickly. "What kind of creature are you?"

You don't answer with words at first, instead hooking your legs over the angle of his hips and reaching between the tight space between you to grasp his cock and run it over the slick, wet heat of your folds. The hand that clutched a fistful of brown hair ensured he watched your face as you did this, so you could see the way he licked his lips with his eyes blown black with desire.

"Do you care?" You whisper.

"No." He responds, kissing you again. "I do not." You yelp when his strong arms flip you onto your front, facing away from him but you brace yourself against the forest floor with an excitable grin. Two large, surprisingly soft, hands find refuge on your hips and you feel the tip of his cock nudge at your entrance. You sigh contentedly as you push yourself backwards so the tip of his hard length can breach your aching cunt. You can feel him stiffen for a moment behind you but with a loud groan, he slowly pushes himself into you all the way to the hilt.

He doesn't need to wait for you to adjust to his sheer size, nor does he. As soon as his sac reaches your folds he's fucking you powerfully, so powerfully you'd have fallen onto your face in the dirt had his hands not held you in place. It doesn't take long for you to cum over his cock; the sheer size of him and the feeling of him ruining your cunt has you moaning loudly. And he his just as loud, if not louder, grunting and moaning with you, using your cunt to fuck himself senseless.

When you cum a second time, he changes his hold on you; one hand steadying a shoulder, the other circling your clit. The noises you make are entirely animalistic; howling and groaning in ecstasy.

"Oh, Gods-" You can barely huff the words out; you're voice is hoarse but the electric feeling brewing between your legs as your mind spinning.

"You are-" The elf pants between heavy thrusts, "ethereal. A gift carved by Silvanus himself."

You can feel your pussy clench at his words, and you would have cum from that alone, but the kisses peppered across your shoulders and neck make you cry out and gush over his cock. Your body relaxes into his large hands, struggle to stay upright after the fucking you're still receiving. His thrusts grow sloppier, but no less hard, and your whimpering and pleading to him to cum.

After a few more hard thrusts, tweaking your clit to make sure you cum one last time around his cock, he pulls out of you quickly with a groan and covers your ass and back with hot thick ropes of cum. You're both panting, and whilst your slumped in a pile, covered in sweat and cum; the elf looks as if he's just completed a light jog. He looks down at you with a pretty grin, and your chest and cunt flutter in response.

"Are you alright? I apologise if I was too much." He looks almost embarassed, but you detect there is some smugness hidden beneath it. He knows he's good.

"Better than alright." You sigh dreamily, barely managing to sit back onto your legs. You twist to offer him a hand with a cheeky smile. "Y/N."

"Halsin." He chuckles, shaking your hand gently. You recognise his name immediately and try not to let the recognition show on your face. "I don't suppose you would know where I could find a druid camp, by any chance?"

Now you chuckle, a smirk spreading across your face. "I know exactly where you could find one."

You couldn't wait to bring the Archdruid Halsin back to your camp; you're sure your conquest would be enough to prove yourself in the eyes of the elders, herb or no herb. And perhaps, he would let you travel with him. Just for a little while, anyway....

[milaisreading]

BLUE LOCK MASTERLIST

New masterlist since the old one had to be deleted. If someone could help me retrieve the links to some of my stories, I would be very greatful

Requests and rules

Hetalia masterlist

Get to know me

Crossdresser!Yn masterlist

Christmas special BLLK

World 5 masterlist

1. Yandere!Sae Itoshi x Reader (Halloween special 🎃)

2. Plushie incident in the morning

3. Random Blue Lock headcanons

4. Random Blue Lock scenarios pt1 / Random Blue Lock scenarios pt2

5. Blue lock characters as simps

6. Manager has a crush

7. A sick Reo

8. Manager meets the other players

9. A day off (Post U-20)

10. Manager goes away for 3 weeks / Manager goes away for 3 weeks pt2

11. Jersey numbers dilemma

12. Manager Yn and Ego's shenanigans

13. Kaiser, Ness, Oliver, and Sae

14. A family's misunderstanding

15. The manager has a type?! / The manager has a type?! Pt2

16. Fights over a jacket

17. Bus seat

18. A manager who needs football instructors

19. Of arguments and kiss-cams

20. Out on a date

21. Fan service

22. A creepy fan

23. Keychains

24. Yn merch

25. Caught in the middle (ReoxYnxNagi)

26. Misunderstandings (Itoshi Sae x Yn)

27. Toddler-sized manager?!

28. Manager Yn at Hakuho High

29. Baby Niko!!

30. Jersey issues (KaiserxYnxNess)

31. Toddler Kaiser

32. Of fake rumors and... dates?

33. Toddler Ness / Toddler Ness pt2

34. Since when are we engaged?! (Itoshi Sae x Yn)

35. Japan U-20 toddlers

36. It's our girlfriend (Bachira Meguru x Yn)

37. A bad day for the manager

38. Manager Yn being a fangirl

39. Shidou's girlfriend?!

40. Amnesia

41. Manager out and about with Oliver Aiku

42. Exes

43. Who is Toddler manager's favorite?!

44. Shark boy in lover (Kurona Ranze x Yn)

45. Celebratory date (Karasu Tabito x Yn)

46. Blue Lock 11 kindergarten

47. Overworked manager

48. That's my brother...

49. Toddler manager learned a new word... /

Toddler manager learned a new word... pt2

50. Toddler manager's day with Lorenzo

51. Some words of encouragement

52. Yandere Kainess

53. When Itoshi Sae visited Blue Lock

54. The clumsy and the simp

55. Another Yandere!Kainess

56. Meet the family

57. A jealous Sae

58. A week away (ft. World 5)

59. Toddler shenanigans

60. Meet the boyfriend (Leonardo Luna x Itoshi!Reader)

61. Sae the guard dog (Sae Itoshi x Isagi sister!Reader)

62. Misunderstandings and confessions (Sae Itoshi x Isagi sister!Reader)

63. 5th times the charm? (Valentine's Day special. Sae Itoshi x Isagi's sister!Reader)

64. Valentine's Day special! (Manager!Yn x Blue Lock/Japan U-20)

65. She likes a boy? (Fem!Sae Itoshi x Isagi's sister!Reader)

66. Sae and Yn as toddlers (Isagi's sister!Yn AU)

67. Wedding day (Isagi's sister!Yn x Sae)

68. Isaness fanfic

[squinch-depraved]

Here is a thread of Hasan and his literal huge bulge please share with the class

https://x.com/unironicallydud/status/1825542639091147141?s=46

-🪐

okay 😃 okay so im like. im ill. hasan shit coming later this week friends

here's the link oh my god

this will be going on the p! link masterlist when it gets posted ily 🪐

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Nine

Series Masterlist

A/N: Congrats kids! You've made it to the transitional chapter! The cadence is going to be a lot different from here on out, and we will have direct interaction between LeChriste and Max in every chapter- it will still be a slow burn for a bit longer, but the pot is getting STIRRED.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Lap 46. P6. Holding steady.

Your heart’s been pacing you like a second engine for the last hour, but your hands haven’t twitched once. Every input has been clean. Deliberate. You’re running smooth and sharp, right on the edge of the midfield- just out of reach of the front runners, just far enough ahead to be more than a footnote.

The race, so far, has been calm. A few skirmishes in the opening laps, nothing unexpected- some jostling, some elbows out in turn one, but you held your line. You found your rhythm early, settled into a groove between the Alpha Romeo ahead of you and the McLaren behind. Neither of them close enough to force you into a dogfight. Just enough space to breathe.

There’ve been three virtual safety cars since lights out- minor incidents, nothing catastrophic. Carbon fiber shrapnel here and there. A yellow-flag tango between an Alpine and a Haas that knocked both out of contention. The grid’s thinned a little, but not enough to make this easy. Just enough to make it cleaner.

You’ve been in open air for most of the stint. The tyres are still hanging on, temperatures stable. The balance is twitchy in Sector 3, but you’ve worked around it. You’ve managed the oversteer, managed the wear, managed everything. That’s the story of your race- management.

Still, it’s more than good. It’s solid. Sharp.

It’s proof.

Spa wasn’t a fluke. That’s what this is. You’ve kept the car in range all race long, haven’t overdriven, haven’t cracked under pressure. You didn’t try to be heroic- just clinical. You’ve done what this car can do, and maybe a little more. One position higher than Spa. That’s not just consistency. That’s progress.

And for the first time in weeks- maybe months- you feel something that could almost pass for peace.

The car hums beneath you like a live wire tamed to your rhythm. The tires have settled into that sweet equilibrium where grip is predictable and steering feels like an extension of your breath. You’re not fighting it. You’re not chasing anything. You’re just here- planted. Precise. Balanced in the clean air between the trailing pack and the unreachable freight train at the front.

Lap after lap, you’ve carved out a quiet corner of this race. The chaos is behind you. The unreachable is ahead. And here, in this slipstream of stillness, you’re in control.

P6.

The kind of result that isn’t headline-worthy but means everything to the right people. Enough to whisper credibility into the right ears. Enough to shut a few mouths. Clean, consistent, unflinching. You’ve been here for nearly an hour- racing, yes, but not desperate. For once, you’re not crawling up the timing sheet like a girl with something to prove. You’re just… existing. Steady. Whole.

The timing screen hasn’t needed your attention in ages. You already know what it says. And for once, that’s enough.

You take a long breath in through your nose, deep enough to feel it tighten beneath your harness, and let it out in a slow, controlled exhale that fogs the edge of your visor for just a moment.

And then- without warning- it explodes.

Not in your car.

Up ahead.

The sound is muted through the helmet, more felt than heard, but the tone shifts instantly. A dull thunk and a spray of carbon. Like two wineglasses clinking until one of them shatters. A puff of smoke. A flash of silver and red. Movement- wrong movement.

Two cars. Turn 3. Leclerc and Hamilton. You saw it brewing on the last lap- both of them aggressive on exit, nose-to-tail, refusing to yield through the first sector. You clocked it. Filed it. Expected a scrap.

You didn’t expect a collision.

You see the moment it breaks. Hamilton dives deeper than the track likes. Leclerc doesn’t flinch. Their tires graze. One car twitches violently. The other jolts sideways into the runoff, dragging shredded bits of front wing like a broken kite tail. One of them spins in a half-lazy circle before limping toward the barriers. The other stutters forward with damage- still rolling, but slow.

There’s debris now. Foam signage torn in half. Marshals already leaning over pit walls.

You don’t flinch.

You never flinch.

Not out loud.

But your stomach drops anyway.

“Safety car deployed. Hold delta,” your engineer says, voice smooth and casual in your ear, like he’s reading the weather.

Your jaw tightens. The wheel stiffens under your grip as the race pace clicks down. The field compresses. The cameras will be watching. The commentary box will be stirring. The math will be happening.

And then, just as it always does, it hits you.

You’re P4 now.

Somewhere in the chaos, two titans just took themselves out of your way.

And when the safety car lights go out, you’re going to be staring at the back wing of whoever’s sitting in P3. You don’t move. Don’t speak. You just feel it- all at once. Not adrenaline. Not joy. Not even nerves.

Panic. It creeps in slow, bitter, and unmistakable.

Because now you have to choose.

Stay where you are, and they’ll call you smart. Strategic. Solid. A driver who knows when to hold and when to survive. But go for it? Jump?

Throw the dice on a restart and lunge at P3 with a car that’s already a miracle to have in fourth?

If it works, you’re a genius.

If it doesn’t, you’re a cautionary tale.

Your fingers curl around the wheel, tight enough that the suede bites into your gloves. Your chest is pulling tight beneath the belts, your breaths turning shallow. You don’t know what you’re going to do yet. You are wired, wound, on the edge of something enormous- and all you want is for someone to tell you not to do it.

To let you off the hook. As you approach the pack, it’s a RedBull wing ahead of you. 

It must be Sergio. And that- that- gives you pause.

Because this isn’t just another car ahead. It’s a Red Bull Racing car. The Red Bull. Senior team. Factory-backed. Backed by them. The people who are already hedging their bets about what to do with you. You’re a guest in their house. And he’s… well, he's family.

You’re barely clinging to your own place in the pecking order, and here you are, heart pounding, wondering if it’s even allowed- if you’re even supposed to go after him. Because what does it say if you pass him? What does it say if you don’t?

Because the decision sitting in front of you isn’t tactical. It isn’t measured. It’s legacy-level. It’s podium. It’s P3. It’s the kind of finish that reshapes reputations and writes headlines. But it’s also a risk- one tiny mistake away from catastrophe. One mistimed move, and you’re the rookie who blew her only shot. Icarus. The girl who flew too close.

You’re practically chanting it in your head- tell me to hold. Tell me to back off. Tell me it’s not worth it. You almost hope for team orders. A call to box. Something to keep your hands clean. Let the voice in your ear make the choice so you don’t have to.

What the hell are you supposed to do now?

You’re staring at Checo’s rear wing like it’s a mirage. Too close to be real. Too possible to be safe. You’re not supposed to be here- not in this car, not in this position, not with podium in reach and eight laps to go.

You’re not ready.

Your heart’s thudding so hard it’s starting to cloud your hearing, and your mind is turning traitor- spinning through every possible version of the story they’ll tell if you blow this. If you dive and it doesn’t stick. If you lose it in a lock-up or a snap of oversteer and hand them the perfect narrative: She wasn’t ready. She got greedy. She threw it away.

“66, hey, copy...”

Mattia’s voice comes through the radio, calm and steady, the tone so familiar now it almost slips under your skin without resistance. He’s not a warm presence, not exactly- but something about the measured cadence of his words makes your breath hitch like a prayer interrupted. Like your body was just waiting for someone else to take over.

You stare straight ahead, eyes locked on the rear wing of the Red Bull in front of you, refusing to blink.

This is it, you think. Finally.

Surely this is the call.

The strategy. The order. The leash.

You brace for it- back off, bring it home, protect the points. You almost feel your grip on the wheel loosen in anticipation. You want it, desperately. Want someone else to make the decision. To take the choice out of your hands so you don’t have to wear it if it all goes wrong.

“You’ve got more life in the tires.”

The words land wrong.

They don’t soothe.

They confuse.

You blink. Your body doesn’t understand. Your brain doesn’t believe it.

“They’re going to be slow getting temps back in,” he continues, just as even. “If you want it- take it fast.”

You blink. That’s it. No order. No safe call. No easing you down into fourth with a pat on the head and a press release ready. Just a door- wide open.

Your throat goes tight. He’s letting you make the call. He’s trusting you to.

And then- quiet, but not clipped- he adds, “Reset, 66.” The word hits different. Not strategy. Not setup. You. Your thoughts. Your fear. Your spiraling grip on the moment.

Reset.

You swallow hard, lips parting like you might respond aloud, but there’s no need. He can’t hear the breath you take, deep and sharp like a diver about to go under.

Reset.

You say it to yourself this time, silently. Again. Like a command. Like a lifeline.

Reset.

The safety car peels away at the end of Lap 65. The field compresses, your front wing nearly buried in P3’s gearbox. The restart window snaps open.

And Checo is sleeping.

Not literally, but close enough. His rear tires are nowhere near temp. You see it before he does- a twitch on throttle, a fractional overcorrection, a flash of hesitation.  You’re in his blind spot, tucked up inside, the track narrowing but your decision already made. There’s no drama. No clash of wheels. Just a clean, clinical pass.

You’re already alongside. Already inside. By the time he realizes you’re there, you’re already gone. You don’t think you’re the only one who got past him before the first speed trap.

P3.

Just a clean, clinical pass. And then… silence. You just passed a Red Bull.

And now you can’t breathe. Because it hits you all at once- cold and fast.

You shouldn’t have done that.

You don’t belong here.

This car doesn’t belong here.

It should feel like triumph.

It doesn’t.

It feels like standing on a high wire with no net, with the whole paddock watching to see if you slip. It feels like every heartbeat is a countdown. Like every inch you travel forward is another chance to lose everything you just stole.

Because now you’ve got seven laps to hold a position you have no business occupying.

Not in this car.

Not in the AlphaTauri that’s decent on its best day, twitchy on its worst, and stitched together with compromise. It’s stable, sure- until it’s not. It’ll behave- until you ask too much. And P3 is too much.

You’re past your limits.

The car’s past its limits.

And deep down, you know it.

This isn’t a victory lap. It’s a standoff. Between reality and whatever magic has gotten you this far. There’s no one ahead you can touch. There’s someone behind you who absolutely can.

This car wasn’t designed to live here. Not in podium territory, surrounded by giants built in wind tunnels and tested against every variable the grid can throw. This car was meant to hang on the fringes. To do okay.

And maybe- if you're being honest- so were you.

Because for all the training, all the psychological prep and visualization drills, all the sports therapists who swore you were one of the few with real race instinct- the kind that couldn’t be taught- you’re starting to suspect your brain is dripping out of your ears.

The edges of you are starting to fray.

Your focus is peeling away in strips, tugged by every vibration, every shudder in the chassis, every whisper of tire scrub. The car feels like it’s floating now, hovering just above the edge of control. It’s still under you, but just barely- like a dog that’s been asked to heel too many times and is starting to test the leash.

The tires are good- but they’re not fresh. The balance is there- but not stable. There’s no cushion. No margin for error. You can feel everything. Every heartbeat in the power steering. Every micro-adjustment under your seat. The flex of the floor at high speed. The sidewall compressions on curbs. Every tiny piece of feedback that you would’ve tuned out ten laps ago now screams like a warning.

You are hyper-aware- and it’s killing you.

Every sense is turned up too high. Every part of your body is bracing. There’s no room to think, but your thoughts are relentless anyway. You try to count corners, to break the next lap into digestible pieces, but the numbers don’t stick. Your brain keeps jumping ahead- what if you lock up in Turn 9? What if the rear steps out in the hairpin? What if the energy store dips a little too low and you have turbo lag through the last corners?

What if this is the moment everyone replays when you’re demoted again?

What if this- this miracle you’re inside- is the thing that buries you?

You grip the wheel harder. Exhale through gritted teeth. The helmet feels too hot. Your visor is streaked with sweat. You think you hear the pit wall come through, but the words are muffled, distant- just another layer of pressure folding over your shoulders like a lead blanket.

You’re not spiraling. Not yet.

But God, you’re close.

You try to breathe- deep, measured- but all you get is the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding inside your helmet like it’s trying to shatter the visor. You’ve watched other drivers hold nail-biter positions. You’ve seen what it takes. You’ve studied the laps, the lines, the tire maps, the radio calls.

It’s different when it’s you. When you know that every breath you take in third place is a miracle. That you’re already on borrowed time.

“Don’t fuck this up.”

You say it aloud, voice low, tight, hoarse from strain. The words don’t go anywhere- just bounce back against the inside of your helmet and dissolve into the roar of your engine. But they’re not for the world. They’re for you.

