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indyanapolis898 · 5 months

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Mastermind

Peter Parker x f!reader

Synopsis: Peter has a crush on you from afar. One day you ask him to tutor you and things go from there.

Note: This really doesn't follow any specific canon from the movies.

"You know staring at Y/N won't make her like you."

Peter's head shot up at the sound of a voice behind him, that of MJ's.

"W-what are you talking about?" Peter chuckled awkwardly, doing a horrible job of lying.

"Me and Ned notice how much you watch Y/N. You always bring up any interaction you two have- and so much more! You like her. Just admit it, nerd," MJ explained amid the noisy school cafeteria.

"So what if I do?" Peter shrugged as MJ sat next to him.

"You should make a move- oh wait- you're too scared," MJ said with a sly smirk, begging him to fight back, which he did.

"Nervous? I'm an Avenger! I don't get nervous!" Peter hissed.

"Then go talk to her, Avenger" MJ shrugged like it was the only obvious option.

"Well- I- I just don't want her to think I'm weird."

"Well, then you're out of luck in that regard," she joked dryly. "You two used to be close. Why can't you spark up a conversation about, like, the past?"

"'Cause it's random, and also, we were friends in middle school! That was a while ago, MJ!"

"OK, Parker, I give up. Enjoy your futile people-watching."

Peter watched as MJ walked away to the lunch line. She wasn't wrong. He was too scared to even consider being near Y/N.

The boy sighed, going back to eating his lunch after you left the room.

___

"Alrighty!" Mr. Harrington clapped his hands together. "We have a new member for this semester's Academic Decathlon!"

The club whispered among themselves in anticipation of who it could be. Peter glanced up from his book when, of course, you entered the classroom with a new copy of the textbook.

"I'm sure you all know Y/N, so welcome her into the club and help her get acquainted with the material for today's practice."

You smiled shyly at the group, waving and going to take a seat in the open chair next to Flash.

Peter silently groaned, letting his head fall onto the desk. Of course, it was you, and of course, you had to sit next to Flash. Flash had an obvious crush on you as well.

"Peter. Wanna start off today's practice?" Mr. Harrington asked, staring directly at Peter as he lifted his head off his desk. Everyone was looking at him.

Peter sighed, standing up with his textbook to go to the podium to call the questions.

The first round went by fast. You answered three times, getting all answers right. Peter could feel himself smile every time you rang the bell.

Peter tried his best to compliment you when you answered during the second round.

At one point, Peter asked a question the Flash rang in for. Peter watched as the boy mouthed to you: watch this.

Flash got the question wrong, making you slightly giggle. Peter chucked, as did the rest of the class, at Flash's misplaced confidence. However, Peter wasn't laughing at Flash this time- he was laughing because you laughed. Peter wanted to cling on to any bit of you he could. He was glad Flash's terrible attempt to show off failed.

After a few more rounds, Peter traded off with another student. Peter didn't want to be like Flash and do a flashy show-off of his skills, but he did want to impress you.

Peter heard the first question- ringing in as soon as he could. He wasn't confident with his odds but gave a shaky answer, which was revealed to be correct.

Peter smiled slightly. When he glanced to the left, you were smiling at him, presumably because he aced the question. He smiled back at you, hoping this was some sort of connection. You were noticing him!

If that was what it took, he could do it. Peter answered every question he could, getting almost all right. He got a thumbs-up from you once after a question!

___

After practice ended, he was packing his bag to leave when you approached him. Peter felt his heart speeding up dramatically.

"Hey, Peter. Love the jacket," you started things off, making Peter smile and examine his jacket, vowing to wear it more often.

"Thank you. I... like your shirt. Um- you did good on your first day," Peter gave a tightlipped smile, trying to act normal.

"Thanks, but you were on fire! Like seriously, some of those questions were insane," you gushed, grinning the whole time.

"Oh, wow, uh, thank you!" Peter stuttered out, causing you to giggle. "You gave great answers, too!" He rushed to follow up.

"Yeah, about that... those were the bare minimum. I joined this club to help raise my grades. Clearly you know your stuff, so... I have the biggest favor to ask."

Peter raised his brows. "Uh, yeah, what's that?"

"So, it's OK if you say no because it's so random, but could you tutor me in some of the subjects covered here? I could really use the help, but again it's OK if y-"

"I'll do it," Peter agreed quickly, blushing at how eager he sounded. You grinned largely.

"Seriously? 'Cause I could pay you if that's necessary."

"Y/N, you don't have to pay anything. Honestly, I mean, it's the least I can do for the girl who defended me from Jose in 8th grade," Peter recalled a memory from their past, mentally punching himself for saying something that most likely meant nothing to her.

"You still remember that? Wow, I didn't know I could even make an impact like that," you said, surprised in a good way.