“Don’t you dare fuck this up.”

The radio is silent now. No encouragement. No praise. No calming reassurances from pit wall. Just the hum of the car around you- alive, metallic, breathing- and the sharp, steady countdown in your own head.

Five laps.

Your jaw sets. Your shoulders pull back against the harness. You square yourself inside the cockpit like a soldier bracing against the recoil. The car jitters on edge, but you don’t flinch.

You just hold. 

Hold. Hold. Hold.

This is yours to lose now. The miracle has already happened. The pass is made. The position is claimed. All that’s left is survival.

Three laps.

Every corner is a test. Every apex a dare. You feel every bump, every twitch of the rear, every breath of dirty air creeping into your line. Your entire world is narrowed to a tunnel of asphalt and timing. You don’t look at the delta. You don’t ask how far the gap is behind you. You can’t afford to know.

Two.

You’re driving like the ghosts are gaining. Like the end is something you’ve already seen, just out of reach, and if you reach for it too soon it’ll evaporate. You push, but not too much. Brake early where it counts. Don’t defend shadows. Don’t give them a reason to call it luck.

White flag.

Final lap.

You can feel your body vibrating from the inside out- muscles cramped, hands numb, helmet slick with sweat. You don’t know what your face looks like. You don’t care. You keep the wheel still and your breath shallow.

Turn 11.

No one’s close enough to dive or pull DRS on the straights. You drive like they’re right there anyway, waiting for the smallest mistake to take it back.

Turn 13.

Clean. No correction. The exit holds. Throttle down. You feel the engine surge one last time beneath you, low and furious and obedient.

And then- 

The line.

You cross it.

P3.

The car rolls to a stop like it knows something you don’t. Like it’s already made peace with what just happened while you’re still trapped somewhere three laps ago, fingers fused to the wheel and lungs locked tight in your chest.

Everything outside is motion- marshals, cameras, flashes, the mechanical ballet of parc fermé snapping into place- but everything inside you is still. Still in that final lap. Still holding the wheel like your life depends on it. Still waiting for something to go wrong.

You’re not tired. You’re not even aware of your body enough to be tired, but your muscles are fine, your heart is still beating, your arms still steady- but your mind. Your mind is gone. Hollowed out. Burned clean through. 

You’re stuck. Your hands are clenched so hard around the wheel it takes concentrated, shaking effort to peel your fingers off one at a time. Each digit fights you, like it still thinks you're in the final sector, like letting go means the spell breaks and the miracle unravels.

You stare straight ahead like you’re waiting for a steward to tap on the halo and tell you it was a mistake. That there’s been a timing error. That it wasn’t real. Because it can’t be real.

You’re in a fucking AlphaTauri.

This car doesn’t belong in parc fermé. Not at the front. Not near champagne. It’s a scrapper. A midfield survivor. It’s designed to hold- not to hunt. Built to fill space. Not rewrite the script. You were supposed to be respectable. That’s the only goal you had set for yourself last night. 

And instead, you’re here.

P3.

The number clangs inside your skull like a loose bolt rattling around in the bodywork. You can’t make it compute. It doesn’t fit.

You fumble for the belts. The release gives, but your hands are trembling now, twitchy and stiff and not responding with the efficiency they’re supposed to. Your brain issues commands and your body hesitates, unsure of the chain of command. You unclip. You lift.

You rise like a marionette- on memory, not control- and haul yourself out of the cockpit. Your boots hit the tarmac and the ground wobbles underfoot, not from motion, but from dissonance. Your legs aren’t tired. That’s what’s so absurd. There’s no lactic burn, no muscle protest.

You’re not exhausted. Not like last time.

You’re disoriented.

Mentally annihilated.

Like someone reached into your skull and scrambled your wiring, then stuffed it full of static.

A hand steadies your elbow. You don’t know who it belongs to. You don’t look. You just nod, sharp and wooden, like a wind-up toy being told which way to walk.

Helmet off. Gloves off. No ceremony, just habit. You strip yourself down and the air hits your skin with a cruelty you weren’t prepared for. The sweat clings to your undershirt like shrink wrap, and now every inch of you is too aware- of your body, of your heartbeat, of how close you came to fucking it all up.

The air touches your face and it’s like someone opened a dam. Everything you’ve been holding back- everything you had to hold back- starts to leak through the cracks.

Your skin is clammy beneath the fireproofs, soaked in sweat and terror. Your mouth tastes wrong- metallic, bitter, like something mechanical has short-circuited inside your chest and started leaking into your throat.

Someone hands you a water bottle. You take it. Don’t sip. Just hold it like it might keep you grounded. Your stomach is a knot, but not from exertion. It’s fear, coiled tight and hard, like your body is preparing to defend against something that’s already passed.

The hallway to weigh-in is too bright. Too clean. Too quiet. You walk like a puppet being dragged forward, your boots echoing in the sterile space. You hear a steward say your name. The scale beeps beneath your feet. A number appears. You nod.

Someone else takes the helmet from your arms. Someone else moves you forward again.

Your stomach lurches. Your eyes sting. 

You swallow both.

Don’t throw up. Don’t cry. Don’t make it worse.

You keep pace like you know where you’re going, but your brain is still back on Turn 13, waiting for the tires to fail. Waiting for the snap of oversteer. Waiting for the gods of probability to reclaim what you stole.

Because that’s what it feels like- theft.

But glory doesn’t care for turned stomachs, for things that feel too much, for time to process and moments to breathe- and neither do the tens of thousands of fans in Dutch orange screaming for their champion, who is, at this moment, sitting in the cooldown room waiting for the P3 rookie to show up so the rest of the night can start. 

They’re already moving you forward. Your boots echo too loudly on the tile. The hum of paddock noise thins as the door to the cooldown room opens.

White walls slathered in logos. Glass partition. Three chairs set in a row beneath the flat, wide screen showing the race replay on mute. The silence is brittle, the kind that shatters with even the smallest misstep. You’ve seen this room on broadcasts, framed like a stage- where drivers pull off their gloves and slap each other on the back, where champagne sweat dries on skin and someone always grins a little too wide.

You don’t feel like grinning.

You barely feel like existing.

George Russell is already seated, suit peeled halfway down to his waist, posture relaxed like this is routine. He looks up as you enter and smiles- wide, bright, still a little flushed from the drive.

“Hell of a finish,” he says, like it’s just small talk. Like what you just did wasn’t a borderline divine act in an AlphaTauri.

Max is in the corner, facing the flatscreen with his back half-turned. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look. Just takes a long drink like he’s trying to rinse something unpleasant from his mouth. Your chest tightens. You don’t have it in you to figure him out right now.

George stands- polite, maybe even genuine- and you know he’s waiting for a word, a handshake, something to complete the ritual.

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Your brain is empty. Then- 

“Does anyone- ” your voice cracks, dry and papery. “- need the bathroom?”

George blinks, confused for a beat, before glancing toward the door on the far side of the room.

“Nah, go ahead,” he says. “All yours.” You nod once, too fast, already moving. The door shuts behind you with a soft click.

And then you’re on your knees.

No time to aim. No time to breathe. The nausea hits in one violent, clenching wave and you’re hunched over the sleek, modern toilet with your palms braced on either side of the bowl, vomiting up what feels like your entire insides, your entire soul. Violent. Immediate. A rupture. You don’t even know what’s coming out- adrenaline, water, pieces of whatever you were before you clawed that car into third place.

Water. Acid. Salt.

Heat rushes up your neck, agitation wrapping itself around your spine like a noose. This isn’t heat exhaustion. It’s not from effort. This is adrenaline burnout. A full-system crash-out.

God.

Fucking Jesus Christ.

You made the podium.

And now you’re vomiting on with your knees in the tile exactly like the greenhorn rookie you are.

It’s over in a handful of rough, inelegant gags. One brutal wave and your stomach turns itself inside out. The moment passes as quickly as it arrived, leaving your throat scorched and your body wrung out but- strangely- better for it. Not good. Not right. But lighter.

Like your body was waiting for permission to release all of that- to purge the pressure that your mind hadn’t been able to. You’re a little embarrassed, sure, but not humiliated. Not really. There’s no shame left in you today. You don’t have the emotional bandwidth for it. Whatever George or Max think- well, they’re welcome to it.

You sit back against the cool tile wall and close your eyes, letting the silence settle over your shoulders like a towel pulled from the dryer. Still warm. Still humming.

There’s a tissue box on the counter. You pull one free with fingers that barely shake and wipe your mouth, then push yourself up and over to the sink. The cold water stings your cheeks, and you let it. You rinse, swish, spit, rinse again. Your reflection in the mirror looks pale, too sharp around the jaw, hair plastered back from the helmet. There’s a faint pink flush beneath your eyes- embarrassment, adrenaline, exhaustion. You take it all in. Don’t flinch from any of it.

You’re still here. Still in one piece. You survived.

Reset.

The word comes back, soft but solid words from Mattia’s radio. You breathe. Yeah. That’s exactly what this is. You are resetting. You’re still you.

You towel off your face and stand up straighter. That hollow, shaky place inside you doesn’t feel like it’s yawning open anymore. It’s still there, sure, but sealed off, for now. The nausea is gone. The dread is dulled.

And anyway, this is supposed to be the easy part.

The fans. The champagne. The interviews. The media rounds and post-race highlight reels. You’re good at that stuff- effortlessly good. You know how to light up in front of cameras, how to say enough to be intriguing without oversharing. It doesn’t feed you the way driving does, but it’s something. A language you speak fluently.

You grab a paper towel and blot the sweat from your neck, then peel off the balaclava and tug loose the twin braids pressed flat from your helmet. The elastic at the end snaps too hard against your wrist. You wince, barely.

Then- without even thinking- you start combing your fingers through the mess. Not vanity. Triage. Presentation. You twist one side of your hair into a loose curl, tuck it over your shoulder, do the same with the other. They look softer now, deliberate- not the product of two slicked down braids and an hour of panic. You pinch your cheeks once, twice. Just enough to bring blood to the surface.

There. Human again.

Your body still feels like a container for something that’s cracked open, but your mind- your mind is moving again. And as you stare at yourself in the mirror, cheeks flushed, hair reworked, undershirt clinging to your ribs, the realization lands with a clarity so sharp it slices through the noise:

This is it.

This podium- this finish- it’s the biggest bargaining chip you’ve ever had. Bigger than Spa. Bigger than Indy. Bigger than anything you’ve ever done up to this moment. You just pulled off a P3 in a car no one believed could be up there.

You made that happen.

No more playing polite. No more waiting to be chosen. This- this- is leverage.

You need a plan.

You smooth the hair at your temples, blink once at your own reflection like you’re locking something in place, and turn toward the door.

There’s still champagne waiting.

And the entire paddock is about to find out just how serious you are.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The champagne is drying on your suit in sticky patches, crusting behind your knees, soaking the collar of your fireproofs. Your scalp itches where the braid presses into your helmet-creased skin. The post-race euphoria has slipped into something quieter now. Heavier. The media zone is humming- flashes, boom mics, PR lanyards everywhere- but your mind is drifting.

You’re smiling on instinct. Talking when prompted. Posing when required. But that sense of propulsion- that purpose that carried you through the final laps, through the podium, through the first wave of interviews- is gone.

It hits you all at once. The loneliness of it.

This was the biggest moment of your life.

And you have no one here.

No friend to grab. No family to find. No familiar voice in your ear saying you did it. Just George somewhere nearby, basking in the glow of Mercedes arms, and Max hugging Kelly in a way that makes your chest twist, even if you’re not sure why. You’re standing here in the epicenter of your own triumph, and yet somehow, you’ve never felt smaller.

Then- clap.

A hand lands hard on your shoulder. Not playful. Not gentle. Firm enough to jolt you forward a half step.

You whip around, breath catching- and see him.

Jos Verstappen.

He’s grinning wide, eyes lit up like this is his podium. His palm is still on your shoulder- gripping, squeezing, possessive in a way that could be mistaken for paternal warmth if it weren’t just a bit too hard. A little too long.

“You,” he booms, stepping into your space like he owns the air around you. “Jesus Christ, girl, that was a masterclass.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sheer volume of him, the intensity, the fact that he’s already flooding you with praise before you can say a word.

He doesn’t let go.

“Those last laps,” he says, shaking his head like he’s seen something holy. “That was discipline. That was nerve. Holding third like that? I’ve seen seasoned drivers fall apart under less. But you- you, you didn’t flinch.”

He’s talking fast, louder than he needs to be. You nod, trying to keep up. The compliment is real- you can feel that- but the delivery scrapes at something inside you. Like standing too close to a fire you can’t quite tell is controlled.

He leans in a little, lowering his voice in a way that’s meant to feel conspiratorial. “You’ve got teeth, you know that? Not just talent. Instinct. People don’t see it yet, but I do. I see it.”

His hand slides down to your upper back- broad, flat pressure. Anchoring.

You want to pull away. Not because you’re alarmed. Just… uncomfortable.

It’s cultural, maybe. European men are tactile. You’ve been around this long enough to know that. And it’s Jos, so of course he’s intense. Of course he’s going to want some credit for spotting you early, for being the one who saw the spark.

It’s normal.

This is normal.

And yet, you feel something weirdly parental in the way he positions himself half between you and the cameras. Like he’s casting himself as protector, or maybe… architect.

You don’t know what it is exactly. Just that you’re too dazed, too alone, and too desperate to not let it happen.

So you let it happen.

He turns suddenly, lifting his chin. “Max!”

The shout cuts through the chatter. You glance over your shoulder, already regretting it.

Max is with a reporter, frown already set in place, but he turns. Jos waves him over with a brisk flick of his fingers. Not a request. A summons.

Max doesn’t move right away. His eyes flick to you- sharp, unreadable- then to Jos.

Then he comes.

Not quickly. Not happily. But he comes.

Jos immediately pulls both of you in- arm around your back, the other pulling Max flush against his side. The grip on your shoulder tightens. You’re standing there like some victory formation, Max on one side, you on the other, Jos in the middle like he just conquered a fucking kingdom.

Max stiffens. You do too, just less visibly.

Jos doesn’t notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care.

He adjusts you both with subtle pressure, like positioning pieces on a chessboard.

The photographers are already raising their cameras, eager for the shot: the podium girl, the golden boy, the father-king in between. Your smile feels too still. Max’s expression is unreadable- distant, simmering. He doesn’t look at you. You don’t try to look at him either.

Jos, though- he’s beaming.

Not for you. Not for Max.

For the image.

And just before the shutters fire, he leans slightly forward, voice pitched for the nearest lenses to catch, and says something just under the noise, just for the three of you-

“Sometimes,” he says, “things line up the way they’re supposed to. You just have to recognize it when it happens.”

You feel Max tense beside you. Not visibly. Not enough to ruin the shot. But you know what a clenched jaw feels like when it’s close enough to touch. Jos lets out a quiet laugh, like he’s pleased with himself. His hand lingers on your back a second too long before dropping away.

The cameras flash.

Max steps out of frame the second he’s released. No words. No acknowledgment. Just turns and walks back toward Kelly without looking back. Jos doesn’t seem to even clock it, just clasps your shoulder again, gentler this time. “Good job, girl. Really.” You nod, the words catching somewhere behind your teeth.

He’s turning to go, already lifting a hand to someone across the paddock, when you stop him with a soft, almost casual, “Hey.” 

He glances back, expectant. Curious. You hesitate for only a second- just long enough to weigh it, to name what this is. Not loyalty. Not trust. Utility. “Just out of curiosity,” you say, tone light, almost playful, “how long do you think you could keep Helmut from strangling me?”

The question lands between you with an audible beat of silence. Not because it offends him. Because he loves it. Jos’s eyebrows rise a fraction, then draw in- half amused, half impressed. “Strangling you?” he repeats, and there’s a small, disbelieving huff behind it, like he hadn’t expected this. “What did you do?”

You just smile. Small. Measured. “Nothing,” you say, light as a feather. “Yet.”

There’s a pause. Barely more than a breath.

And then you watch it happen. That flicker behind his eyes. The delight. The recognition. He doesn’t care what the offense is. He likes the posture. He likes that you’re maneuvering, plotting, reaching for control in a system that was designed to crush problems like you.

More than that- he likes that you’ve come to him.

You haven’t asked Jos Verstappen for anything since you first arrived at his house. Not a favor. Not a hand. Not even advice. And now, after all that? You’ve finally turned toward him with a quiet little invitation: help me throw a match.

And oh, does he love arson.

That’s the moment Jos knows.

Knows you’re not just fast. Not just skilled. You’re dangerous.

And not in the way these men like to pretend women are. Not because you’re emotional. Or volatile. Or too much. But because you know exactly when to ask for help. And exactly who to ask.

Until now.

And Jos- God, he lives for this.

He knows you’re not scared of Helmut. You’re not naive enough to think he’s your friend. But you are smart enough to understand the value of insulation. Of protection. Of aligning yourself with a kingmaker while your board is still setting up. He knows all of this because it’s exactly what he would do.

So he steps back toward you, arms folding loosely across his chest. Calculating. Amused.

“Me and Helmut go back a long way,” he says slowly, deliberately. Testing you. “If you stay under my wing… probably awhile.” You nod, absorbing that. Not a flinch of hesitation. Just that faint, gleaming smile- half-earned, half-willed into existence.

You see the opening. He sees the commitment.

For a second, neither of you says anything. Just standing there, locked in that slow, eerie mutual recognition of two people who know exactly how to bend a system- and exactly how dangerous the other might be.

Then you reach out, tuck your arm under his, seamless and steady like you’ve done it a hundred times. Like you belong at his side.

And maybe you do.

“Well then,” you murmur, eyes already forward, “we better find a reporter.” Jos’s grin widens- quiet, indulgent, maybe even a little giddy.

Because you’ve just stepped into the game for real. The game he plays for a living.

And whether you know it or not, you’ve already proven to him that you’re worth the price of the wager.

You walk through the media pen with Jos’s arm looped casually through yours like the two of you are strolling through a garden party instead of marching into psychological warfare.

He’s humming under his breath- pleased, it seems, with the theatrics of it all. With the eyes trailing you. With the clicks of cameras catching this new, unexplained alliance. You don’t look at them. You keep your face tilted toward Jos, like you’re in on the joke, because you are.

He leans down slightly, voice low and threaded with authority. “Not her,” he murmurs, motioning with the faintest twitch of his chin toward a tall brunette in BBC lanyards. “Too much drama. She’ll bait you.”

You nod, walking in sync.

“Not them,” he adds a moment later, voice nearly drowned out by the thrum of post-race interviews. “Low viewership. Waste of time.”

You pass another reporter and he stiffens beside you. “No,” he says flatly. “They write poorly about Us.”

That’s what he says. Not my son. Not Max. Us.

You file that away.

And then- “Here,” he says, voice softening just enough. He steers you gently by the elbow, guiding you toward a setup tucked near the edge of the barricade. The mic is branded with a modest Dutch outlet- mid-tier, but respected. The reporter’s already watching your approach with wide, eager eyes. Probably wasn’t expecting to get a podium driver this weekend, let alone you.

“They write well. Good English. Friendly,” Jos says. “And not so big they’ll come for your throat.”

You glance up at him. There’s a gleam in his eye that makes something in your chest buzz.

You pat his arm once, then let go.

Time to work.

You square your shoulders and step forward, all sunshine and polish, the weight of the race draining from your body like it never existed. You’re dry now. Clean. Composed. The smile you flash is dazzling, genuine even, if you don’t look too closely at the cracks around the edges.

The reporter straightens like she’s just been knighted. “Oh-” she breathes, stunned. “Congratulations. What a finish.”

You thank her warmly. Shake her hand like you’re old friends. She fires off a handful of standard questions- how was the car, what were you thinking in the final laps, what’s it like to share a podium with Verstappen and Russell? You give her everything. A little humor. A little insight. Something for the engineers. Something for the fans. Your voice smooths out. Your hands are calm. You’re unshakable.

And then it comes, just like you knew it would.

“So, what’s next for you?” the reporter asks, too eager to mask her curiosity. “You’ve now placed seventh and third in two races- surely a full-time seat is on the horizon?”

There it is.

The trap you were counting on. You stick your foot in happily.

You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You lean in.

“I’m incredibly grateful to Red Bull,” you say, voice warm and radiant. “They’ve given me the chance to drive at the highest level, and that’s not something I take lightly. Everyone at AlphaTauri, everyone behind the scenes- they’ve been extraordinary. Supportive. And the opportunities they continue to offer me- ” You pause here, let the weight of that word opportunities hang in the air like perfume. “- are something I’m excited to grow with.”

The reporter nods, hanging on every word. You smile wider. Just sweet enough to rot teeth. “For now,” you continue, “I’ll be working exclusively with the Red Bull program. It’s important to me to keep things... in the family.” 

You don’t say like I was told to.

“But,” you add, voice a little brighter now, lilting with the casual sharpness of someone sliding in the knife, “my agent and I are, of course, looking ahead to 2023. I’m very open to conversations. We’ll be formally reviewing sealed offers starting November 12th.” You don’t bother telling them that your agent is an aggressively southern woman at a kitchen table.

You let it land.

The exact date.

A deadline.

The reporter blinks. There’s a pause- just a breath- and then she scrambles to say something, already realizing she’s sitting on a grenade disguised as a soundbite. You thank her again. Gracious, poised.

Behind you, Jos is watching.

You step back from the interview, all shine and control, the same smile still stretched across your face like it’s been lacquered into place. The reporter stammers a closing line- your words still hanging, radioactive, in the air- but you don’t pause to savor it. You just turn, smooth and easy, and walk back toward Jos like you didn’t just plant a bomb beneath the entire Red Bull media structure.

Jos watches you come. His mouth doesn’t move. His arms don’t lift. But his eyes- God, his eyes are alive. You’re oblivious to his revelation- but he’s seeing it now.

You.

Not the girl from the rally car. Not the clean-cut driver at the hospitality table. Not the polite, tight-smiled PR darling who survived his dinner table and kissed the ring of the sport like a good little guest.

This- what you just did? This is something else.

Because what he’s looking at- what he’s only now seeing clearly for the first time- isn’t just talent. Isn’t just potential. What’s walking toward him is raw, weaponized ambition wrapped in silk.

And it’s terrifying. Jos thought he’d seen the shape of you already. Thought he understood what you were. Another underdog. Hungry, sure. Fierce, yes. But still malleable. Still uncut. Now? Now he knows better.

That wasn’t politics. That wasn’t charm. That wasn’t survival. That was fucking brutality.

Disguised. Delivered with surgical precision. And all while looking straight into a camera and thanking your captors with a smile so sweet it could sell out arenas.

He sees the truth of it. You’re not a stray. You’re a weapon. A political missile dressed in fireproofs and lip gloss. And he can’t help but ask himself, if you’re dangerous now- alone, aimless- what could you become under his direction?

Under his control?

That thought hits like cold metal against the teeth.

He has to bring you in. Keep you close. Wrap you in enough praise, enough attention, that you never think to look beyond his reach. He has to get his hands around whatever this is before someone else does- before Christian realizes what you’re becoming, before Helmut reclassifies you as a threat. 

And if Jos can claim you first- if he can fold you into the system before anyone else truly sees what you are- he’ll own the future.

A dynasty.

You stop in front of him, that same honeyed expression on your face, chin lifted like you didn’t just tilt the entire paddock on its axis. “Too much?” you ask, voice low, amused.

He exhales through his nose. A slow grin curls across his face. It’s not warm.

It’s hungry.

“No,” he says, voice thick with approval, with satisfaction, with intent. “Just enough.”

He offers his arm again, casual as anything, like you’ve walked this path a hundred times before. You hesitate for only a second before taking it. And that’s all he needs.

“Stick close,” he says, quiet but firm as he turns you both back toward the heart of the paddock. “Plenty of people are going to want a piece of you now.”

He doesn’t say it like a warning. He says it like a promise.

And you, still thrumming from the aftershocks of your biggest power play to date, don’t question it. You don’t feel the teeth behind it. You’re too busy standing upright. Too busy surviving. Too busy telling yourself that maybe- for once- it’s good to have someone in your corner.

Even if you don’t realize you’ve just stepped into his.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

A/N: Another absolute monster of a chapter, please say uncle if you need me to shorten these! As always, your feedback keeps me alive, love the comments, asks, and reblogs! Makes me happy to see others enjoying something I've spent so much time on!

[grimeshound]

CAN WE CAM UP?

masterlist

word count: 2,228

pairing: sang-woo x gi-hun.

summary: when sang-woo comes clean about his debts to gi-hun, the older man introduces him to the prospect of opening an onlyfans account. unbeknownst to gi-hun, he’d be watching his best friend’s video on the site weeks later.

cn: 18+, male masturbation, mutual masturbation, webcam/onlyfans sangwoo au

a/n: title from cyber sex for doja cat! you can clearly tell i have no idea how the onlyfans layout works,,, i hope that doesnt ruin anything T_T

—-

“Well— how are you, really?” Gi-hun asked, swirling the bottle of soju lazily in his hand, his tone softer than usual.

Sang-woo took another slow sip of his own drink, the bitterness lingering as he huffed. “I mean, alright.”

Gi-hun fixed him with a deadpan look, a rare moment of seriousness. “I think we’ve known each other long enough to know that’s bullshit.”

The words hit Sang-woo harder than they should’ve. It had been years since they’d last seen each other, his childhood friend now feeling like a relic of a simpler time. But the universe worked in funny ways, reuniting each other at a no-name convenience store after all this time. A little coaxing, albeit barely needed—was all it took for Sang-woo to agree to drinks. He could never say no to Gi-hun, even back when they were kids.

Sang-woo sighed, leaning back into his seat. “Well… maybe not alright. There’s the debts—”

Gi-hun’s eyes lit up, cutting him off mid-sentence. “No way? Me too!” He leaned in, gesturing wildly like Sang-woo had just announced they’d won the lottery. “It’s fucking insane, right? You try everything—”

Sang-woo blinked, half-incredulous, half-amused as Gi-hun launched into a rapid-fire list of schemes he’d tried to get out of debt. It was so absurd he couldn’t help but snicker, the laughter sneaking out before he could stop it.

“Yeah…” Sang-woo trailed off, his smile fading as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. He looked away, the silence creeping back between them.

“But you know,” Gi-hun continued, grinning ear to ear, “I’m managing. You just gotta try everything you can.”

Sang-woo sighed heavily, swirling the last bit of soju in his bottle before setting it down. “I have tried everything, hyung. You think I haven’t?”

Gi-hun leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “Okay, like what?”

Sang-woo chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. “I tried the obvious, cutting expenses. No more eating out, no more luxuries, not even a cup of coffee from the vending machine at work. Didn’t make a dent.”

He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then, I thought I could invest my way out. Stocks, crypto, you name it. I spent months researching, thinking I could outsmart the market. Turns out, luck isn’t something you can study.”

Gi-hun just nodded wordlessly, letting Sang-woo ramble on.

“And then,” Sang-woo continued, his voice growing quieter, “I thought about selling my car. My condo. Everything I own. But I realized even that wouldn’t be enough to cover it all. It’s like trying to drain an ocean with a goddamn bucket.”

Gi-hun frowned, leaning back in his chair as he sucked his teeth. “Damn. That bad, huh?”

Sang-woo scoffed. “Bad enough that I started thinking about loans. Sketchy ones, the kind where the interest grows faster than you can blink.” He glanced at Gi-hun, his expression dark. “I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not yet.”

There were a few beats of pause, the two men quiet for a bit.

“Well, you know…” It was Gi-hun who broke the silence, hoping to ease the heavy tension in the air. “There’s always OnlyFans, I hear that’s lucrative nowadays.” he joked, nudging Sang-woo’s side with a laugh.

Sang-woo froze, his cigarette paused halfway to his mouth. “What?” he said flatly, his brow furrowing.

Gi-hun looked genuinely surprised. “You’re telling me you’ve never heard of it? You’re 46, single, and you don’t know?” He snorted. “Wow. It’s true what they say—genius types like you really don’t have time for stuff like that, huh?”

Sang-woo just stared at him, unimpressed. “Are you going to tell me, or are you just going to keep spouting nonsense?”

Gi-hun snickered, leaning in like he was sharing some grand secret. “It’s this site where people pay you for… uh, requests.”

Sang-woo’s frown deepened. “Requests?” He repeated the word slowly, like it was foreign.

Gi-hun hesitated, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “You know. Webcam stuff. Like… adult webcam stuff.”

It took him a second, but when the implication hit, his face flushed crimson. “What the hell, hyung? Do I look like a fucking prostitute to you?!” He yanked off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose as if that would help erase the image from his mind.

Gi-hun, of course, was laughing too hard to take him seriously. “Hey, hey—it’s just a joke!” he said, clapping Sang-woo on the back. “Besides, what’s wrong with it? I hear it’s real liberating these days. And it pays a killing.”

Sang-woo rolled his eyes, slipping his glasses back on. “Yeah, well, I’m not that desperate. Keep dreaming.”

They parted ways shortly after, and Sang-woo returned to his empty apartment, the silence of the place practically swallowing him whole. He barely made it home before the exhaustion hit. The ridiculousness of Gi-hun’s suggestion shouldn’t have stuck, but it did. It nestled itself into his mind like an unwelcome guest. He wasn’t that desperate. He didn’t claw his way through SNU just to end up… doing that.

But, Gi-hun had said it paid generously.

He stared up at the ceiling, the thought refusing to let him go.

Would it really be so bad?

He didn’t want to entertain Gi-hun’s absurd suggestion. He really didn’t. But the idea had already planted itself in his head, stubborn and intrusive.

OnlyFans.

Sang-woo rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Could it really be that simple?

His gaze shifted to his desk. The faint glow of his computer monitor caught his eye. He blinked, hesitant.

“It’s not like I’d show my face,” he muttered under his breath, as if justifying the intrusive thought to himself. “I wouldn’t use my real name. I wouldn’t even talk much.”

Before he realized it, his body was moving. He slid into the chair, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. The cursor blinked in the search bar, expectant.

“OnlyFans pay,” he typed hesitantly.

Click. Scroll.

“How much do you earn from webcam videos on average?”

Click. Scroll.

“How to sign up for an OnlyFans account?”

Click. Scroll.

Finally, his fingers typed the URL directly. OnlyFans.com.

The screen changed, illuminating his face in the dimly lit room. His heart raced as he navigated the sign-up process. A username, an email, a quick verification.

And then the words appeared on the screen:

“Welcome to OnlyFans!”

—

Two weeks passed. Gi-hun hadn’t heard from Sang-woo since their last meeting. It was late, the kind of quiet that only came after the rest of the world had gone to sleep. He laid in bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. His eyes wandered to the clock in the top left corner.

2:35 a.m.

His thumb flicked past videos and thumbnails of the familiar website on autopilot. He sighed, scrolling faster. The content blurred together—until his thumb stopped.

A thumbnail caught his attention. A suited figure sat at a desk, the camera cutting off the person’s face. The video title was simple: “First vid.” The uploader’s username was equally unassuming: woosxng.

“Huh,” Gi-hun muttered, intrigued. The simplicity stood out among the neon-lit, high-production videos that dominated his feed. Something about the dimly lit room and the anonymity of the figure made him pause.

He clicked.

The video loaded, and Gi-hun’s eyes were glued to the screen. The man in the video adjusted his tie, his movements deliberate. His veined hands hovered over the front of his slacks, pressing down against the obvious strain. A muffled groan escaped his lips as he palmed himself, hips shifting slightly.

Gi-hun’s breath hitched. There was something strangely captivating about the scene. He was embarrassed to admit it, but that familiar fantasy crossed his mind. He imagined Sangwoo there.

It wasn’t entirely far-fetched, really. The suit, the deliberate movements, the quiet control—it all reminded him of his childhood friend.

The man in the video worked his belt open, sliding his boxers down just enough to free himself. His cock was heavy, flushed as it was leaking at the tip. Gi-hun swallowed hard, unable to tear his gaze away. He’d always thought people who paid for this kind of content were suckers, but this? This was different.

The man’s strokes were slow, teasing himself as his hips bucked slightly. Low groans filled the air, growing more desperate with each movement. Gi-hun felt heat pooling in his stomach, his own arousal growing impossible to ignore. The sound of the stranger’s groans pulled Gi-hun’s attention back to the screen. He couldn’t look away, no matter how much he wanted to. It was like he was hypnotized. The stranger’s hand moved with deliberate precision, stroking his length with slow, teasing motions.

“Fffuck…” the man groaned, his voice strained. His hand ghosted along the underside of his cock, tracing a prominent vein. The sensation drew a whimper from his lips, high-pitched and unrestrained. First hearing the man’s voice had Gihun’s heart skipping a beat. Gi-hun’s breath quickened, shallow and uneven, as the fantasy took hold. He tried to fight it at first, growing heat pooling in his gut. But it was no use. His imagination betrayed him, painting a vivid image of Sang-woo in that chair, his face flushed, lips parted and eyes hazy with need. All for him.

Gi-hun felt his own arousal becoming unbearable, his boxers painfully tight as he watched. But it wasn’t just the visual—it was the sound. Those whimpers, soft and unrestrained, made Gi-hun’s pulse race. He didn’t even know it was possible for a man to whine like that. The stranger’s low groans melted into high-pitched cries, his desperation becoming more palpable with every passing second.

Without even realizing it, Gi-hun had freed himself from his boxers, his hand instinctively wrapping around his own length. He hissed softly at the contact, the sensation almost too much. His strokes matched the stranger’s pace, his eyes locked on the screen as if the man’s pleasure was somehow his own.

The stranger was driving Gi-hun to the brink, his every movement and sound sending shivers down Gi-hun’s spine. That tone—so drenched in vulnerability and surrender—had him clenching the sheets beneath him, his own arousal almost unbearable.

The camera’s angle, low and intimate, captured every detail in a way that left nothing to the imagination, and yet Gi-hun still felt like he needed more. His eyes zeroed in on the stranger’s throat, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed down a moan, his lips parting just enough to let out those desperate mewls. His thighs trembled, muscles straining with effort as he pushed himself closer and closer to the edge.

Gi-hun couldn’t look away, couldn’t even think of anything else. The stranger’s hand moved faster now, his cock disappearing into his fist with each stroke, slick with precome. His hips bucked upward, as if chasing something just out of reach, his movements becoming wild and erratic.

And those sounds—God, those sounds. The deep, guttural moans from earlier had given way to something softer, higher, more desperate. The stranger’s voice cracked as he whimpered, his pleas spilling out in a breathless stream.

“Please, oh—fuck. Please, please”

He was moaning like a fucking girl, Gi-hun thought, and it turned him on harder than anything he’d ever seen or even imagined before. It was maddening—the way he begged to no one, his voice dripping with raw, unrestrained desperation. The contrast between his deep, guttural growls and the high-pitched, pleading cries sent Gi-hun’s mind reeling.

The stranger’s head fell back, exposing the column of his neck. His free hand gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white, as his strokes grew faster and sloppier. Gi-hun felt like a voyeur, watching something private, something sacred. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop. His heart pounded in his chest, his own arousal building to an unbearable peak as he matched the stranger’s intensity in his mind.

Gi-hun’s breath hitched, his body tense as he imagined that voice, those cries, coming from someone else entirely—someone he knew all too well. The thought made his stomach twist with guilt, but it only heightened the ache deep within him.

Gi-hun was left staring, his own breathing ragged, his chest rising and falling in time with the stranger’s. He felt like his skin was on fire, the rush of pleasure giving way to a lingering sense of shame. But even as the guilt crept in, he couldn’t deny the impact this stranger—this anonymous, faceless man—had on him.

Or, more accurately, the way his mind had twisted that man into someone else entirely.

The stranger’s strokes grew sloppier, more frantic, his hips jerking wildly against his hand. He whimpered, almost sobbed, the sound raw and unfiltered. Gi-hun felt lightheaded, the room spinning as his own hand worked faster, chasing the edge that teased just out of reach.

“Gonna… gonna—” the stranger cried out, his voice breaking as his body stiffened.

The screen showed him arching, his head hitting the back of his chair with a soft thump as he came, thick ropes spilling over his hand. The intensity of his release was almost palpable, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he slowly relaxed back into the chair, utterly spent.

Gi-hun’s body tensed, his own climax hitting him hard as he finally gave in to the fantasy. His mind painted the image of Sang-woo crying out, his face flushed and beautiful, his glasses slipping down his nose as he lost himself completely.

He was so fucked the next time he’d see Sang-woo.

[tonysbed]

Secrets I keep | Part 16

Max Fewtrell x norris!reader

summary: You and Max have been dancing around your feelings for years but jealousy gets the best of us all..

warnings: again, the internet is cruel. Max gets into his head, mental health issues?? self doubt, crying, mention of cheating

not proofread

series masterlist | previous | next

-

“Alright, I’m leaving then! I’ll see you in a few days” You say, coming trough the door into the living room, where max was sitting on the couch. It had been a few good weeks since the whole incident and you were both cooled down from the drama.

Lando hadn’t really come to his senses, but you unblocked him. Your dad had a talk with him, that resulted in nothing.

“Alright. Be careful and text me” He gets up from his place and hugs you, kissing the top of your head “I will, don’t worry” You kiss him and smile “I gotta go now before I miss my flight or something!”