Peter decided to roll with it. "Uh, yeah, I mean, Jose was a jerk, so I was just glad someone stood up for me. So, uh, yeah," Peter awkwardly chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.

You shrugged nonchalantly. "Anytime. But yeah, thank you so much for agreeing. When are you free to go over the material?"

Peter supposed one evening without Spider-Man wouldn't hurt. "Tonight," he said right away. "Um, like five?"

"Can do. At the library?"

"Absolutely."

"See you then, Peter. Thanks again," you waved at him as you left the class to go to your next.

___

"So, you're telling me that all you had to do was be nerdy, and she just came up to you?" MJ recounted Peter's story in a tone laced with disbelief.

"Yes! Seriously. If you didn't have to miss today's practice for your re-do test, you would've seen it! So, believe it or not, I've gotta get to the library soon and tutor Y/N," Peter said cockily, standing up from the barstool at the cafe MJ part-timed at.

MJ just rolled her eyes but gave a genuine smile. "Good luck. Don't screw it up."

"Thanks? I'll try not to."

With that, Peter slung his bag onto his back and left the shop, library-bound.

___

The library wasn't awfully busy that weekday, making it easy to find a table in a corner. Peter laid his books and notebooks out, realizing you wouldn't know where he was, nor did he have your number to text you.

Everything worked out, however, when you wandered into the back section he was sitting, looking lost. Your eyes lit up at the sight of him, making Peter's stomach churn in a good way.

You walked with a purpose over to the table, sitting your stuff down. "I was looking all over for you," you grinned, not meaning it in a guilt-tripping way.

Peter realized he actually had to reply instead of staying in a daydream. "Oh- yeah. I sat here and realized you might not be able to find me, but luckily you did."

"Yeah, it only took like, seven different aisles," you laughed before opening your notebook.

Peter couldn't tell if he was just nervous or if he just loved the sound of your laugh, but his heart raced.

"So, I was thinking... we could piggyback off what we did in practice today?"

"Sounds good. I'm sure whatever I learn will be good when you're teaching it," you said, laying your chin on the palm of your hand.

Peter could feel his face heat up. He ducked his head down to the textbook and chuckled. "Yeah... I- uh- just start in on page five right here."

For thirty minutes, Peter was able to impart some knowledge your way. After you two finished a chapter, you turned to Peter with a closed-mouth smile. "This has been really helpful, thank you."

Peter frowned. "You're done?"

You continued smiling. "Just for today, yeah. But I'm really hungry... do you wanna get something to eat?"

Peter perked up at the invitation to continue spending time together. "Yeah, I'd love to!" He said very excitedly, to which you just giggled.

"OK, c'mon. I'll show you this really good Thai place I like down the block."

You and Peter collected your things, exiting the library together to walk down the sidewalk to the restaurant of choice.

"So, you had that Stark Internship, right?"

"Yeah- still do, actually. I'm still just the young guy, though."

"Hey, they'll realize what a dedicated worker you are, and when they do, they'll have to give you more opportunities."

"You think so?"

"You seem like you have a great work ethic, Peter, so yeah, I do think so."

Peter just grinned, looking down at the sidewalk. You were making him nervous.

___

The restaurant you two entered was moderately nice for a casual New York City restaurant.

You both ordered at the counter and then sat at an empty table.

Peter wanted to try and flirt, but he knew he'd be super awkward and make things weird. Nevertheless, he still attempted to gain your favor.

"You caught on really fast with the Academic stuff. It was like you already knew it! So, I guess you're a natural."

You looked away and grinned. "Thank you. I- um- guess I just needed a few reminders, is all."

Peter cocked a brow, but their food was placed in front of them at that moment. The two ate, sharing conversation about middle school and how annoying some of their classes were now.

Somehow, the topic got moved on to Flash.

"You know Flash has a thing for you," Peter decided to throw bait into the water as the pair left the restaurant, being that they had finished their food.

You furrowed your brows. "Yeah, I know. We actually have two classes together- three counting Decathalon now. He hits on me every day. It gets tiring really fast."

"What?" Peter exclaimed in fake shock. "You don't appreciate all his futile attempts to be a womanizer?"

You laughed and shook your head. "Crazy, right? I might be the only one who doesn't. I just- I just already have my eyes on someone else."

"Oh," Peter mumbled aloud, regretting how disappointed he sounded. "Um... is it weird to ask-"

"Who it is?" you cut him off. "Yeah, I was hoping you would've guessed by now," you stopped walking, Peter doing the same, peering at you with confusion.

"I-I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to be invasive. I-"

"It's you, Peter. I've been trying to flirt with you and give you hints, hoping you'd make a move," you chuckled to fill the air.

"Oh... Oh!" Peter put a hand to his chest. "You," he pointed at you, then back at himself. "Like me?"