You look at your phone “And they’re here! Okay, gotta go. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone! I love you” “Won’t do, I love you too” Max watches you leave the apartment with a suitcase, and sighs.

He still hadn’t voiced his concerns about Franco. Not to think wrong, franco was a super nice bloke but he was flirty and you two just got along a little to well for his liking.

But how would you know? You only had eyes for max, franco was not interesting for you. But that is something that Max has to get in his head first..

-

You slid into the backseat. Kika turned around to look at you “Ready?” You smile “A tour through the headquarters of tractors? Sure!” Pierre glared at you through the mirror “Do you want to walk?” He grumbled “Pierre!” Kika slapped his arm “What? She said I’m driving a tractor!”

Kika rolled her eyes smiling and pierre dropped it.

-

norris.yn

liked by franciscagomez, pierregasly, maxfewtrell and 36 others

norris.yn she’s everything and he’s… there

pierregasly why am I always catching strays

franciscagomez 🙂‍↕️😘

alexandrasaintmleux 😂😂

charlesleclerc oh pierre 🤦‍♂️

maxfewtrell always tired 😂

pierregasly of your girlfriend? Always

franciscagomez Pierre.

pierregasly What? She’s always stealing you

norris.yn she deserves more than you

pierregasly see??

maxfewtrell I choose peace and ignore it.

-

You three arrived at the Alpine headquarters and as you neared the entrance you saw a figure enthusiastically talk with Paul, who just looked like he was being tortured.

As you got closer, Paul spotted you three and sighed in relief “Thank god. Now he can talk your ear off. I really like you Franco, but it’s to fucking early” Paul says, yawning.

You chuckle as Franco huffed “Mean” He crossed his arms but smiled at you “You’re alive! You weren’t at the paddock, your brother acts as if you aren’t his sister and you don’t post anymore!” He throws his arms up in the air.

“Have you seen what happened?” You chuckled “Yeah I know” “Don’t you follow her on here new account?” Pierre asked “Uh..new account?” Franco looks puzzled at the frenchman and then at you.

“Yeah, I made one just for friends, no strangers, no privacy invasion, just us” You say smiling. Franco nods, pulls out his phone and hands it to you.

You type in his code, which kika raised an eyebrow at and request your account from his. You hand it back to him and accept the request.

“Ah, yes you have been alive!” He laughs. You nod and laugh. Pierre and Kika start to make their way inside, and you two follow them.

-

norris.yn

liked by pierregasly, kellypiquet, francocolapinto and 46 others

norris.yn @/ jackdoohan, pls get better soon, they’re crazy

jackdoohan I will try my best 😂

norris.yn pls hurry up 😭😂

franciscagomez we’re not that bad 🤔

pierregasly …

paulaaron you love us, really

francocolapinto now why would you post this? my my

norris.yn you’ll live

-

max grimaced at his phone. This is exactly what he feared could happen. But before he could continue his thought train, another notification popped up on his phone.

It was a gossip page that had tagged him. That was never good but he clicked on it, and immediately regretted it.

-

f1gossip

f1gossip Franco Colapinto was spotten near the Alpine Headquarters with Yn Norris. Mclarens number one drivers sister. Has she moved on from her boyfriend Max Fewtrell?

user oh my god. She’s disgusting

user what a bitch

user max isn’t even allowed to be mad, he did the same

user are we gonna ignore that Pierre, Paul and Kika were also with them??

user 🤢

user franco noooo

-

-

You sigh as you put the phone down. Kika tilts her head at you “What did he say?” “He’s being weird” Franco raised an eyebrow “About me? I swear, I know you guys are a thing! I don’t want anything from you” Franco raised his hands in surrender.

You chuckle “I know that. Something tells me tho that this is not based on todays events.” You look at Kika with a knowing look. She presses her lips together.

“Do we have to understand this?” Pierre asked confused “Are you a woman?” She asked him with an raised eyebrow “No?” “Then you won’t get it.”

“I’ll guess it’s an early leave for me” You sigh “Nooo, can’t he be weird alone for a few more days?” Paul pouts “I’d rather resolve this as soon as possible. I know how much Max can get into his own head because of the media. I’ve seen it with him, and i’ve seen it with Lando. I know what It does to people”

“Especially something like this” Pierre says, his voice now serious but calm. Kika nods “Of that is what you think is better for the two of you, that’s okay. We can do this another time. Maybe even bring max that time” Kika says, Pierre nodding along “Definitely”

You smile “Thanks guys. I guess I’ll see what flight will get me back the fastest” You pull out your phone again “Is he in monaco again?” Kika chuckled “Yep. He’s at my apartment” She nods “Obviously.”

-

While you were planning your trip home, Max was laying in your bed. His eyes fixed on the side you claimed as yours the first time he had officially slept over as your boyfriend.

He smiled a bit at the memory, which was quickly soured away by the pictures of you and franco flashing in his mind. He knew you would never do such things, he knew that Kika, Pierre and Paul had been there but in moments like these, his mind wasn’t quiet.

It screamed at him. Screamed he’d get hurt again, or more by the one person that could actually hurt him deeply.

He shakes his head. You wouldn’t.

Are you sure? You’re not even a racing driver.

She loves me for me.

does she now? why would you be enough

Max sat up and got up to go into the bathroom. He looked into the reflection of the big mirror. His eyes were red from crying, but not too bad that he couldn’t pass it off as sleepiness.

He splashed water in his face and sighed. His mind was playing tricks on him that only you could outplay. You were outplaying tricks you didn’t even know about.

He let his head hang and sighed again.

He turned off the light and made his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. In moments like these, he would’ve called lando. Something he had also cost her.

She would’ve never argued about Daniel with Lando if it wasn’t for him. It was all his fault.

-

It was later in the day when you had finally arrived back in monaco. You sighed as you pulled out your keys but before you could put the keys in, the door swung open.

Max looked backwards into the apartment, his suitcase in hand. He closed the door and finally turned around to look at you.

you both stare at each other for a moment. You look between his suitcase and him “Uhm..where you leaving?” You ask confused.

“I..uh” Max didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected you back so soon. What in christs name-

“Why are you back already?” “That doesn’t matter right now. Did something happen?” Max’s jaw clenched and he looked away.

A knot forms in your stomach “Please don’t tell me this is about the Franco thing” You say quietly. Max still doesn’t meet your eyes. You abandon your suitcase for a moment and unlock the door.

You point for him to go back inside. Before he could protest, you shake your head “We’re talking about this. Inside. With your suitcase.”

-

You sat down on the couch, turned to Max, while he was faced forward, hands fidgeting.

“Max, please talk to me about this. I already told you, I would never..Franco isn’t..He doesn’t even fit into my life” You say, still looking at him.

“I know” He says quietly “Well apparently you don’t. You wanted to leave why exactly? To tell me what? You didn’t call, you didn’t text” His head turns to the kitchen.

You can see the island from the couch. There is a vase of your favourite flowers and a letter perched up against.

“I knew you would try to stop me” He says quietly. Now he had made you speechless. You look at him in shock.

“You..so” You take a deep breath “So this is it?” You ask, not entirely sure what you’re even saying. Max finally looks at you. He doesn’t say anything but his eyes told you everything you needed to know.

You clenched your jaw “why?” You whisper, biting back tears. Max weighs his options. You would try to convince him to stay, when he would tell you the truth. But he would only hurt you further.

His mind kept screaming to go, his heart was aching, and crying out your name, longing for your love. He knew you’d be better off without him. He had to go.

“You wouldn’t understand” “Then make me understand. Let me try to fix this! Us!”

“There is no us. Not anymore. There should’ve never been an us”

The words lie heavy in the room. You stare at him. You can only watch as he gets up, takes his suitcase and takes one last look at you.

This is it, she’ll be free of you.

-

Alexandra could barely understand what you were saying over the phone as she rushed out the door, Charles closely behind, having to drive her over to you.

She tried to calm you down, with no success. The only thing she understood was “Franco, Max, broke up” And the last one was what made her stomach turn.

-

She opened your door with her spare key, rushing inside, finding you curled up on the couch.

“Hey, hey.” She took you into her arms. Her arms tighten around you as your sobs got heavier and more pained. Charles looks worried, wording the name ‘Kelly’. Alex nods, hoping Kelly would get more out of you, knowing you two knew each other longer.

Kelly arrived sooner than Alex expected, and Charles left, telling Alex to call if she needed anything.

-

alexandrasaintmleux added to their story

[cap: @/kellypiquet our new master chef 👩‍🍳 🍝❤️

reply’s:

charlesleclerc how is she holding up?

she’s okay for now. Calmed her down but his story doesn’t make sense. It’s quite confusing and just really out of the blue.

charlesleclerc hm..you want me to play detective?

pls do

charlesleclerc no problem mom amor❤️

❤️

user isn’t that yn’s kitchen??

-

so uhm.. yeah. Here’s a good handful of angst and Max’s head full of chaos 😬 Ups

Happy Valentine or whatever

[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (XLVI)

Chapter 46 : ‘Both of us, of the love which makes us one.’

Hi! Here is a new chapter! A little academic update for our lovely couple…

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so no minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 3479

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

I loved you first: but afterwards your love Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove. Which owes the other most? my love was long, And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong; I loved and guessed at you, you construed me And loved me for what might or might not be – Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong. For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’ With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done, For one is both and both are one in love: Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’ Both have the strength and both the length thereof, Both of us, of the love which makes us one.

Christina Rossetti

The whatsapp group of the third-year students was busier than ever.

Texts after texts after texts were filling up the app, the screen constantly updated, a message chasing another.

The reason was simple. Professor Hozier-Byrne and Professor Y/L/N had been spotted chatting in a corridor… and they were standing very close to each other…

Were they touching?!?!

Nah… but they were leaning towards each other, it was adorable.

And Prof H-B was blushing. BLUSHING! And they were laughing like… I had never seen any of them so happy.

They’re definitely together. THE LOOK IN THEIR EYES LADS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A string of heart-eyes emojis followed.

I’m betting on them.

So… does that mean that our two fav literature professors are also IN LOVE?! My heart!!

Oh

My

God…

Do you think Pr. H-B’s poetry is about… HER?!

OMG!!!

A string of messages taking God as a witness of the student’s amazement followed.

We need to find out. We need to be certain!

And that was how Operation Love Birds began…

“Do you have any questions about this poem?” Andrew asked his students, readjusting his glasses, closing his copy of District and Circle.

Silence, but his students were clearly listening carefully to him, as several of them shook their heads.

“Alright, then… I reckon that’s all for today. Don’t forget that you have an essay to prepare for next week! Enjoy your weekend!”

He was already packing his things, thinking about you and the coffee break you had promised after this class. He knew you were wearing this shirt he loved on you, that green one that made his heart stumble and lose all kind of rhythm. He had seen you leaving your shared home wearing it, but you had a class early in the morning, while he could take his time. He remembered the way it revealed just enough of your cleavage to drive him nuts, though…

He was almost startled by the four students standing in front of him. Marie, Sheily, Saoirse and Sean. He knew them quite well by now, and so did you. They had steadily attended his and your classes every semester since their first year.

He quickly recovered and offered them a kind and expectant smile.

“We wanted to ask you about the essay for next week. We haven’t found many sources about the poem we’re studying, and we’re not quite sure about our interpretation… could you tell us if we’re going in the wrong direction?”

His smile only grew a little wider, and he wondered why one of the girls was repeatedly blinking when he pushed his hair behind his ear.

“Yes, of course. I know that some authors we’re working on in this class, being contemporary to us, don’t have that many academic resources about their work. I’ll give you a push, if you need.”

He tapped on the screen of his phone to check the time.

“I have to run now, but come by tomorrow afternoon to my office if you’d like. We’ll take a look at what you’ve been doing, and I’ll give you directions to finish your essay.”

“Thank you! Have a nice day, professor!”

“Thanks, have a good one too.”

Andrew let out a relieved exhale as the students left, and hurried to pack once more. His phone vibrated with your name colouring his screen.

Got your coffee, waiting in our office.

Hurry up. I want a kiiiiiiissssss!

Love you! xx

Andrew grinned without even noticing, throwing his pencil case in his bag and running to the door. The few students who were still in the room looked at him with raised eyebrows, and exchanged questioning glances at the sight of his sudden hurry. He who was always so calm, so composed, almost shy…

Andrew ignored them, though. He didn’t even notice that they were there at all. Instead, he rushed through the corridors of the old university, until he had reached your shared office.

He opened the door more violently than he meant to, making you jump. You were standing there, by the window behind his desk, a coffee in your hand. You were wearing that top, alright…

He hurried to close the door, rushed across the room, bending to avoid the lamp hanging from the ceiling, and dropped his bag next to his desk.

“Your coffee’s…” you started, pointing at the warm mug on his desk, but you stopped when he took your warm beverage from your hands to put it down on a nearby shelf. “Huh… that was mine!”

Instead of answering, Andrew merely stared at you, letting his gaze rake the length of your body, and he didn’t try to hide the hunger in his eyes.

“You’re wearing that top.”

You raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a smug smile tugging at your lips.

“Yes…”

“You know I love that shirt on you.”

“Hmmm… yes, I kind of do. That’s why I chose it this morning.”

“Oh, I see… you woke up and thought ‘hey, how can I torture my boyfriend today?’…”

“Torture?”

“You clearly chose violence with that cleavage, honey…”

You bit on your lower lip, unable to refrain your grin any longer.

“Did I now? And I thought I would make you happy…”

“Oh, I’m delighted, don’t get me wrong.”

You wanted to add some banter, but his hands came up to rest on your cheeks, cradling your face to pull you closer while he bent down to kiss you, and you were left too breathless to speak.

“You’re so beautiful, my love. Absolutely gorgeous…” he whispered, his lips a breath away from yours, and despite the obvious desire in his words, his tone was infinitely tender. Adoring, even. “How did I get lucky enough for you to want me, huh?”

You giggled at that, the most adorable sound in the world, and he didn’t even notice that he was smiling.

“You planned a devilish plan to get back with your ex with me.”

“Our exes,” he corrected you.

“Hmm… yeah, that’s how.”

He shook his head, brushing his nose against yours in the process.

“I don’t think that’s how I did it…”

“No… You just had to be your kind, funny, handsome self…”

He rolled his eyes, and when you opened your mouth to protest, he merely closed the gap between your mouths, finally kissing you.

He was breathless by the time you pulled away, dizzy and happier than ever…

… how could you still make him feel this way after two full years?

You wrapped your arms around his neck to keep him close, and he held your waist firmly against him, partly to keep you close but also to help you keep your balance as you had risen to your tiptoes so he wouldn’t have to bend so much.

“Well, professor… if you’re nice enough with me today… I might let you take this shirt you like so much off me tonight…” you whispered in the most tempting voice, making him groan.

“You’ll be the death of me…”

While Andrew and you were finally breaking your embrace, sipping on your coffees while imagining very graphic scenarios of how you would spend your evening together, the whatsapp group of your students, now rebranded as OP Love Birds was on fire again.

I couldn’t make out the face of the woman on the picture, but she had the same hair colour as Pr Y/L/N. And there was a dog in the picture too. Black and white dog. (it was adorable btw).

Okay, so H-B is definitely NOT single. And it could be Y/L/N.

And can we mention how he weirdly just… BOLTED out of the room?

Like?

Sir?

Calm down! Those legs are long enough to carry you at lightspeed already…

Unless he wanted to go back to Y/N!

OMG… I want them to be together so bad, they would be so cute together!!!

God, you had to talk to Andrew.

You finally had received a response for the publication of your article. The email dropped during your class, but you managed to sneak a peek at it, and… the article was accepted!

You were over the moon, and got distracted during the end of your class, you would willingly admit that. You stammered, stumbled over your words a few times, but it was okay. You didn’t mind. You couldn’t mind losing your cool when you had spent so long working on this bloody article. But it was finally accepted, it would be published, with your name on it, printed in full and you wanted to cry from the sheer expectation of finally seeing it for real, on a computer screen, with the name of one of the most renowned journals at the top of your paper.

You hurried through the corridor, knowing Andrew was coming back from a class too, and would soon have a meeting with some of his students about an essay. There was no time to lose. You wanted to celebrate with him, and get lots of hugs and kisses and see his proud grin on his face…

He heard you running down the corridor when he was just a few steps away from the door of your shared office, and he raised a perplexed eyebrow as you rushed closer.

“You’re alright?” he asked, turning fully to you.

“IT’S ACCEPTED! IT’S ACCEPTED!”

His surprise turned into bliss.

“Your article, you mean?” he asked, and you nodded excitedly, rushing in his open arms.

You buried your face in his chest, and jumped up and down in excitement. Andrew laughed.

“Congratulations, darling! You worked so hard on it!”

“Yes, I did!” you quipped, looking up at him.

“I’m so proud of you, that’s amazing!”

“YES!”

He checked the corridor, but there was no one in sight, so he bent down to kiss you, loving and passionate and taking your breath away.

“I’m so proud of you, baby!” he cooed, holding you tight again. “That’s amazing, congratulations!”

“I mean, it’s not my first paper… but it’s my first on this subject, and in such a big journal too…”

“Babe, I’m incredibly proud of you! And you should be too! Now, we can drink that bottle of champagne I had stashed for this.”

“You bought champagne for this?”

“Of course! You were so nervous about it… I know how important it was for you.”

“Thank you,” you looked up at him with tears in your eyes, and Andrew fondly shook his head at you.

“It’s the bare minimum, honey.”

“It isn’t. You’re the best boyfriend since Mr. Darcy.”

Andrew let out a loud laugh.

“Wow… that is very high praise!”

“The highest.”

You finally pulled away, but kept on holding his hands in yours.

You jumped at the sound of giggles coming from the staircase that led to the corridor, and you both let go, reluctance making your movements too slow for Andrew’s students not to notice…

“Ha! Come in, let’s take a look at what you’ve found so far,” Andrew called his students, and you greeted them as well.

It took them thirty seconds after they were out of your office to text the group.

THEY HAVE TO BE TOGETHER!!!

THEY WERE HOLDING HANDS IN THE HALLWAY WHEN WE ARRIVED TO THEIR OFFICE!

WHAT?!

OMG!!!

We need more proof! It is pretty compelling, but were they really holding hands?

They were letting go when we arrived.

God, I’m certain they’re together. ADORABLE!

We need more proof, just to be sure…

There was something off with your students, of that you were certain.

Nothing bad, by any means. They were all pretty fun to be around, focused on their studies too. You couldn’t complain about that class, really.

Except that they had started being a little weird for the past few weeks. They were whispering when they saw you, especially if Andrew was with you. You noticed that they tried to drag the informal conversations you had with them towards your personal life. But your doubts turned into certainty as you overheard a conversation between three of your students.