"Yes!" You desperately hoped he felt the same.

"I- woah. I really like you too, Y/N," Peter sputtered out.

"Really? Because I was starting to think my plan failed."

"Plan?"

"You said it yourself in the restaurant... I already knew that stuff we were learning. I don't need tutoring. I just decided to ask you so... I dunno," you looked away embarrassed. "So we could do something outside of school."

When you looked back up, Peter was grinning widely. "You made a plan just to be with me?"

You nodded.

"That's- wow. I was trying to drop hints all day too, but I suck at anything flirting-wise. I was just excited you kept asking to do stuff, but you planned this all along. You made the dominoes fall until we were here."

"I didn't know this would be how I confessed, but yeah. I don't need tutoring when I'm the mastermind," you joked and shrugged.

"Maybe it's my turn to do something..." Peter looked into your eyes, searching your face. "Can I kiss you?"

You leaned in, letting that be your answer. His lips met yours as you two kissed in the darkening evening. The cool Queens air hit the side of your face as you pulled away, catching your breath.

"Was that good? Because I'm definitely not an expert."

You just giggled. "Yes, it was great, Peter."

"Can I walk you home?" Peter pursed his lips, waiting for an answer.

You nodded and thanked him graciously with another kiss. With that, you two set off toward your apartment as the street lights flickered on in the chilled air.

___

"...And then we kissed. Boom! In your face!"

MJ rolled her eyes and laughed while Ned clapped Peter on the back.

"Dude! You got a girlfriend!"

Peter chuckled at Ned's enthusiasm. Peter's phone dinged at that moment. It was a text from you.

"Gotta go, guys. Peter has a second date today with Y/N."

"Did you just refer to yourself in the third person?"

"Yep, deal with it!" Peter called, already out the door of the cafe.

___

You were waiting at the subway station. Peter jogged down the stairs, joining you to enter the train and go ice skating.

You reached your hand out, Peter taking it as you two entered the train.

It was only the second date, but you knew Peter was going to make you happy. You simply looked up at Peter, smiling, which he returned with his signature grin.

The train's doors shut, and you two were carried away down the tracks, ready for what was to come.

#mcu peter x reader #peter parker x female reader #peter parker x reader #mcu peter parker #tom holland peter parker #tom holland #tom holland x reader #fluff #first kiss #peter is oblivious #flash thompson #mj watson #ned leeds #fanfic #fanfiction #cross posted on ao3 #Spotify

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wttcsms · 1 year

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love cuts just like a knife (you make the knife feel so good) ; phillip graves

pairing phillip graves x f!reader word count 8.4k synopsis lover and victim are synonymous when it comes to those who fall into phillip graves’ trap. you learn this lesson a little bit too late. alternatively: an ambitious twenty-five year old graves will do anything for recognition and a promotion. even using you, a renowned general’s daughter, as a means to an end. collateral damage is insignificant when it comes to reaping the rewards of love and war, after all. content contains age gap (reader is 19, phillip is 25), manipulation, loss of virginity, possessive sex, possessive!phillip, lovers to enemies, naive + inexperienced!reader, mentions of pregnancy, power imbalance, breeding kink, minor depictions of violence + blood, literally heavily inspired by taylor swift’s “all too well (10 min version)” + “would’ve, could’ve, should’ve” </3

The four walls of this bathroom are closing in on you, you can’t breathe, and you’re certain that this most certainly is the end of the fucking world.

You try to focus on your breathing, but the sound of your heart banging against your chest invades your mind and makes you think your eardrums are going to burst from the inside out. You’re vaguely aware of the knocks against the bathroom door, but you can’t make out what the person on the other side is saying. The whole room is spinning, and you shut your eyes, forcing yourself to keep steady, to stay calm.

Your fingers curl around the countertop of the bathroom, back hunched over and your shaky arms being the only things helping you remain upright.

This can’t be happening.

You only tighten your grip, staring at your fingers before wanting to throw up when the light reflection from the promise ring on your finger catches your eyes.

You swear that in the glint from the thin band wrapped around your finger, you see flashes of what transpired these past few months. Secret smiles shared from across the room, being tangled up in hotel bedsheets, that damn smirk and boyish grin that sent you spiraling, that led to your’s — your whole entire family’s — demise.

It all comes back to you at too much of a rapid-fire pace for your already shattered mind to deal with properly. Instead, you’re practically ripping off the ring from your finger and chucking it somewhere in the bathroom. You hear the distinct sound of its landing, and from the corner of your eye, it still taunts you.

You shut your eyes again, childishly refusing to turn your head any further so you can conveniently ignore what the ring happened to land next to.

You don’t care much for violence.

Which is ironic; a renowned general’s only daughter being a pacifist? Sounds more like the setup for a joke.

But there’s nothing funny about the way his knuckles are smeared with dried blood, and the sincerity reflected in his blue eyes is too real to be just a joke. Dangling from in between his fingers is the unmistakable golden locket your mother gifted to you when you were only twelve — just months before her quick death. It’s your most prized possession.

And then it was stolen.

At least, you think it was stolen. You’re smart enough to know better than to throw wild accusations, especially whenever you’re on base and these young men surrounding you are training to be the best and brightest for the country. But still — you’re not careless enough to just misplace something so important. The only reason you took it off was because your father told you jewelry wouldn’t be allowed past a certain point. He had promised that the locker would be secure, and you didn’t have the heart to come running to him to tell him that the lockers evidently were not. After watching a fighter jet’s practice run (a supposed special treat for graduating top of your high school class — neverminding the fact that your father’s influence probably had something to do with it), the door to your locker had been swung open and left entirely empty.

You even had a sneaking suspicion as to who the culprit could have been. Jeremy Omelia has been a pain in your ass since summer break started, and you’ve been forced to spend most of your time either on the training base or following your dad around like some little puppy. He’s a new recruit, evident in the way he talks loudly and obnoxiously about how badly he wants to go to war. Your father, a highly respected general, mind you, isn’t shy about his distaste for fighting.

Avoid it at all costs.

Instead of hardening him, all the violence your father has beared witness to has left him rather soft. He shields you to the point where some of his fellow men jokingly discuss about you living in your own little bubble world. And they’re right.

You’ve never had the luxury of sneaking out or having movie dates and getting your father to allow you to go to a sleepover at a classmate’s was harder and less painful than pulling teeth. You get it; that he’s overbearing and overprotective for a good reason. But when the situation calls for you to stand your ground, you find yourself completely at the mercy of your opposition.

So when you first accused Jeremy of stealing your beloved necklace, it had been nothing short of a miserable, failed mission. Too overwhelmed and yet too unsure of yourself, you had practically stuttered through your accusation. It hadn’t helped that you chose to confront him in front of the rest of the new recruits, too. They would have mocked you and probably teased you with the type of cruelty only boys are capable of, but the status of your father shields you from it. Their laughter still rings in your ears, though.

And for the first time in your life, you felt the urge to punch someone in the face.

Again: you’re not a very violent person. Nor are you the type of person who jumps in and does stuff as irrational as that.

But staring up at the boy in front of you, locking eyes with him, and then allowing yours to wander from his bloody knuckles to the thin gold chain dangling in his large hands, you feel a sudden surge of satisfaction. Your father may tell you to avoid fighting at all costs, and you may have a distaste for violence, but a punch managed to solve all your problems.

“Thank you,” you breathe out, daring to take a step forward. Your fingers graze against the familiar, cold feeling of the gold of your necklace. “Thank you.” You repeat it again, staring up at him, trying to see if you know him at all.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he says, knowing that he’s lying right through his pearly white teeth. It’s a nasty habit of his — lying, that is. It’s probably inherited. That’s the excuse he tells himself anyway. As if unlearning bad behaviors from your family is impossible.

“I know he stole it! That jerk! I—” You pause, clearing your throat. Your cheeks feel warm, and you suddenly can’t look him in the eyes. “That jerk” is probably one of his bunkmates. Badmouthing the guy might do more harm than good, and since you haven’t necessarily regained possession of your necklace, you should shut up. Instead of finishing your onslaught of insults, you stretch out your palm, silently asking for your prized possession back.

“I know.” He says, after a minute of silence. “Omelia’s a dick. And an idiot. Y’know, I think he has a little crush on you.”

That makes you look at him again.

“That’s— I—” You need a second to process what you’re trying to tell him.

“That can’t be true,” is what you lamely settle for.

“Guys do weird shit to get a girl’s attention, y’know. ‘Specially for a pretty one.”

(Things like getting their knuckles bloody and risking punishment and public humiliation. But, that’s neither here nor there.)

You want to blame your inexperience for being the reason why you react the way you do. You’re thankful that he’s only human and can’t hear the way your heart starts to beat at his comment. He says it so casually, as if it’s not a compliment. And maybe he doesn’t mean it in that way. Maybe it wasn’t a compliment towards you at all. Maybe he’s just being a completely normal guy, and he’s just making simple conversation, and you’re the weird one for practically gawking at him.

“I guess.” You reply back, feeling small as ever. “May I have my necklace back, now? Please?” You tack on the please at the last minute, hoping he’ll appreciate it, and the two of you can be done with this whole entire awkward situation.

“Depends. You gonna get it stolen from you again?”

You know he’s just teasing you, but you can’t think of anything smart to say back, so you just cross your arms, hoping your distaste for his comment will be made known. Instead of apologizing, he laughs.