“They have to be together. Saoirse said they saw them holding hands.”

“They weren’t holding hands, they looked like they had been holding hands.”

“I’m sure Y/L/N and H-B are together.”

H-B?

Your brain finally clicked… Hozier-Byrne. Right…

“We need more proof.”

“More proof than the way H-B looks at her? Gosh… he’s head-over-heels… I wish someone could look at me like that.”

“He already looked at her like that when we were in first year, Sheily. And they weren’t together for sure at the time.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The longing?! Now it’s more, ‘happily with the love of my life’ vibes. He looked sad every time she turned away back then.”

You decided that you had eavesdropped long enough and made sure to make a bit of noise before finally walking out of the classroom and into the corridor where your students were chatting. They fell silent as they saw you, but greeted you with a warm smile and polite hello.

You were to meet with Andrew at the library on the campus, both of you needing to pick up some books there. There was a sort of cafeteria nearby, where you wanted to pick up a snack and some coffee.

And Andrew was waiting for you, indeed, leaning against the stone wall of the library, with a hand in the pocket of his blue jeans, too busy looking at his phone to notice the way the students that passed by him were staring. It made you smile, the way he was truly clueless of how good he looked like this, with his hair let loose to reach his shoulders, white shirt, blue jeans and denim jacket, looking effortlessly handsome. Your heart skipped several beats at the sight. He must have felt you staring, because he finally looked up from his phone, readjusting his glasses, and immediately grinned as his gaze met yours.

“Hey! How was your class this morning?” he asked, and you saw the way he closed and opened his fist, longing to touch you but refraining as you were in public, and working.

“Nothing worth mentioning except… something I’ve overhead. Got tea to spill.”

He laughed, bright and loud as he opened the door of the library for you.

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear all about it over coffee.”

“See! I knew you loved gossips as much as I do.”

“Hardly.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Absolutely not.”

You playfully stick out your tongue, making him giggle.

“Well, you’ll be definitely interested in that one, because it concerns us.”

“Us?”

“Yep…”

“Why would it be about us?”

“I’ll tell you later,” you teased, walking further into the library to pick up the books you needed, throwing a teasing smile over your shoulder, and if he replied by a roll of his eyes, he was blushing too.

You met up again to borrow the books, and Andrew read the summary of the two books you were taking with you as you exchanged niceties with the librarian. He kept carrying your books as you walked out of the building and towards the cafeteria.

It was almost an accident as you spotted the three students you had overheard earlier that morning. You were walking and chatting with Andrew, who was asking questions about the books you had just borrowed, when you felt someone staring. And indeed, the trio was looking at you and Andrew, whispering before deciding to follow you towards the cafeteria.

“So, that’s the analysis you were talking about yesterday, that pushed forward the historical and social dimension in the plays?” he asked, a small frown creasing his brow, showing that he was thinking and that he was fully focused on your conversation. Your heart beat a little faster at the thought.

“Hmm. Yeah, that’s it.”

“Sounds interesting. A little… narrowing, but interesting.”

“The second one is linked to Bakhtine’s theories though.”

“Hmm… yeah, I see. So, you’re…”

“Andy.”

“Hmm?”

“Sorry, I know I’m interrupting, but… see the three students behind us?”

“The ones we’re both teaching you mean?” he asked, trying to discreetly look over his shoulder.

“Yeah… they’re the ones I overheard this morning.”

“Oh… and? What did they say?”

You opened the door of the cafeteria, and joined the queue.

“They were discussing whether or not we are a couple,” you said in a whisper so he would be the only one to hear, and Andrew had to bend closer during the rest of the conversation.

“What?”

“They were arguing on whether or not we are a couple.”

He blinked, taking a couple of seconds to process your words.

“Oh… I see… I guess we weren’t as discreet as we thought we were.”

“I guess not. They mentioned how you look at me a lot.”

His cheeks turned a bright shade of pink, but his gaze didn’t waver, remained fixed on you.

“Oh… I see.”

“Lovingly, apparently. You are ‘head-over-heels’ as they put it,” you teased, making him chuckle and blush even more.

“I can’t deny that,” he answered in a smooth tone that made butterflies erupt in your stomach. “It is hard to hide my thoughts when I look at you.”

“Hmm… I knew you adored me.”

He laughed.

“More than you could ever imagine,” he answered with a tender smile, while you took a step closer to the counter. “Although, not just that. I often imagine you in… interesting positions as well.”

You choked on your own breath at that, and Andrew sported a content smirk in return.

“Right… anyway. Apparently, we’ve blown our cover. Our students are catching up on us.”

“And what do you suggest we do then? I mean… we’re not breaking any rules, or doing anything wrong.”

“What are you saying?”

“That… maybe that’s okay if they know about us. I for one… wouldn’t mind that much.”

You couldn’t refrain your smile.

“At the beginning, you were adamant that we had to remain professional at Trinity.”

“Hmm… I mean, it was the beginning. I couldn’t be sure if it would work out between us. It was safer this way. Two teachers dating is gossip enough, without adding a break-up into the mix.”

“Hmm… but now?”

He looked away, turning to the list of pastries to choose a snack.

“What cake do you want?”

“A chocolate muffin.”

“I think I’ll take a blueberry one. And yes, you can have a bite,” he answered before you could ask the question.

“You didn’t answer.”

“Answer?”

“Why aren’t you worried about people finding out about us anymore?”

You saw the way he clenched his jaw, the way he tightened his hold on the books under his arm. His gaze was fleeing yours, still focused on the sweet treats in display, but he did answer, his voice so low and deep you barely heard him.

“Now, I know you’re the love of my life.”

You blinked tears away, staring at him, taking in a sharp breath at his words.

“So… I don’t mind if all our colleagues know, even students. I’m not afraid of you suddenly realising that you could have better and dumping my arse anymore. I’m not afraid of us not being able to make our lives align, or whatever obstacles might be thrown at us. I just… I really just want to stay with you forever, so… who cares if they know? I’m not afraid of a break-up anymore. So, I don’t mind.”

Finally, he looked down at you, frowned a little at the sight of shining tears caught on your eyelashes, but when you grinned up at him, he smiled too.

“I love you so much, you know?” was your only answer, and Andrew nodded.

“Yeah… I’m starting to believe in that concept,” he chuckled.

He didn’t move away when you touched his arm, hand moving down towards his. Instead, he took his fist out of his pocket, intertwined his fingers with yours.

“I really want to give these girls a heart-attack,” you confessed.

“You sure?”

“Hmm… are you okay with that?”

“Murdering students is illegal. Even if it’s not fully intentional.”

You chuckled, mumbling something about how silly he was. But then his stare caught yours, and you didn’t think as you rose to your tiptoes to meet him halfway, so you could kiss him.

When you pulled away, Andrew dropped a peck on the top of your head, before letting go of your hand to wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. You wrapped your arm around his waist too, while discreetly looking over your shoulder.

The three girls were going crazy.

“So?” Andrew asked, moving forward as someone was leaving the queue.

“We might have to call an ambulance.”

You both laughed, and you rested your head on his shoulder, feeling his warmth sip into your frame, filling you with quiet and love.

[bettystonewell]

PART 1: THE MARK OF CAIN

Main Masterlist || On AO3 || On Wattpad

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Aussie!Reader

Summary: You knew you were screwed. Everything had been off since the moment you’d woken up in that hospital after your night out. But it wasn’t until you were accused of international fraud and taken to the local police station that it became clear, you were well and truly fucked. At least Agent Smith seemed to believe you and had an inkling as to what the wounds were on your body. You had been given fresh hope and the end was in sight. Or was it?

Word Count: 283k words

Tags: strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual SMUT, ret-gone, mystery, language, Aussie slang and references (to the point it’s crack sometimes), Dean bears the Mark of Cain

A/N: As requested, welcome to the world of Glowworm. This was my very first fic. She’s a little rough around the edges, and to quote Dean in 11x04 - “Mistakes were made, mm-hmm,” but that just makes her even more Hard-Yakka.

The story follows a timeline made by hells_half_acre on Livejournal, and starts off mid Season nine, weaving in and out of canon. It is currently on hiatus, but with 60 chapters spread over two parts to catch up on, who knows, maybe it will be completed by the time we get there.

I’m tossing up whether to post this weekly or twice a week because I’m also still uploading To You I Belong. Let me know what you’d prefer. Enjoy! - Beth ❤️

*I've paused uploading the story for now, but you can find it in full on AO3 and Wattpad using the links above, including the second part

1. You Don't Exist

2. The Fugitive and Her Keeper

3. It's All in the Details

4. What's the Time Mr Wolf

5. The Bunker

6. Home Alone (with Kevin Tran)

7. Get Inked

8. Always Feels Like Tuesday

9. Little Koala

10. Location, Location, Location

11. We're Both Fine

12. Room 7B

13. The Demon and the Glowworm

14. Why My Foot?

15. The Wizard and Her Wand

16. Ask Jeeves

17. It Was Dean Winchester, at the Impala, with the Handcuffs

18. Hex Bags and Girly Girls Don't Mix

19. Ageless

20. Teenagers Aren't Monsters

21. The Blood on His Hands

22. Tell Me Your Story

23. One Whole Year

24. A Slice of Apple Pie

25. Was it Bach, or Simpson?

26. Two Redheads Aren't Better Than One

27. Honey and Babe

28. Tonight I'm Getting Over You

29. The Deal

30. My Door is Always Open

31. Waiting With the Enemy

32. When Later Becomes Now

33. A Few Days of Snow

34. How to Play Nice and Influence Hunters

35. Cruel Jokes

36. Sheriffs and Angels

37. Keeping It Happy

38. What's Your Number Winchester?

39. There has to be Another Way

40. The Truth Hurts (but so can Withholding It)

41. Whoever Said Romance is Dead, was Wrong

42. Honey and Babe 2.0

43. Doors That Open and Close

44. The Not So Calm Before the Storm

45. It Started and Ended with Charlie

46. Removing the Mark

47. The Exact Time and Place

48. Part Two Teaser

RELATED

Blowtorches, Boots & Bugspray (timestamp)

What Happened Last Night? (this two parter was inspired by a scene that happens in chapter 40)

If you’d like to be tagged in this series or any of my other works, you can let me know in a comment/ask, or you can add yourself HERE. If you’re in my Dean TAGLIST and don’t want to be tagged in this one, please also let me know. This is super niche and I don’t want to overwhelm anyone with two series going at once.

[tmpestuous]

moth to a flame - nine

summary: the result of bucky’s plan shows that actions do indeed, have consequences.

pairing: college!bucky x reader

chapter warnings: angst angst angst, toxic relationships, emotional torture/abuse, threats, atlas is an asshole, mentions of physical injuries, amputation, hospitals

word count: 3.5k

a/n: i couldn’t bear to leave this series unfinished so we are back. i will most likely edit the entire thing when it finished, but this chapter is a rough one. once again, i am apologizing in advance.

series masterlist

FRIDAY — 7:15 PM

Sitting and waiting for Bucky, you looked at the time on your phone again for the umpteenth time; he was over an hour late. You tried to ease your anxiety, but it was impossible as his location was off, he wasn’t answering any texts, and he wasn’t picking up his phone.

The guilt you were feeling had begun to manifest itself physically, the pain in your chest a bit unbearable. He’s never late, and knowing that Atlas’s circle of goons had their eyes on him all day, your mind drifted to the likely answer for his absence. 

You wiped the tear that escaped one of your eyes, staring at the list of messages you’d sent to him.

5:52 PM: hey, I’m already at the lake (: ready whenever you are 6:23 PM: hope you didn’t get caught up in something. you’re never this late 6:46 PM: answer my call? I’m getting worried ): 6:54 PM: I hope everything is okay. I love you 7:08 PM: I’m so sorry.

You weren’t even too sure why you’d sent the last message, but whatever transpired with Bucky had to do with you. All of this had to do with you. You should’ve just stayed away, kept him out of harm’s way and maybe the guilt wouldn’t creep up on you the way it is now.

Taking a leap of faith, you called Steve instead of pressing Bucky’s contact again.

“Hello?” 

“Steve?” You responded. “I’m sorry to call out of nowhere, I- I know we haven’t talked in a while but I didn’t really know who else to call.”

“What’s wrong? Is it Bucky?” You hesitated a bit, answering your mental question about if Bucky was home. “Y/N? Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” you choked out, an obvious cry in your throat. “Bucky was supposed to meet me by the lake over an hour ago and he hasn’t showed up yet so I called to see if maybe he was home but–”

“He hasn’t been back since he left around noon today,” Steve interrupted. “Shit, do you think…?”

“Can you come get me?” You ignored his assumption.

“Yeah, yes, of course. I’m on my way.”

Steve showed up about 15 minutes later, Natasha by his side as they saw you crying to yourself on the bench by the lake. Natasha pulled you into her embrace immediately after sitting next to you, Steve watching from the side. 

Natasha did her best to calm you down, reassuring you that everything would be okay as you continued to repeat how this whole situation was your fault. Your cries barely ceased but once you gained some composure, you pulled away.

“Come on, we still have a few hours before they kick us out of the dorms for break,” Natasha suggested as she rubbed your shoulders, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as you shook your head.

“Atlas has my location, we should just go to my place,” you countered, the same way you had done with Bucky less than 24 hours ago. “You guys can stay there if you want. It’s kinda small but-”

“We’ll fit,” Steve cut you off, offering a half-smile in comfort. “Don’t worry. We always find a way.”

Steve alerted everyone of the situation at hand, prompting them all to collect their stuff for the week off and meet up at your place. You, Steve, and Natasha were obviously the first ones in your space. They could sense your anxiety from a mile away.

Though Bucky had informed you of everyone’s remorse the night prior, you still weren’t ready to face anyone. Especially Wanda. They knew of your circumstances but the truth didn’t change because of it. You had lied to their faces. You could’ve pleaded for help but decided to let your fears take over. 

“They’re not mad at you,” Steve said, sitting on your coffee table opposite your place on the couch.

“Your ass is on my coffee table,” you avoided responding to his statement, cracking a joke that made him huff in amusement.

“Have you eaten anything?” He asked, prompting you to shake your head. “You were gonna have dinner with Bucky, weren’t you?”

You nodded, looking down at your hands. “We have to find him, Steve. What they’re gonna do to him is—”

“I know,” he cut you off. “We will. Find him, that is.”

You nodded again. 

The rest of the group arrived shortly, piecing together what they’d spent the day investigating. No one mentioned the elephant in the room, which you were somewhat grateful for. Apologies were given, but no extensive discussion given the situation at hand.

They had the address you gave them, though had no information about any party there. Natasha had luckily scared some sense into Sharon, letting her know that the party wasn’t happening at the house you were told of. She’d figure out where it was and let Natasha know as soon as possible.

Apparently, Sharon was just as remorseful as everyone else. She’d taken a liking to Bucky, but Atlas wasn’t necessarily easy on her either. She knew everyone would find out sooner or later, but her newfound feelings for Bucky wouldn’t ever overshadow the actions she’d taken part in. 

You had taken a reprieve from the current brainstorming in your living room, sitting next to your bed on the floor and staring down at the t-shirt Bucky had borrowed just the night before.

Your tears wouldn’t let up, soon falling down your face as you held the shirt in your hands, smelling the linger of his usual scent mixed with the soap you’d used to shower together. 

One night. It was the one night you had been craving for months, since you realized maybe you’d both made a mistake. The taste of his mouth on yours, the feeling of his arms casing you in, the sound of his breaths as he slept so peacefully.

You got one night with him before everything turned to shit. And all of it was your fault. You couldn’t face him after all of this was over, not if it ended the way you inwardly prayed it wouldn’t. It would kill the both of you, but you think the shame would kill you first. 

Wiping your tears frantically as you heard a knock on the door, you told whoever was in the hallway to come in. 

Steve opened the door, looking at you holding Bucky’s shirt, sighing to himself as he stretched his arm out, your phone in his hand.

“It was ringing,” he said as you grabbed it from him, silently thanking that he didn’t try to get you to open up about your current breakdown.

Tapping your screen, you saw 2 missed calls from Atlas right as he texted you.

Atlas: Come by the house later. We need to talk.

“Shit,” you hissed, prompting Steve to ask what’s wrong. “Atlas wants to talk.”

“And you think it’s about Bucky,” Steve added as you stood up from your spot on the floor, shoving your phone in your pocket.

“I guess,” you shrugged, wiping your eyes again. “I don’t know what to do.”

Fiddling with your fingers, Steve surprisingly pulled you into a hug. You returned it, trying to stifle the sob in the back of your throat. Steve didn’t say a word, but the gesture was more than enough. 

Pulling away, you sniffled, looking up at the blonde in front of you. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course,” he said softly, his expression one of guilt. 

“I feel like after all of this, I won’t be able to look at him again,” you admitted, the ache in your chest unbearable. “Whether it’s bad or not, I just- it’ll kill me to know whatever happens to him was because of me and I did nothing to stop it.”

“What are you supposed to do?” Steve asked sternly, furrowing his eyebrows. “Bucky made this decision on his own. We tried to talk him out of it and he still kept it. You know better than anyone he’s not the easiest to persuade.”

“It doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s doing this because of me.” Your words came from a place deeper than painful, tears pooling in your eyes once more. After dropping your head in shame, Steve put his hands on your shoulders.

“Whatever happens, Bucky will make it out. Atlas won’t,” he promised. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Okay,” you breathed out, your gaze still fixated on the floor. Exhaling a deep sigh, you wiped the tears that had dared to fall. “I should go see what Atlas wants.”

Releasing your shoulders, Steve nodded once. “Be safe, alright?”

“I will,” you assured, though your voice loomed in uncertainty.

Knocking on the door to the god forsaken frat house, you rocked back and forth. Impatience consumed your bones, bringing your irritation to a boil with each passing second that the door hadn’t been opened yet. 

You rang the doorbell instead of knocking again, waiting a few seconds before you saw Quentin Beck open the door.

Clearly there’s an asshole convention happening.

“What are you doing here?” He spat.

Not in the mood, you scoffed. “Atlas fucking told me to come, asshole. Where is he?”

His angry expression turned into a fearful one. “Are you sure he’s expecting you?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, he texted me to come here. Want to see the fucking text too or are you gonna let me in?”

His face let you know he didn’t think you were lying, your irritation already mixing with the disciplining of a shiver in your spine. What if they had Bucky here?

Your phone was already recording in your bag, and you knew Pietro was waiting to take everything to the police. Sharon had texted Natasha the missing address, and you only hoped you didn’t have to make it to a fucking party for any authorities to take action.

Beck let you in, leaving you next to the stairs as he went to go get Atlas. He seemed more frazzled than when he opened the door, only raising your suspicions while you tried to hold your composure. 