“Turn around.” He tells you, and you do. Only out of curiosity, though. Only because he has a nice laugh. Only because he obviously went through great lengths to retrieve your necklace back for you, and he never acknowledged your thank you’s, so maybe doing what he says will make the two of you even.

The tips of his fingers brush against the nape of your neck, and you never realized just how sensitive you are. It takes everything in you to not jerk away from the movement, but it’s almost as if he’s shocked you. It’s silly to get overwhelmed from just the slightest touch, but you swallow hard as he manuevers around your hair to clasp the necklace around your neck.

“There.” He says, seemingly satisfied. “Now the next time someone takes it from you, at least you’ll have a solid look at ‘em yanking the chain around your neck so your accusation can have some credibility.”

You ignore his little teasing remark in favor of satiating your curiosity. “Who are you?”

“No one you need to worry too much about.”

You turn your head, ready to face him again and ask him for his name more firmly, but he’s already walking back from wherever he’s came from, leaving nothing but the memory of his face and the ghost of his touch lingering on the back of your neck.

Ambition is a curse.

Ambition is a bitch.

At least, that’s how Phillip Graves sees it. Ambition and the greed to do something more, to always have the best — sure, it motivates him to be the top of his class and to rise through the ranks faster than most. But it also ends up resulting in him doing some pretty questionable shit.

Things like beating up fellow recruits.

He doesn’t like fighting.

Or rather, he doesn’t like to be the first one to swing.

You see, it’s easier to justify when you do bad shit because it’s done out of retaliation. No one can blame you for being the bad guy if you were the victim first — right?

But no.

General McHenry is the closest thing Graves has to a father figure. His home life is something he chooses not to acknowledge, and when you’re too consumed with climbing the ladder, a lot of things get easier to move to the backseat, left to be abandoned and forgotten. His family being one of those abandoned, forgotten things.

The conversation still replays in his mind as Graves stomps on Omelia’s back.

“General [Surname] has been a pain in the fucking ass for as long as I can remember. The weak bastard’s always opposing the opportunity to strike, and he’s going to be the reason why our enemies are going to accuse us of being a bunch of pussies.”

Graves nods in agreement, even if he doesn’t truly agree. General McHenry’s been the one kind enough to take him under his wing, and so it’s better to just go with what he says and continue to benefit from the general’s sponsorship. Raw talent and simple ambition only gets you so far nowadays.

“You agree, dont’cha? ‘Course ya do.” McHenry grumbles, pacing around the room. “[Surname] refuses to man up and fuckin’ fight. It doesn’t help that he’s still viewed as a golden boy around here. He’s even got the fuckin’ president wrapped around his finger.”

Graves personally doesn’t have anything against General [Surname]. He seems like a nice enough guy. He’s a war hero, too.

Then again, so is McHenry.

“When I’m at the top of the fuckin’ foodchain, [Surname] and his entire family is going to regret crossing me. You understand, Graves?”

Graves nods. Lately, McHenry’s been going on little tangents like this, where he’s secretly plotting the downfall of this general. He goes along with it because he feels like he owes it to McHenry, and even if there’s only a sliver of a chance of taking down General [Surname], Graves will follow through for McHenry because the payoff will be fantastic.

He doesn’t actually anticipate McHenry coming up with a feasible plan.

“Fuck! What the fuck is your problem, Graves?!”

The howl of pain from Omelia snaps him back to his current reality. Staring down at the pitiful, crumpled form of Omelia, Graves can’t find it in himself to feel the slightest bit of remorse. Truth be told, Omelia’s had it coming since day one.

The pathetic idiot’s been eyeing General [Surname]’s daughter ever since you stepped foot on base. Everyone is aware of your presence, especially this year’s class. The famous general’s only daughter is going to be here all summer? And you just so happen to be the prettiest fucking thing most of these guys have ever laid eyes on? Trouble was bound to happen.

Graves just didn’t know that he was going to be one of the unlucky participants of it.

He sighs, crouching down before taking a hand to tug at the collar of Omelia’s shirt. The action forces Omelia to weakly lift his head, allowing him to look Graves in his gunmetal blue eyes.

“Where is it?” Graves doesn’t sound angry, which is shocking to poor Omelia considering the fact that he sure as hell punches like he is. The proof is in the constant stream of blood trickling out of his nose.

“Where’s what?” He’s not even feigning ignorance, which Graves can’t necessarily fault him for. He’s not really the type to wear his heart on his sleeve — would much rather prefer to pretend that he doesn’t even have one, thank you very much — but he’s on a bit of a time crunch right now. He knows your schedule. You’re going to be leaving the canteen pretty soon, and if he wants to catch you, he needs to speed things up.