Atlas rushed out of the room, looking a bit disheveled and clearly annoyed by your presence. He approached you quickly, grabbing you by the arm and leading you to a guest room hidden underneath the stairs.

“Why are you here so early?” His voice matched with his facial expression were filled with indignation as he slammed the door behind the both of you. “I said come by later, not right fucking now.”

“What’s the problem?” You retorted, not letting your guard down. Tired was an understatement in describing your feelings about the way he spoke to you, even before this stupid agreement took place. “Hiding something you don’t want me to see?”

“Oh, I’m sure you fucking know what I’m hiding,” he growled, his pupils insanely dilated. “Thought I wouldn’t find out about you and Barnes screwing behind my back?”

“Like you thought I wouldn’t find out about Sharon?”

He froze. “How the fuck do you know about that?” You scoffed in disbelief, actually surprised he didn’t even try to defend himself. “He fucking told you, of course. He was ready to sweep you into his fucking arms and you fell for it like the fucking slut you are.”

Shaking your head as his words held zero weight to you, you crossed your arms. “You’re done, Atlas. This is over.”

“Is it?” He tested. “I still have a video with that pretty little body of yours sitting in a drafted email for your boss. That doesn’t go away for girls like you.”

“I’m not doing this anymore,” you retorted once more, standing your ground. “We’re done. You can’t control me anymore, you can’t hurt anyone anymore. It’s over.”

“You think your measly attempt to get me to back down from my word is gonna stop me?” He chuckled, almost making you question yet again if you ever really knew him. A cynical smirk ghosted over his face as he walked over to you, continuing his dramatic spiel. “Barnes isn’t getting away from me anymore, and I’m gonna make what happened to Maximoff look like fucking rainbows when I’m done with him. I’m going to ruin him so much that his life will be fucking over. He’s gonna be in that hospital bed for weeks and I’m only gonna fucking pray he doesn’t make it out alive. And if he does, he's gonna wish he was dead.”

It felt weird to be relieved that you caught him saying it on camera, the ache in your chest even more insufferable that you couldn’t stop the tears from making an appearance. 

“Save the crying for later, sweetheart,” he snarled, that stupid smirk still on his face as he got close to your face. “You were right about one thing. This is done, but it’s because your life is over. Your career is gone, your little bitch is gone, and your friends won’t even forgive you by the end of it. You’re alone, Y/N. Now get the fuck out of my house.”

Atlas stood up straight, grabbing your arm and walking you out of the house, slamming the front door behind you. You grabbed your phone out of your back, shaky hands stopping the recording as you burst into sobs. After texting the recording to Pietro, you made your way back home as soon as possible.

A minute later and maybe you would’ve heard the startling screams from Bucky.

SATURDAY, 12:13 AM

Nobody could sleep. Everyone was crowding your living room, marinating in a thick silence, waiting for news from the detective assigned to the case you all had dared to open.

Pietro showed them everything necessary for them to take action. Every recording, including the most recent, the pictures of his injuries and the medical reports to go with them, and the addresses of all three houses possibly involved in kidnapping and assaulting a fellow student.

The authorities were baffled at how detailed everything was, hesitating to take action in fear of it backfiring. Pietro pleaded with them, letting them know Bucky’s life was on the line. They didn’t believe him until they heard Atlas’s remarks.

The lead detective on the case had immediately gotten to work, the evidence only further solidifying his trust in Pietro's word. 

Now everyone was waiting to hear back.

Your head rested on Natasha’s shoulders, your eyes heavy from the incessant sobs you expelled all evening. She had an arm around you, knowing how numb you must have felt. Seeing you so defeated and helpless left her heartbroken, knowing you were the strongest out of everyone.

The last few weeks were more than unimaginable, and if she had less control, she would’ve broken Atlas’s face herself. The redhead only wished Bucky might’ve taken her worries a bit more seriously and saved everyone the current heartache of the night.

As the clock neared 1AM, the phone rang. Pietro picked it up without hesitation, everyone’s eyes on him as he put it on speaker.

“It took us a while, but we found your friend,” the detective’s voice blared out of the phone speaker. “They transported him to Metro-General Hospital. His injuries are extremely severe, they had to take him into surgery right away. I called to let you know as soon as I was free.”

“Did they say what he needed surgery for?” Pietro asked, his eyes on your frozen figure.

“Not sure, but the kid had injuries anywhere you looked. We got into contact with his parents and they’re on their way. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Pietro breathed out. “Thank you, Detective.”

He hung up the phone. No one said a word.

Steve’s head was shielded in his hands. Sam stared into the distance. Wanda hugged Pietro. Thor leaned forward on his knees. Natasha wiped a tear off her face as she applied pressure to your body in her embrace. 

You couldn’t speak, breathing manually as you tried not to panic. 

“We should go to the hospital,” Thor broke the silence. 

Everyone else nodded, but you couldn’t move. 

“I can’t go,” you whispered so softly, no one would hear you if it weren’t for the shared silence in the room. “I can’t see him like that.”

Natasha wiped your face as you started to cry again. “He’s gonna be okay,” she reassured. “He’s gonna make it out of surgery, he’s gonna wake up, and he’s gonna want to see you.”

“He’s in there because of me, Nat,” you cried out, your gaze on her blurry as your lachrymal state became hysterical. 

Natasha shushed you, rocking you back and forth as everyone else stared in misery, your sobs into her shoulder filling the room with sorrow. 

There was an intolerable fear amongst the group, an uncertainty for Bucky’s life as it hung in the balance. A deep dejection where remorse followed, counting the what-ifs for past and future possibilities. 

But there was no going back now. The only thing anyone could do was wait.

SATURDAY, 6:23 AM

You’ve always hated hospitals. Nothing good ever came out of being in a hospital. From family deaths to bad diagnoses, Pietro’s visits that had left him flinching more than before, and now Bucky.

The entire group was sitting in the waiting area, Bucky’s parents and sister included, as the surgeon finally approached.

“I’m looking for James Barnes’ family?” She said, prompting everyone to turn their heads. Bucky’s parents stood up, and the doctor looked towards them. “Hi, I’m Dr. Helen Cho, I helped in your son’s surgery today.”

“Is he okay?” Bucky’s mom, Winnifred, asked right away. 

“I have good news and bad news,” Dr. Cho admitted. “The good news is that James is expected to make a full recovery from his injuries. He sustained a handful of them, including some broken ribs, a fractured knee and cheekbone, and devastating damage to his left arm. It is quite unlike anything I’ve ever seen that wasn’t from a horrible accident, but your son is a strong man.”

George Barnes nodded. “And the bad news?”

Dr. Cho sighed. “Well,” she removed the scrub cap from her head, “the damage done to his arm was devastating, as I just mentioned. We have a lot of advancements in our medical technology to help repair even the worst damage to limbs, repairing bones and tendons to prevent amputation, but—”

“But?” Steve interjected, staring at the doctor with his eyes widened. “Are you saying he—”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence, Natasha rubbing his back while his eyes watered. Dr. Cho expressed a look of condolence on her face.

“The bones of both his forearm and upper arm were completely shattered. The authorities mentioned something about aluminum baseball bats—I have never seen anything like this in my entire career. There was no way to repair the bones or use any tools to heal the bones. It was a difficult decision—”

“Was it?” Winnifred cut her off. “You guys cut off my baby boy’s arm and get to move on with your life while his is forever changed,” she scolded. 

“The arm would’ve needed to have been amputated eventually. It would have been impossible to heal. I am so sorry.”

You listened intently as Bucky’s parents disputed in disbelief, Dr. Cho assured them that Bucky would be able to live life normally and was expected to wake up between a few hours to a day. 

You stared at a tile on the floor, picking at your cuticles until they bled while you avoided anyone’s gaze if it was on you. It felt like your body was on autopilot and your brain was turned off. 

He lost his fucking arm. Because of you.

You couldn’t face him, you couldn’t see him. Not when he was still knocked out on anesthesia or when it wore off and those beautiful blue eyes appeared. 

It was going to kill you. The shame, the guilt, the regret. None of this would’ve happened had he not gotten involved. You should’ve ended all of this when you had the chance. 

“Hey,” Nat put her hand on your cheek, but your eyes didn’t move. “Y/N, please look at me.”

The tile on the floor kept your attention while your cuticles were beyond destroyed. Natasha sighed. 

“I want to go home,” you said, your voice so monotone that Natasha knew you were feeling worse than she thought. Your eyes watered but your expression stayed illegible, breaking Natasha’s heart even more. 

Deciding against responding, Natasha simply nodded. She knew it was best to remove you from the situation, not wanting to keep you in the hospital against your wishes. 

She acted swiftly, grabbing Steve’s keys while letting him know she was taking you home. Getting you home as quick as possible, she got you settled into bed, pulling the covers over you before she slid in next to you. 

“I don’t wanna lose him, Nat,” your voice smaller than Natasha had ever heard you speak. 

“You won’t.”

“I have to let him go,” you sniffled.

Natasha pulled you into her embrace, kissing the top of your head and waited for you to fall asleep.

Eventually, the darkness caught up to you.

unfortunately i always find a way to include bucky's disability in aus because i think it is essential to his character and how he navigates life </3 and angst is my specialty. pls don't be mad at me

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

all Jaehyun imagines can be found here personal favorites are marked with ☆

last updated December 3 , 2024

⋆⭒˚｡⋆fratboy!Jaehyun masterlist⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Pick me posted October 12, 2020

After getting engaged, Johnny and Taeyong keep fighting over who gets to be the best man

[5:42 pm] posted July 25, 2021

Jaehyun is uncharacteristically clingy  

☆ [9:33 am] posted December 18, 2021

(suggestive) Jaehyun can’t control himself this early in the morning after a simple kiss

[6:31 pm]

BestFriend!Jaehyun finally gives you your first bouquet of flowers ever

☆ [6:19 pm] posted December 17, 2022

Dad!Jaehyun talks to pregnant!reader’s belly 

☆ [7:41 am] posted January 29, 2023

Saturdays are supposed to be sleeping in but Dad!Jaehyun has other plans

☆[8:34pm] posted July 2, 2023

Brother’s Best Friend!Jaehyun comes to pick you up after a bad date and can’t help flirting and flustering you

[9:13 pm] posted September 2, 2023

Jaehyun can get a little jealous when a bartender is talking to you for too long

[10:13 pm] posted October 28, 2023

supposed situationship!Jaehyun hates that you’re watching tiktok edits of Pookie

[8:57 pm] posted November 5, 2023

You told Jaehyun you were going out for Halloween, but you didn’t tell him how sexy your costume was

[9:12 am] posted January 6, 2024 

Jaehyun makes the mistake of hanging out with a girl he knew from school, the only mistake being he didn’t tell you who… and he never came home

[8:59 pm] posted January 20, 2024

Jaehyun is just a little shocked to see what his contact name is in your phone

[11:04 pm] posted February 17, 2024

idol!reader and idol!Jaehyun get their relationship exposed at a Bruno Mars concert

[8:46 pm] posted February 24, 2024

you’ve never really dated anyone before so it really only makes sense that since he gets you flowers, you get him some in return right?

your biggest fan posted February 25, 2024

{western popstar!reader x idol!reader} in which the world discovers your relationship with Jaehyun and surprisingly… they love it

[3:21 pm] posted March 3, 2024

in relationships you have to make sacrifices, and for Jaehyun that means eating food he doesn’t really like since you love it

☆[12:11 pm] posted April 21, 2024

dad!Jaehyun isn’t going to say he’s jealous of his daughter and Uncle Johnny- but you can say it

[9:22 pm] posted May 25, 2024

AcademicRival!Jaehyun is the last person you’d expect to help you out after you get in a fight {enemies2lovers, college!au}

[10:14 am] posted May 26, 2024

if you weren’t 2 weeks overdue, Jaehyun being doting would be really sweet- but you are 2 weeks overdue and it’s not sweet

[12:07 pm] posted June 8, 2024

dad!Jaehyun doesn't have your talent of getting his baby girl to eat, or your common sense of keeping the food out of her grasp

[4:59 pm] posted June 22, 2024

Jaehyun watched the Bridgerton carriage scene with you and gets hooked on the show

☆[3:22 pm] posted July 6, 2024

Jaehyun is completely enamored by your pregnancy glow

[4:51 pm] posted July 13, 2024

you and dad!Jaehyun take your kids to the water park and the lazy river works some magic

showering Jaehyun's dimples with love posted August 15, 2024

[12:41 pm] posted August 16, 2024

pregnancy is hard enough as is, but now you're on bed rest? Thank God for Jaehyun (cw: pregnancy complications)

[3:11 pm] posted August 17, 2024

you and Jaehyun were supposed to be baby shopping but Smiskis and Sonny Angels caught your eye instead

just makes sense posted August 22, 2024

your and Jaehyun’s fans just really can’t believe that they two of you are just best friends

self-on kode with Jaehyun posted September 27, 2024

You and Jaehyun usually have a pretty private relationship, thanks to Self-On Kode your fans can learn more (f!reader, idol!reader)

[1:17 pm] posted September 29, 2024

dad!Jaehyun helps you when you're overwhelmed with a colicky baby

Jaehyun doing acts of service! posted October 3, 2024

dad!Jaehyun and shopping with the kids! posted October 11, 2024

[3:17 pm] posted October 12, 2024

dad!Jaehyun gets ambushed by you and his daughters for a makeover

dad!Jaehyun lets you and the kids play with his hair! posted November 1, 2024

[6:58 pm] posted November 4, 2024

You're feeling sad about Jaehyun's enlistment so he comforts you

[throughparisallthroughrome]

“Got The Blues Back In Boston”

Chapter 2

Pairing: Modern!Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Description: Leaving behind an incompatible college and profound heartbreak on the Virginia Coast, you find yourself home again in Brookline, Massachusetts. A new opportunity presents itself to you at MIT, joining your brother ben and childhood friends/ neighbors, Anakin and Ahsoka. Despite the familiarity, you discover just how much of a difference 2 years away can really make between the people you once considered family.

Warnings: f!reader, angst, jealousy, pining, smut, masturbation, mentions/descriptions of domestic abuse, cursing, drinking/drug usage, academic obsession, general obsession, hardcore partying, frats, general college bullshit

DISCLAIMER!!! READ BEFORE PROCEEDING: I've never been in an abusive relationship- I've only witnessed them. I'm an aspiring psychology major and have done a lot of research on the topic of domestic abuse/violence. This series deals with this topic HEAVILY, so be warned.

Word Count: 8.3k

A/N: I am so sorry this update took so long! This chapter wasn’t actually supposed to end like this but if I ended it the way I wanted it to, it’d be like 15k words. I decided it’d be best to split it up, so if things are a little weird in between that’s why. Thank you so much to everyone who’s been reading and keeping up! Life’s been a mess lately but I’m so excited to put my work out there. Please enjoy! and let me know if you wished to be tagged. As always, requests are open and feedback is welcome! :)

series masterlist. main masterlist.

To you, there was nothing more magical than the fall in Boston.

Everywhere you go, the streets are painted with vibrant colors and rich textures. It’s warm, inviting, and the most magical time of the year. Winter was a very close second, but nothing beat autumn. The Tudor-style homes on your street looked straight out of a fairytale, and the yards were covered in beautiful shades of orange, red, and yellow. The air was crisp, and there was always a faint smell of burning leaves from somewhere. It always stayed under 65 degrees but never dropped below 46. It was perfect.

As you grew up, you had always taken the same path to the diner, watching Tuesday night come every single week as the seasons and the neighborhood changed. There was a building on the corner of Maple and Main that never stayed occupied, and you could always count on Francis walking her poodle around the same time. Whether or not you liked it, Boston would change, with or without you.

In Hampton, you hated watching the seasons pass by, especially in autumn. It made you long for those wintry days in Brookline, listening to the boys cheer on the patriots while your mother and Shmi prepared dinner over some wine. You and Ahsoka always did “homework,” watching the game from a distance and mostly gossiping. You’d attempt to watch the game from a distance in Hampton, craving that little piece of home you missed the most. Still, it was always shut down by some “extremely important soccer game” Nick just had to watch. But you knew he hated you for longing for something other than him- what was he made for then?

But as the weeks went by, you really began to notice just how much you missed. You joined Ahsoka and Padme in the library most days, cramming as much information as possible- wanting, well, desperately needing an A. Yes, an A was good, but it was more to make you feel in control of your life once again. You needed the satisfaction- and the distraction.

It would be hard to say you didn’t notice the way Padme and Ahsoka would look at you when they thought you didn’t notice. So much pity. You hated it. They’d have these ‘knowing glances’ with each other and you felt that they were always talking about you the second you walked away. That part of high school you did not miss- but these were your friends, your best friends, and they shouldn’t be treating you like this- making you feel like this. When you asked them, they swore up and down it was nothing, they weren’t keeping secrets, and everything was okay. But the second you looked away- there was that knowing look between them. And it was driving you crazy.

And then there was Ben too, he was just so- not himself. Sure, Ben was always a nice guy, and he was a great person- but he was your older brother. And he always gave you a hard time, just for shit’s and giggles, and of course you always gave it right back. That’s what siblings are for. But after that first night back, things were so different. He was so soft towards you, so kind. He kept checking up on you, asking if you needed help with school, insisting on doing everything for you. It was nice- but it wasn’t him. And it just made you hurt more. All you wanted was for things to be normal.

Despite everyone being different- you had only hoped Anakin was the same. And not to your surprise, he wasn’t. In fact, Anakin was worse than everyone else. But he carried a certain burden with him- almost, guilt? It didn’t make sense to you- none of it did. And you tried so, so hard not to let it bother you, but it seemed impossible. So, maybe pushing them away was the best option. You hated the way everyone was making you feel- including yourself- but only you had control of yourself, so maybe that was your best option.

And so the study dates became solo dates, the family dinners were eaten in your room, and your weekly diner travels were now just a tradition that only you seemed to care about keeping up with. It was fine- you were fine. You didn’t want to admit that you were lonely- but you were, and you definitely felt it.

You pushed open the door to the diner. The sweet smell of apple pie filled your senses and calmed you simultaneously. The same regulars were lined up at the bar, playing darts and betting on football games. At least if Boston and your friends were always changing, Dex’s would stay the same.

“What’ll you have sweetheart, long time no see?” Dex winked at you while cleaning a glass before sliding some napkins and silverware your way.

“Just a diet coke, maybe a slice of pie.” You mumbled out, tracing out the details of the countertop with a cocktail straw. Time had just flown by, and you’d give anything to be in high school at Dex’s after Anakin and Ben’s football games. They swore for the longest time they’d go pro- I suppose engineering is better. Less painful.

“What’s got you so down, kid?” Dex leaned against the counter, grabbing the cocktail straw and throwing it at you to get your attention. You stifled a chuckle.

“I don’t know, Dex.” You sigh, mashing your fork against the pie he gave you ‘on the house,’ “Things have just been so weird since I got back. Not sure what went wrong.”

“It’s a mess up there, huh?” He smiles, and you quirk a brow.

“Up where?”

“Up in that brain of yours.” You scoff.

“Gee, thanks.” You roll your eyes, setting your head down on the bar and huffing.

“Okay, but in all seriousness, have you talked to anyone about this? You’re not yourself, kid. Maybe Anakin could help?” He raises his brows playfully, and you roll your eyes.

“Heh. Yeah, right. Anakin’s been praying on my downfall for years. Well, maybe not. We’ll see.” You shoot a wink at Dex, and he smiles, hitting his hand on the counter.

“You know I’ve always been rooting for the two of you; I’m sure whatever is going on will work itself out.”

Dex had known all of you since you were children, which made going to his diner a familiar, comforting routine. It stopped when you left. Yet, when you came back, it only strengthened the urge to revisit. He had offered a job again, but you declined. When you worked for him before, you occasionally found that money mysteriously didn't make its way to you. He was sweet and kind and had brilliant advice, but reliability wasn’t exactly his nature.

Regardless, you got a job at a local bar in downtown Boston. Anakin and Ben were not enthusiastic about the idea. But the staff was kind, the uniforms were a bit skimpy, and you had gotten to know some regulars. On your first night, you made $400. You didn’t plan on leaving it anytime soon. MIT wasn’t exactly cheap, and neither was Boston.

A mere 10-minute drive from the house, Mazzy's stood out as the most disreputable dive bar in the vicinity. You had done a lot of your underage drinking there, pretending to enjoy the various sports as you drank $3 Bud Light and played beer pong. They had a different drink special every day of the week - $5 margaritas on Mondays, tequila shots on Tuesdays, wine on Wednesdays, and karaoke + Vegas bombs on throwback Thursdays (which was always your favorite). So, it was fitting for you to work there; the manager knew you since you were a kid with a fake ID. He wasn’t exactly fond of the idea that he served you underage- but you had open availability, and they were desperate.

And you were a hard worker, staying late most nights and offering to cover shifts when you could. College was hard, and you didn’t necessarily need to work as much as you did, but the distraction helped, and the money was a nice bonus, too. Plus, there had to be something fun in it for you, too…

That’s how you ended up a champion at pool, beating all the regulars and making more money off your bets than you did tips.

Anakin heard about your little side hustle from one of his coworkers at the shop, talking about the “Kenobi girl who’s undefeated.” He felt the wrench falter in his grip and wiped the excess oil off his stained jeans as the smile spread on his face. Kenobi girl has a side deal? Oh, he’d never get over this. How the mighty have fallen.

On that note, Anakin immediately decided to pay you a visit later that night, not being able to resist the idea of breaking your winning streak. After all, who do you think taught you to play?

Upon entering the door, the loud music and dim lights assaulted his senses, and the pungent smell of smoke and rowdy laughter almost overwhelmed him. This was where you worked? What a dump. Scanning the dance floor, his eyes moved swiftly from one dancing body to another, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. The walls were adorned with pictures and writing, the chairs and tables were in disarray, and the bar was surrounded by numerous cups and beer bottles that caught his attention.

It didn't take him much time to track you down, guided by the sound of your laughter resonating in the crowded space as you approached a lively bunch of guys playing pool, holding a tray brimming with shots. Awesome. Now he was going to have to kick your ass at pool, as well as kick some asshole's ass, and then kick your ass again for entertaining it. Cool. Cool, Cool. He could do that. Yeah, he was cool.

“You cool man? Looking for the bar?” Anakin quickly broke out of his trance, looking at the older, distressed man before him—definitely the manager.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m good. Just taking it all in-“

“Cool, bars over there, man.” The older man pats his back, sending him towards the bar. Anakin shakes his head, furrowing his brows at the interaction. The fuck?

As he approached the bar, his eyes scanned the stools and calculated where he’d get the best view of you while remaining out of sight. He was still a little annoyed and didn’t want to make a scene so quickly, you know? Plus, he needed to study your strategies. How did the little one get so good at pool that she’s running a ring? Interesting.

“What’ll you have, hun?” The older redhead leans across the bar, wiping down the icy surface with a bar rag as Anakin settles into his seat.

“Uh, just a Modelo for now.” He quickly pulls out his wallet and flashes his ID, his eyes barely leaving your figure.

“Uh huh,” Her eyes flicker at Anakin, trailing them towards you as her lips upturned in a smile, “I’ll be right back with that.”

Anakin slides onto the stool, quickly propping his head on his hand as he keeps his gaze locked on you, while also trying to look as un-creepy as possible (it’s not working). He observes you giggling at one of the guys, playfully aiming your pool stick at his chest like a gun, threatening to shoot. The men all completely feed into it. You little slut. Next thing he knows, you’re leaning down to make a shot, your innocence showing as you stick your ass in the faces of 4 frat guys as they whisper. Your pigtails bounced onto the table as you focused on your shot, one eye closed and your tongue sticking out in concentration. His pants were suddenly so tight. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? What could have-

“You know, I’m pretty sure she’s taken.” The redhead pushes the beer towards him, “Otherwise, with the way you’re looking at her, I’d tell you to ask her for her number. Keep it open or close it?” Anakin’s eyes widened.

“Taken?” He stutters out, his mouth hanging open.

“No, your tab, dumbass.” She laughs, picking up a bottle out of the well and cleaning it. “You look like you need to keep it open. And yeah, she’s taken. She talks about him all the time, actually. He’s a family friend- they grew up together. Think his name is Andrew or something.”

“Andrew, huh? Interesting.” Anakin’s smile widens, taking a swig of his beer. You were talking about him. And everyone thought you were his? He might have to play along.

When he looked back at the table, you had disappeared. Anakin tilted his head in confusion, his gaze sweeping the room until it landed on you at the opposite end of the bar, where his eyes locked onto yours as the redhead tried to talk to you.

“Anakin?” You laughed, not noticing redhead’s brow raise and sudden attention towards the two of you, “What are you doing here? I-” You cocked your head in confusion. Something about Anakin’s unwavering smile was so unreadable.

“Heard about a certain Kenobi girl’s pool bets from the guys. Had to see it for myself.” He turned towards you, subconsciously spreading his legs as his finger traced the rim of his beer glass. His pride grew as the redness spread on your face.

“Didn’t- Uh- Didn’t think word was getting around that fast. Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck is right.” Anakin starts, and redhead approaches, pretending to clean bar glasses as she eyeballs the interaction in front of her. “No wonder you’re making so much money. Afraid I’m gonna have to end this streak of yours, though.”

You scoff, crossing your arms and rolling your eyes, shaking your head at the audacity of the man before you. One beer, and he felt like he was God? He desperately needed to be humbled.

��So that’s what this is about? You just hate to see me beating you at something? Didn’t think after all these years you were still so desperate, Anakin. I- fine, but what’s in it for me?” You hop up on the stool next to him, narrowing your eyes as your gaze runs over his lips, the honey of his laughter sweet in your ears.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” He smiles, moving closer to you as his eyes trace your lips back, the grin growing on his face.

“Don’t look at me like that.” You swallow, sitting up straighter and pulling away from him.

“Like what, Y/N?” He grins, mimicking your actions as he leans back and takes another drink of his beer.

“Anakin-“

“How about, if you win, I’ll be your DD for a month- AND- and- I’ll finally join you for karaoke. And if I win, well, I know I never want to see that outfit in public again, I want you to stop entertaining every guy you serve.” You roll your eyes at his protectiveness, sighing at his request.

“Fine, but only because what I get out of this deal is so much better than what you might get. Now come on.” You stand up, offering your hand to him as you pull him off the bar stool, “Amy, would you be a doll and keep an eye on my section?” Ah, so Redhead does have a name.

As you led him to a table in a dark corner away from everyone, he shot the other men a smile. A boastful smile. He may not have known that he wanted you just yet, but he knew he didn’t want others to have you. It was just him being protective, right? Besides, what’s really the difference between those two things…

“After you, sir.” You lined up the colorful, numbered balls and invited him for 8 ball, handing him a stick to make the first move.

“Are you sure, madam? Ladies first, you know. Chivalry isn’t dead.” He shot you a wink, tossing you the pool cue as you rolled his eyes. He was definitely tipsy. And you were definitely taking him home tonight. Not like that.

You started the game off strongly, hitting two solid shots right into the pocket, the satisfying *clink* echoing between the tension. You grinned. And shockingly enough, so did Anakin. His eyes cold and calculating, he struck the cue ball, the sharp *thwack* followed by the soft, almost silent roll of the red-striped ball across the green felt until it finally sank into the hole. If there was one thing your families took seriously- it was a bet.

You kept the game going, sharing plenty of shit-talking and shots, making sure to feed him a few more (which, in hindsight, was probably a mistake). You hit in your 3rd and 4th balls, your eyes catching the men at the other table. But, as always, your eyes immediately went back to Anakin. You flashed him an innocent smile, not feeding into his small touches that made you dizzy and the way his eyes flicked down to your lips. It’s okay. He was only drunk- and that couldn’t happen again.

Eventually, you beat him. While completely intoxicated, Anakin stumbled, his hand a blur as he somehow knocked the 8-ball in on his third try; the cue ball spun wildly, a final, chaotic movement before settling. You gave him a pass, a condescending smile playing on your lips as you told him you'd happily give him a rematch, though the outcome wouldn't change. Unfazed by your comment, he simply stared, his blown pupils swimming with an unsettling, well-known emotion. A palpable tension hung in the air, heavy with more unspoken words. A sudden chill raised the hairs on your arms, your breath catching in your throat as an unnatural silence filled the air between you. You cleared your throat and smiled, shaking the thought out of your head.

“C’mon drunkie- let’s get you up here.” You held your arm under his shoulder, guiding him back to the bar through the dwindling customers. He wasn't exactly being easy, his laughter echoing in the air as he teased you relentlessly, his hand dropping lower and lower on your waist with each step. You tried not to pay attention to the strange way it made your heart pound in your chest. But you could divert your focus to work- finally.

It was now 2:30. And you needed to get out of there. You carefully propped him up against the sticky, mahogany bar, your finger stabbing emphatically at his chest as you barked, "Don't move!" before turning to whatever remaining side work you had been neglecting. With a shake of your head, you freed your hair from the uncomfortable low pigtails, the strands falling around your shoulders. Okay, you had silverware, trash, bathrooms, sweeping, and-

“Y/N? Can you come here?” You heard Amy call from the bar as you swept, and you turned around, only to see Anakin passed out on the bar. His head lolled against his crossed arms, a soft rhythmic snoring emanating from his relaxed body.

“Fuck,” You mumbled, setting down the broom and running over to the bar, shaking the sleepy man awake. His eyes fluttered open, a soft smile playing on his lips as you rolled your eyes, a sigh escaping your lips.

“Hey, beautiful- you gonna take me home?” A raspy mumble escaped his lips as his fingers, warm and slightly damp, caressed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long. Attempting to ignore his continuing advances, your eyes are drawn to Amy; a subtle arch of her eyebrow and a slight nod toward the door provide your much-needed escape.

“C’mon, sleepy- let’s get you home.” You helped him up again, mouthing a quick thank you to Amy before taking him to the back door.

“I just- I- I can’t believe you’re so good at pool! I mean, I’m soooooo proud, yknow? I taught you so well. The guys were talking about it at work, and I just had to come see it for myself. So adorable.” He mumbles through the parking lot, laughing at his own jokes, and it’s clear he knows he’s not making much sense.

If this was anyone else- you’d be a little pissed off. But there was always a certain tenderness in your heart reserved for Anakin, a weakness you couldn't deny. Taking care of him when you knew you could just, well, made things better. He usually never let you get the chance, but right now, it felt like you were getting your old life back.

With a grunt, you pushed him into the passenger seat of his car; the smell of stale coffee and old leather filled the air, and you figured he’d take you to get your car the next day—payback, of course. You plug your phone in and turn the volume up for Mazzy Star, letting the softness of her voice fill the emptiness of the car. Anakin's head rests on your shoulder, his soft snores a gentle rhythm against your neck as you drive down the familiar streets, the houses blurring into a comforting stream of colors.

You pull into his driveway, the harsh cold biting your face as you open the door. Anakin slumped down further, his head resting on the center console. You bit your lip, the metallic tang of blood filling your mouth, as you weighed your options, watching his body move slowly as he inhaled and slowly exhaled, his brows furrowing in his sleep. What could he be dreaming about that was getting him so worked up? You didn’t have time for this- it was cold, he was asleep, and you needed to make a decision.

You couldn’t just tell him to get out of his car and go to bed- he didn’t deserve that, even if he did get wasted at your job. Well, you kinda got him wasted. And if you did take him inside, there was a chance you’d run into Shmi or Ahsoka, and that wasn’t really a conversation you wanted to have, especially considering how this looked. And if you took him inside, got away with not running into anyone, there’s the chance that once he gets in bed, he’d ask you to stay. That would be awkward. And even if you did stay, there’s only a 50% chance you’d have sex again and make it all weird. The question is- were you willing to risk it?

“Fuck,” You watched him sleep, knowing what you had to do. You got back into the car, shutting the door behind you and turning it on. The heat kicked up again, the sound of “blue light” filling your ears as you watched him next to you. You didn’t have to wake him up just yet. Sure, it was nearing 3:30 in the morning, but you knew he was tired and probably not feeling well.

You let out a soft sigh, sinking into your seat, and slowly reach your hand to cup Anakin’s face, gently stroking his cheek as you felt the warmth of his skin. You didn't notice the subtle, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips under your touch, a drunken smile masked by his feigned sleep.

“You’re frustrating, you know that?” You mumble to him, knowing he won’t respond. “But I still love you. It’s okay. I just know I won’t hear the end of this tomorrow. Which- you owe me. I need my car at some point. But- fuck- I know I’m gonna have to get you up in a second, and I really don’t want to. I’m so tired. Fuck.”

You glance over at him, noticing the grin on his face, and your heart drops slightly. “Fuck off- are you pretending?”

He opens one eye slightly and bursts into laughter, his head hitting the back of the seat while he practically slaps his knee.

“I-I’m so sorry-“ He manages to breathe out, his face hot and red, “I actually was sleeping, but you started talkin,g and I just- I got invested.”

“Uh-huh. Well, parties over. Time for bed.”

“No-“

“Zip it.” You grin, your finger against his lips to shut him up. His eyes glance down to your finger, a mischievous glint forming in his pupils as he presses a soft kiss to your finger.

“Anakin, come on. We gotta go. It’s so late.” You grab his face to get his attention, your stare firm and unwavering against his giggles.

“Okay, okay. We’ll go. Basement’s unlocked.” He kisses the top of your hand, turning towards his car door and attempting to open it.

“Wait- Anakin- I got it.” You turned the car out, rushing around to his side and opening the door for him.

“Here, hold my hand.” You hold your hand out for him, and he smirks, quickly taking it in his hand.

“Gotta buy me dinner first, sweetheart.”

“Anakin, we’re way past dinner. Now come on.” You pull him alongside you, draping your purse on his shoulder as you walk around the side of the house to the basement door.

“God, it’s fucking cold.” He mumbles, his hand slipping from yours and meeting your waist again, “Might need you to warm me up.” You scoff.

“No, Anakin- just need to get you to bed.” Mumbling, you avoid his eye contact and open the door, practically pushing him into it.

“Alright, alright, I’m going Y/N/N. Jesus.” He stumbles through the mudroom, kicking off his shoes and attempting to shimmy off his jacket.

Behind him, you sigh and mutter your help, your fingers slow and deliberate as you peel away the brown leather, noticing its softness and the faint, earthy smell. You hold the jacket under your arm, leaning into his back and resting your head on his shoulder. Anakin leans his own head back, his fingers dancing around to meet yours again as a smile spreads across his lips.

“I missed you.” He mumbles, his voice smooth and raspy. You subconsciously squeeze your legs together a little tighter. “Just hasn’t been the same. Just need to make sure you’re okay. And safe. God, I needed you to be safe.”

Your body shakes from behind him as your breath suddenly hitches in your throat. Afraid he’ll see your wet eyes again, you squeeze his hand a little tighter, feeling the rough texture of his skin against yours. But you know he can feel your tears through his thin shirt. And you hope he chooses not to comment on it. He doesn’t. Anakin's sudden turn sent a jolt through you as his arms pinned yours, his brow a deep furrow, pupils dilated with alarm.

“Stay with me tonight. Please.” He begs softly.

“Anakin-“

“Please. Just tonight. I don’t want to be alone.” You sigh.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep, okay?” You tear your eyes away from his, leaning closer to his chest as he wraps his arms around you. “I can’t stay, Anakin. I’m sorry.” You mumble against him, but he doesn’t respond; he just rubs your back and drops his head to your shoulder.

“Let’s go to bed.” You break the hug, tearing away from him as you lead him to his room.

Stepping into the familiar space, the soft glow of the lamps and the comfortable quiet bring a smile to your face—it never changes. The posters on his wall, the messy drawings near his desk, the random clothes on his floor.

“M sorry it’s messy.” He mumbles as he walks behind you, kicking random things out of the way as he stumbles to the bathroom. “Make yourself comfortable.” The door clicks behind him, and you fall back onto his bed and close your eyes.

How the fuck did you end up here? You squeeze your eyes, attempting to navigate the night somehow. Nothing ever made sense with Anakin- but it always, always made sense. You let your purse drop to the floor as you kick off your sneakers.

“Ben’s gonna kill me.” You groan as you rub your eyes, not caring about the makeup under your fingers

“No, he’s not.” Anakin’s bathroom door practically slams open as he stumbles out of it with nothing but some low-hanging sweats. You shouldn’t look- but you do. And, of course, he smirks.

“Like what you see?” He asks before jumping on the bed next to you and practically putting you into a headlock. You scream in response, giggling at his childish antics. It was well past 4am at this point. Anakin had to be at work at 9.

“Let me go!” You squeal in protest, the feeling of his arms around you a mixture of panic and exhilaration as he holds you tighter, his laughter echoing. He pulls you up, his strong hands gripping your arms, then throws you gently to the other side of the bed next to him.

“God, I’m tired.” He yawns and rolls over to face you, his fingers moving toward your chin while he stares at your lips. “Need some rest.”

“Yeah.” You hiccup.

He leans in, the warmth of his breath a whisper against your skin, his eyes glued to your lips. At this point, mere inches separated you, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs as butterflies did somersaults in your stomach. And just as his thumb meets your chin, you break into a coughing fit. You roll over and grab his pillow, coughing aggressively into it. Was it on purpose? Maybe.