He chooses to further take his irritation out on Omelia, punching the guy with his left fist this time. It’s not a particularly hard punch; he figures he’s already done enough damage, and by the time word gets around of his transgressions, Graves will hopefully already have McHenry pulling some strings to make sure his punishment isn’t too severe. Now, though, both of his hands are bloody. Blood is a bitch to wash away.

“Fuck!” Omelia yelps. “What the fuck are you even looking for?”

“Her necklace. The damn locket that she confronted you about for stealing. Where the hell is it?” With each sentence, Graves shakes the boy, forcing his limp body to jerk with each aggressive tug. Graves starts to feel a little bit guilty, before he remembers that technically, Omelia made you cry.

You’re cute, Graves finds himself thinking. Too cute to be crying over an idiot like him.

The guilt dissipates.

“That’s what all this shit is about? Over some stupid fu—”

Omelia’s complaints are interrupted by another one of his pained screams. Graves had punched him again, this time a bit harder.

“I don’t have time for your bullshit.” Graves growls. He switches gripping Omelia’s shirt in favor for curling his fingers into the locks of the boy’s hair. It’ll be easier to use that as a sort of leash; provides him the ability to more forcefully bash the idiot’s head into the pavement beneath his feet. Seemingly smart enough to sense the impending danger, Omelia quickly begins to shout.

“It’s in my fucking left pocket! Left pocket, left pocket!”

Graves keeps his grip tight and unyielding as he uses his free hand to rummage in said pocket. Sure enough, Omelia had enough sense to not lie.

He releases Omelia unceremoniously, clutching the dainty necklace and keeping it safely secured in the calloused palm of his hand.

His parting words — more like a warning — leaves Omelia wondering just who the fuck are you to Graves.

The next time you make her cry, I’ll break every fucking bone in your body for every tear she spills.

Eighteen years old. Freshly graduated from high school. More college acceptances than you know what to do with. General [Surname]’s only child. His precious little princess. His only immediate family, and after the untimely death of your mother, his biggest weakness.

General McHenry is teaching Graves on how to exploit weaknesses.

“Good job,” McHenry says, laughing before clapping Graves on the back of his shoulder. “You sure can put on a performance, son.”

Son. Huh. It has a bit of a nice ring to it, he supposes.

“Y’know, I thought I wouldn’t be able to stick out my neck for ya, but you must’ve done some Oscar-worthy acting, boy. You should’ve seen the look on that girl’s face when she begged her daddy not to let ‘em punish you too harshly. Looks like you’re smarter than you look.”

Yeah, sure. It’s a bit of a backhanded compliment, but Graves will settle for it. He just has to deal with this shit for a while longer, and soon, he’ll never have to settle for anything ever again.

At first, General McHenry thought it was a bit of a bullshit idea. The general’s daughter is much too protected by the likes of her father and his closest allies to be touched by the likes of any outsiders. The best way to have him in the palm of their hands is to hit you with it, but that provides to be a bit of a challenge. No direct attack on you will go unpunished.

Graves suggests playing the long game.

He’s read your file, and it doesn’t take a psych degree to read you to filth. You’re nothing more than a pretty girl who’s been spoiled and sheltered by her father all her life. You’re eighteen and about to begin the start of your life, and you probably feel as if you’ve never done anything exciting. Even if you act like a stickler for rules or you’re scared to face the consequences of disobeying your father, with the right words and the right timing, Graves bets planting the seeds of rebellion in your naive, little brain will be a simple task. He’s certain you’ve never had a boyfriend, never even been given the chance to go out on a date — the slightest bit of affection will have you eating out the palm of his hands. The same hands he’s going to use to force your father into the ground, allowing him and McHenry to do whatever the fuck they want.

Naturally, no good deed goes unpunished. Graves still has to scrub the bathrooms with a toothbrush for the next two nights, but it’s a small price to pay. If you truly caused a commotion and swayed your own father to change his stance all for a guy you don’t even know the name of, he’s certain in the next few months, he’ll have you craving his last name and the privilege of bearing his children.

Which isn’t such a bad thing. You’re pretty, he’ll give you that. The prettiest girl he’s ever seen, too.

“What do you plan on doing next?” McHenry asks, grinning. Graves smiles back.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it all figured out.”

Word spreads around quickly in places like these. While you saw the evidence all over his knuckles, hearing what actually transpired leaves you a bit breathless — shocked, but not necessarily because of the violence of it all. Shocked because it had all been done in your honor.

It’s only been two days since the incident, but the feeling of your locket pressed against your skin seems to burn. It serves as a constant reminder of the boy who fought to get it back for you, and suddenly, this necklace has two special memories behind it. You never want to take it off again.

You catch snippets of the recruits whispering to each other, but it’s hard to hear the full story whenever they look up and notice you’re nearby. No one has outright approached you about your connection to this whole fight, and it’s not until dinnertime that you finally get all the details.