His hand meets your back, rubbing gentle circles while you continue to fake your coughs, each one more excruciating than the last.

“Mm- sorry.” You mumble, coming up from his pillow- your face red and eyes watery. “Better get to sleep, Ani.”

“Yeah.” He whispers, his eyes gently drooping as they never leave yours. “Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

“Sweet dreams, Ani.” You hold your breath momentarily and close your eyes as you press a soft kiss to the top of his head. His skin was soft and warm underneath your lips, and you realize it probably lingered a lot longer than it needed to.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, listening to his soft breaths as he scoots closer to “get comfortable,” his arm brushing against yours. He pulled you close, his legs a comforting weight against yours, arm securely around your torso, his hand resting lightly but possessively on your shoulder. If Anakin could find any possible excuse to cuddle, he would- especially when he was drunk.

Once you heard the soft, rhythmic snores leaving his lips, you carefully began to extract yourself from his bed, moving as slowly as you could to avoid waking him. You sat up slowly, his arms falling into a comfortable position, the quiet stillness of the room broken only by the gentle rustle of the sheets. Unfortunately, his bed was against the wall, and he was the closest to the edge. That would be something else you had to work around.

You shimmied your feet away, slowly inching closer to the wall and out of his grasp. Before scooting further from the man in his bed, you took a second to study his sleeping form, noticing the rise and fall of his chest and the peaceful set of his jaw. In the dim, orange glow of the salt lamp on his nightstand, Anakin's face appeared almost ethereal, his features softened by the soft light. His lips parted slightly, his brows furrowed in a deep frown, his cheek squished into the soft, downy pillow. It’d be difficult to not want to stay.

You finally slid off the bed, your sock-clad feet hitting the cold, smooth wooden floor, the chill seeping into your toes. You snatched your shoes and purse, the leather cool against your skin, then tiptoed to the door, desperate to avoid waking him. The door creaked under your touch, a rusty groan that echoed the finality of your action as you looked at him one last time before sighing and shutting the door. You leaned against the door, squeezing your eyes shut in frustration.

The light turns on. Fuck.

At this point in time, you have 2 seconds to get out of the basement door before Ahsoka, Shmi, or Cliegg confront you about this.

So, you run. Thank god the alarm system had been deactivated (they hadn’t put the new one in). You open the back door and shut it quietly behind you as fast as you could.

“Anakin?” You hear Shmi asked, muffled by the sound of the door.

You raced up the hill beside his house, the bright moonlight reflecting off the wet stones of the path as you pushed through fragrant, moonlit bushes. The fragrant jasmine blossoms brushed against you as you walked through the trellis, then around the corner to your driveway, a sense of calm washing over you. Weaving through the cars, the cold seeped into your socks as you unlocked your front door, but the warmth of your house enveloped you as you slipped inside.

You sank to the floor behind your front door, the weight of the day lifting as you finally caught your breath, the quiet of your home surrounding you. You checked your watch; the faint glow of the numbers illuminated the dark, 5:03 AM. Could be worse. At least you managed to find a secret, third option tonight. No sex, not caught, and you stayed with him long enough he was asleep.

However, little do you know, a certain someone’s younger sister happened to be watching from the upstairs window the whole time. She would save that conversation for later, of course.

The faint sounds of birds chirping signal the rising sun as you finally settle into bed. You’re absolutely determined to sleep in- and so you do.

As the sunlight poured in under your sleep mask, it was too bright to be deemed morning light. You stirred slightly, waning out if your dream-filled haze as images of Anakin warming his hands over a fire began to leave your eyes. You reach up, a fingertip brushing against cool silk, and poke an eye out from under the mask, surveying the bright, sunlit room.

One shoe lay near the vanity, the other by the bathroom door, while your clothes were strewn across the floor in a chaotic pile near the bed, a silent testament to a restless night. Your purse was lopsided on your chair- perfume, coins, and miscellaneous gift cards spilling out of it. The kirkland makeup wipes were left open, a couple dirty ones caked with various shades of lipstick and eyeshadow from the previous day were resting comfortably near the trash can. At least you remembered to unplug your curling iron this time; the scorch marks on the carpet from the last incident were still a fresh reminder of your near-disaster.

With a long, slow stretch, you extend your arms over your head, feeling the tension ease from your shoulders as the mask drops to your neck. Rubbing your eyes and letting out a small yawn, sleep was still taking control of you. With a groan, you flip onto your stomach, the mattress springs protesting beneath you, and grab your phone. The time was 4:36 PM and you had slept the day away. This was what Sundays were for- it didn’t matter. Your eyes glanced down to the 14 messages you had received since you fell into your late slumber.

Ani- 8:46 AM: Thank you for last night. I owe you. Hope you got some sleep. I’m glad we spent that time together. And, Y/N- I’m serious if you ever need anything. I’ll always be here for you.

Mom- 10:32 AM: Honey, I left a quiche in the fridge for when you wake up. Just take your time, everything’s okay. I hope you can rest today. Love you.

Shmi- 10:45 AM: Was that you leaving the basement late last night?

Mom- 10:48 AM: I’m so sorry I texted you- hope I didn’t wake you honey. Just want you to be happy and healthy. I’m worried.

Dad- 11:15 AM: Are you awake? Mom’s acting strange again. She’s worried about you.

Soka <3- 12:05 PM: hey, if you’re feeling up to it we should catch a movie tonight- maybe some mexican food and margs after. lemme know. it’s all totally up to you- whatever you feel comfortable with.

Ani- 12:24 PM: Need me to get your car later?

Harvard’s Elite Scholar- 12:49 PM: Hey Y/N/N, been thinking about you lately. Hope you are doing okay today. If you need absolutely anything I’m always here for you- especially if you need some time away from the family. If you ever want to talk- I’m here. I love you girl- hope this weekend was good for money!

Mom- 1:43 PM: Need anything from the store?

Mom- 2:17 PM: I got you some ice cream. It’ll be good for you.

Dad- 2:46 PM: I just got home. Are you awake?

Benny- 3:05 PM: Can I borrow your calculator?

Benny- 3:07 PM: Nevermind. Found mine.

Ani- 3:53 PM: Hey, got off work early. Need car yet?

“Fuck,” You chuck your phone onto the side of your bed, running a hand through your hair as memories of last night filled your mind.

Anakin’s ‘innocent’ touches, his eyes never leaving yours- unless it waa your lips, his soft snores in your car. And he really begged you to stay with him- telling you that he needed you. The soft glow of his lamp, highlighting every little thing you adored about the man. How could you even begin to think about those text messages?

You leaned back into your pillow and groaned, rubbing your eyes as the sun attempted to find its way into your line of sight once more. Did everyone know your secret? Did Anakin tell them? Why was everyone and everything so fucking weird in Brookline.

With two taps on your bedroom door, you groan even louder as you pull the covers over your head. You eyes were heavy, the yawns persisted. You were still exhausted. The taps continued.

“Who is it?” You croaked out as the door opened slowly.

“Hey- woah. Are you okay?” Ben asked as he welcomed himself into your room, plopping onto the bed beside you.

“Yeah,” You bring the covers up further on your chest, eyeing your clothes on the floor. “Just tired.”

“Y/N-“

“I know it’s well past 4. I had a late night.”

“Are you okay?” Ben scoots closer, his brows furrowed as he surveyed your face for any hint of injury or sadness.

“Ben- I’m fine. Anakin came in last night and got wasted while we played pool- well, it was kinda my fault. Anyways, I had to take him home and I didn’t get to sleep until around 5ish. And this weekend was long. I’m exhausted. I still have to study, do some laundry, pick up my fucking car-“

“Slow down.” Ben smiles, “Everything’s going to be okay. You don’t need to be worried anymore, you’re okay.”

You squint your eyes at his words, an undertone behind them you can’t make out.

“What do you mean I don’t have to be worried?” You lean closer, cocking your head slightly to the side.

“Nothing.” Ben avoids your gaze, moving back and bouncing his knee. “I should probably get going.”

“Ben, wait-“ You attempt to hop up after him- but your eyes dance back to the clothes on your floor. Fuck.

“I hope you rest today. Love you.”

The door shuts, the latch clicking softly in the sudden silence. You aggressively throw yourself back down onto the bed, grabbing the pillow and squeezing it against your face, muffling the scream that rips from your throat. You were beyond frustrated with everyone and everything. You needed to go for a hike, get a coffee, or something. But, of course, you didn’t have a fucking car.

A long, hot shower was just what you needed; the steam filled the bathroom, and the heat soothed your aching muscles. With a few candles casting a warm, gentle light and the calming strains of soft music filling the air, you washed the memories and bad thoughts away. With each stroke of soapy water, the gentle friction a welcome sensation, your mind wandered to those mesmerizing deep blue eyes. The feeling of his rough hands in yours, the way they would feel on your waist, traveling down to your hips.

His fingers would dance on the tops of your thighs, while his calloused fingers kissing the exposed skin on your lower back as he lightly pressed you into him. He’d lean closer, his soft pink lips meeting your collarbone, licking and biting while his fingers finally met the inside of your thigh. You could practically smell his cologne at this point, your knees growing weak at the thought, your thighs squeezing together.

Your eyes shot open at the next song. Mazzy Star. Your breath hitches, a gasp caught in your throat as your hand, still resting gently on your hip, lingers; the soap is long gone. You bite your lip at your thought, the guilt eating you alive as your heart pounds.

Your hand moves lower- it’s not like he’d know. He’s your best friend- and surely he’s thought of you like that before too, right? And it absolutely doesn’t mean anything- you just need that ache between your legs to disappear. Post nut clarity, right? It'll slip your mind; you won't even think about it again. You won’t. Nope. Inch by inch, your fingers make their way down until they reach your clit, and a small gasp escapes your lips. You’re too far gone.

You turn the water off, the shower's warmth still clinging to your skin, and open the curtain to a cool breeze that raises goosebumps on your arms. You grab a towel and some lotion, drying yourself while moisturizing. That Boston dry air was no joke. When your body and hands are dry, you pick up your phone from the counter and check.

Mom- 5:12 PM: Dinner’s almost done.

The time was 5:20. They’re definitely waiting on you.

The sound of your feet pounded on the wooden stairs as you swung into the kitchen, hair dripping and shirt on backward. Your mom raises a skeptical eyebrow, tossing the salad with a practiced flick of the wrist, the scent of vinaigrette filling the air. Your dad's laugh cuts through the quiet, drawing your attention to the table where he and Ben are animatedly discussing some sports nonsense, their words punctuated by the occasional thump of a fist on the table.

“The Celtics are on an amazing run is all I’m saying. We Wouldn’t be anything without Jayson Tatum.” Ben takes a sip of his beer, turning around and eyeing the time on the oven.

“Yeah, but he’s no Kobe, Ben. And the Nuggets are doing so much-“

“Fuck Denver!”

“Ben!” Your mom scolds, putting on her oven mitts and pulling out the steaks that have been searing. “Stop it with that! I personally like Denver, I think Jokic is entertaining.”

“And this is why Dad and Ben won’t talk to you about basketball, Mom.” You reach for the white wine, pouring yourself and your mom a glass while she temps the steak. Your fingers shake around the glass a little, your shower thoughts finding their way back into your mind.

“They’re absolutely perfect! I’ve done it again!” Your mom cuts you out of your trance as she squeals. “Bon appetit, my little ones.” She sets the table with dinner, and you awkwardly take a seat next to Ben.

As you begin to serve yourself and eat, the hair on your arms raises as your eyes dart between the people around you, noticing their hushed whispers and judging stares. Dinner felt oddly quiet without the Skywalkers; the missing laughter and familiar banter hung in the air, but you remained silent. The feeling washed over you again, and you glanced up to find your family silently communicating with exaggerated expressions and hand movements, certain you weren't listening. Your mom motions to you, her red lips forming a tight frown as she looks pointedly at Ben, her eyes narrowed. His eyes went wide, a silent plea in their depths, and then he shrugged, the movement dismissing whatever she had tried to convey without words. Your dad furrows his brows at Ben, rolling his eyes at the audacity of his son.

“So,” Your mom starts, setting her fork down as the loud clatter rings through the unusually silent room. “Y/N, we wanted to- well- as a family, we wanted to check in on you and see how you were doing since you’ve got back. We have been worried.”

Your eyes darted to Ben. He avoids your gaze, his fork pressing checkerboard patterns into his mashed potatoes.

“I-I’m fine. I don’t understand. Is this an intervention for a problem I’m not even aware of?” You giggle slightly, staring down at the tomatoes in your salad. The table does not reciprocate your humor.

“We disagree, honey.” Your dad speaks up, and your breath hitches in your throat. “Did something happen in Hampton?” Your heart drops.

“No. Nothing happened. And I don’t know why you’d think that. And I don’t even know why the fuck we’re having this conversation!” Your voice raises, your knuckles turning white around your fork, “In fact, even if something did happen- which it didn’t- I don’t see how it’s the business of anyone sitting at this table! Can we just eat this fucking food? Mom worked hard. Drop it.”

The table goes silent. Your mom picks up her wine glass and takes a long sip. Ben and Dad glance at each other, their silent conversation infuriating you.

“Fuck this.” You push your plate to the center of the table, getting up and leaving as fast as you could before your tears caught up to you.

The door slammed shut behind you, and you scrambled under the covers of your bed, the cool sheets a welcome relief. The darkness of your room provided solace within your panic. Your heart was heavy, weighing down your chest with each ragged breath you took. Getting air under your covers wasn’t exactly easy, either. But within your panic, your survival instincts had vanished, and you remained where you were.

Did Anakin betray your trust? Could your best friend- your confidante- betray you like this? It didn’t seem possible. But everything began to connect. The glances when they thought you weren’t looking- the constant texts and “whatever you want”, “whatever makes you comfortable”, “as long as you are happy”. Was this all just pity?

The thought hung heavy in the air: they had to know, you concluded, a shiver tracing your spine. Whether Anakin told them, or someone else heard- they knew. They knew and that was bad and they were going to be ashamed of you. They knew and they’d never forgive you for leaving them for a piece of shit like Nick. They knew and they’d hurt you like Nick-

“Y/N?” Ben cracked your bedroom door open, the small sound of your sobs filling the dark space.

“Can I please just get some fucking time to myself?” You croak out, throwing the covers back over yourself.

The moment your tear-filled eyes locked with his, a wave of nausea washed over you; your stomach dropped. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his hands shook uncontrollably, and his hair was a tangled mess. Ben was the type of person to make you feel unproductive and gross. He smelled immaculate, his hair always long but perfect- smooth and shiny. At one point you went to him for hair advice. He was consistently 15 minutes early for everything, always well rested and read. He prepared for anything and everything.

But right now, Ben looked uneasy- he never looked uneasy. And that terrified you.

“Ben- I’m serious-“

“And so am I. You’re not being honest-“

“Neither are you!” You shout, standing up from your bed and walking towards him, “I don’t understand what you all think is going on.”

“Y/N-“ He cuts himself off, rubbing his chin and shaking his head, “You’re not yourself.”

“What do you mean I’m not myself? What the fuck does that even mean, Ben?”

“Y/N you know exactly what I’m talking about! For fucks sake!” You freeze and Ben stops, letting himself take a deep breath- clearly choosing his next words carefully. “Y/N, you don’t need to hide from me. I know.”

A sickening lurch in your stomach throws you off balance, the intense nausea overwhelming you. Any hint of saliva has vanished from you mouth, your breath caught in your throat as you gaze upon your older brother.

“Ben, I don’t-“

“Fuck, Y/N,are you really going to make me say it? Anakin told me. I know. You don’t have to hide and you could’ve told us for fuck’s sake!”

Ben pauses, his breath catching in his throat as he looks upon your face, your glossy eyes blazing with a newfound rage, hot tears streaming down your cheeks. Your fingernails dug into your palms so hard they were close to bleeding.

“A-Anakin told you?”

“Y/N, wait-“ Ben grabs your arm as you stomp towards the door, his eyes filled with concern, regret, and worry.

“Ben- let me fucking go. This was not Anakin’s place-“

“Y/N, he was fucking worried!” He pleads, his grip tightening on your arm.

“And I don’t give a fuck, Ben! Now fucking let go of me!” You dig your nails into his arm, prompting him to let go.

The second he does, you’re out of there and down the stairs. You don’t even bother to put on shoes, your mind fuzzy with anger. You throw open the front door, your parents behind you watching, probably concerned. You let it slam behind you- hoping that it keeps them from following.

The rough, uneven stone path dug into your feet as you ran, each step jarring you up the driveway and into the side yard. You wiggle the rusty basement door, its cold metal chilling your fingers. Locked. Fuck, this wasn’t going to be pretty. But, alas, you turned the corner and walked to the garage.

Your hands trembled, fingers fumbling on the keypad; the button clicked, and the heavy door groaned open before you. You ducked under it, not even bothering to wait for it to fully open, and walked into the house. Shmi and Cliegg were never ones to say anything- this was typical for you and Ben to do. You turned the corner, the worn wooden banister cool beneath your hand, and ran up the creaking stairs, throwing open the study door to find Anakin exactly where you expected.

“Y/N!” He shot up from his textbook, a yellow pencil tucked behind his ear, “Are you okay? What are you-“

“Anakin, what the FUCK is your problem?” You shove him forward, his brows furrow and his hand grab both of your wrists, holding you in place in front of him.

“Y/N, what-“

“Anakin, how could you? I trusted you?” Your hands shake under his grasp, choked sobs escaping your lips while your eyes search his.

He bites his lip, his eyes fixated on you, a dull ache settling in his chest. At what he caused. His hand finds its way to your back, pulling you close as the sobs wrack your body, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the chill of your tears. You freeze under his touch- he told them. Everyone knows.

With a gasp, you shoved him back, a blur of motion, furiously wiping the tears that streamed down your face.

“Fuck you.”

“Y/N, I was just trying to help-“

“Trying to help? Trying to help, huh? Do you really think I’m that fucking incapable? That I can’t tell my own family and friends what happened? No, you had to do it fucking for me! I fucking hate you.”

“Y/N, you don’t mean-“

“Anakin! Will you shut the fuck up-“

“No!” he yelled, his fingers digging into your wrists as he pulled you back. You knew he was seeing red- and you knew he cared. But by god you’d be lying if you said you weren’t terrified at that moment.

“Y/N, you need to shut the fuck up. I know you. You weren’t going to tell anyone and you were going to let it tear you up inside until you were a fucking shell of yourself. You need help- you do. Everyone fucking knows it- and not just cause of me! Yes, I told Ben and Ahsoka, but I’m not sorry. I only care about you.” His grip loosens on your wrist as he searches your red eyes for something.

Your hand swiftly meets his cheek. It stings upon impact and he gasps.

“Fuck you, Anakin. You’re dead to me.”

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