“What’s this I hear about between you and Graves?”

“Me and who?” You continue twisting your pasta around your fork, perfectly content with eating in silence and daydreaming about the boy who retrieved your necklace for you. You’ve been texting your closest friends from high school about all the drama, questioning them on what it means. The general consensus? That boy’s got it bad for you. The thought makes you way too happy.

“Phillip Graves.” Your father says.

You shrug, still not sure who he’s talking about.

“Young lady, do not play the fool with me. According to Omelia, he’s the one who left him bloody and bruised outside the back of the gym.”

So, two things you now know for certain: Omelia is a necklace thief, and the boy you’re thinking about is named Phillip Graves. This is becoming a truly enlightening conversation.

“Oh. Well, I didn’t know his name.”

“You don’t know his name, and yet, he’s starting brawls over you?”

“Well, dad, when you put it like that—”

“[Name], what Graves did was a very inappropriate thing to do. Honorable men should never raise their fists against their own fellow soldiers, especially over disputes that could have easily been solved with a simple conversation.”

“Dad, you don’t seriously think that he’s the bad guy in the situation! He’s the one who defended me—”

“I’m just saying, sweetheart, that he used unnecessary force—”

“Omelia is such a jerk! You weren’t there that day. He totally humiliated me in front of everyone in the canteen whenever I tried to make ‘simple conversation’. He wouldn’t listen at all.”

“There’s going to be a meeting to discuss what Graves has done. I personally believe that he should be punished in accordance to what’s written down for men who act as rashly and harshly as he did.”

“Dad!” You gasp, dropping your fork entirely. It makes a tiny sound as it hits the porcelain of your plate, but you ignore the clanging noise. “Don’t you think that’s unfair?”

“Omelia has a broken nose, [Name].”

“Omelia stole the last piece of mom I have left. He would have never given it back if his nose wasn’t broken.”

Looking back, maybe the violence was harsh and uncalled for. A punch might have sufficed. The brutality he’s capable of is simply excusable in your untainted mind. You reason that all soldiers must be capable of going through great lengths to protect and defend others. Isn’t that what he was doing? Protecting and defending you?

“If you vote to have him punished horribly, I won’t forgive you.”

Even if your bottom lip is trembling and your hands are shaking, your father can see that there’s some conviction behind your words. He’s never been one to deny you, his only daughter, and perhaps Graves is just young and brash.

“Fine.” Your father says, appeasing you.

The clink of his fork tapping against his own plate sounds a bit too much like the first domino of his downfall.

“You never told me your name,” you’re standing with your arms crossed against your chest. The sunlight coming through one of the large windows hits your necklace, making it shine. He takes in your entire form, memorizing the shape and silhouette of your body. You’re a sight for sore eyes, at least.

“I’ve got a feeling you already know it, though.” He watches the way you fight down a smile at his remark. He bets you have a pretty smile.

You pull out the seat that’s across from him.

“I didn’t know you read.” You say. You’ve been plotting running into him for the past week now, and you know that he frequents the library every day for at least an hour. You’re not sure what he likes to read, but you doubt brushing up on the hockey romances on your Kindle will provide much conversation. You downloaded The Art of War and only made it past the first three pages before deciding that you’ll just manipulate the conversation into something not about books.

“You think about my literacy levels on your freetime, honey?”

All common sense evaporates the moment he calls you honey.

He teases you every time he talks to you (which, then again, isn’t very much), and so you’re certain there’s nothing genuine behind the pet name, but it still makes you undeniably giddy. No one’s ever called you something so sweet before.

Trying to appear unfazed and not as flustered as you feel, you eloquently reply back, “Um— I— No.”

He laughs, the same nice laugh that you can’t stop thinking about. It almost makes up for the fact that he’s most certainly laughing at you.

“Don’t feel bad. I think about you during my freetime, too.”

He can’t just go around saying stuff like that! It’s unfair! It’s… No one goes around saying stuff like that!

“What? Nothing to say to me now?” He’s grinning at you, book in his hand long-forgotten. You notice that it’s not mean, though, which makes you relax just the slightest.

“You shouldn’t joke about things like that.” You tell him. “People might take you seriously.”

“Well, they should. I am serious.”

And for a split second, he thinks he’s being a bit cruel. Mean, at the very least. The way you’re looking at him makes it plainly obvious that you’ve never been flirted with a day in your life.

The hopeful gleam in your bright eyes makes him believe his own lie, just for a brief moment.

It could be worse, he reasons with himself. There are worse people to pretend to fall in love with, after all.

You’ve never been gifted flowers before.

Maybe Phillip knows this. Maybe the insane amount of bouquets he’s gifting you is to make up for all that lost time. Maybe he’s just one of those people who believe in going big or going home.

Maybe he likes you as much as you like him.

You know how your father feels about dating. He’s a rather traditional man. Believes in the whole entire “ask him for permission before taking his little girl away from him” type of shit. Graves is thorough with his research, and even gathered the courage to ask your father for the chance to take you on a date.

It had been a risk—

—one that almost didn’t pay off.

He thinks his ears are still ringing from the shouts of your father. He’s heard reports that he’s a stoic man, for the most part, and isn’t one for conflict when there’s an option that avoids it. But he’s also a reasonable man, and so, Graves can’t necessarily fault him for the rant he went on.

You’re six years older than her! The hell are you doing trying to take her on a date?

He eventually calmed down, of course. Graves took the brunt of the screams pretty well, gave a whole long lecture on how he would never harm a hair on your precious head. He didn’t anticipate on liking you so much, and believe him, he’s been trying to fight down the feelings he’s harboring for you, but he knows he’ll regret not at least trying.

Your father is soft on you. You must talk about Graves more than he realizes it, because General [Surname] gives him his permission a lot easier than he planned on.

He almost feels bad for the way he’s playing your family like a fool.

Then he remembers the power he’ll receive once all is said and done, and he can almost ignore the lingering feelings of guilt.

He forgets everything when you walk through the doors of the library, surprised at the sight greeting you.

He’s made sure that everyone on base knows to avoid the library at all costs tonight, and he even retrieved the key from the librarian on hand after slipping him a twenty and whispering a quick threat about what will happen if he isn’t left alone in this building. Dealing with the closest florist available and strategically arranging all the bouquets to the point where the whole front entrance of the library is covered in red roses. The spines of the books, the front desks, every table — none of them are visible due to the sheer amount of flowers obscuring them from view.

“I don’t–? What?” You take in the scenery before looking at him. He’s got a large bouquet in his hand and a proud smile on his face, like he’s pleased with your reaction. You think this is a good thing.

“Told ya I was serious. Now you believe me?”

There are weeks that go by without the two of you ever even talking. Most days, you’re lucky enough to be walking past him on the base, and for a fleeting moment, he’ll shoot you a smile that’s so quick, you blink and he’s already long gone. You convince yourself that there’s a meaning to all of this, though. That distance must truly make the heart grow fonder, because why else are you collecting all the scraps you’re given and convincing yourself that they’re the only things keeping you full?

(It’s hard to face reality when you find yourself falling in love with the image of his back turned, walking away from you.)

And in your mind, you’re right. You’re pleased to find out that you’re not just some silly little teenage girl, falling in love with the first person who will give her the time of day. After all, this isn’t necessarily your first time experiencing what it’s like to be crushed on.

It is your first time being wowed by someone so much older and therefore unattainable.

It’s addicting — his attention. He can only gift you his affections so few and far between; every time you find yourself on the receiving end of it, you get dizzy from excitement and joy. This is someone who likes you. Someone who likes you so much, he does grand gestures like this to properly court you.

It’s not your fault, is what you’ll tell yourself in the future. Anyone would have fallen for his tricks.

Anyone would have fallen for him.

Being with Phillip is exciting. Your friends from school tell you it’s simply because he’s your first boyfriend — the word still makes you smile every time you think about it — but you know in your heart that it’s because it’s him that makes it exciting.

You like the way he teases you, not to mock you or to bully you, but because that’s just how he shows his affection. You like the way he’s better than all of your friends’ boyfriends because unlike them, Phillip is actually a man. He’s older, making him more knowledgeable about a lot of things. You like the way he never makes you lift a single finger; you think you’re almost forgetting how to do basic things, like opening doors and pulling out chairs and even putting on your seatbelt yourself. But he makes up for it by teaching you things.

Things like spreading your legs for him when he tells you to, even when you’re not expecting him to.

“Phillip, I—” You forget what you’re about to tell him the moment the moan escapes from your lipglossed lips. It’s your nineteenth birthday. Dad’s away on a mission. Phillip tells you he had to pull some strings to not get sent away, either, and the lengths he’ll go to keep you happy makes your heart flutter.

The two of you get into his fancy sports car, and he drives upstate to a quaint little bed and breakfast that he knows you’ve been doing research on. The two of you were supposed to be heading out for dinner right about now, but when you finished getting ready, something in your beloved boyfriend seemed to change.

Now you’re not having a birthday dinner.

Gripping the sheets and gasping as the cool air hits your bottom half because of the way Phillip flipped the skirt of your dress, you realize that at least one of you will be eating tonight.

“Phillip, we—we don’t have time to be doing this.” You weakly protest, no true conviction behind your words.

Before him, you would have never imagined how good one person can make you feel with just the tips of their fingers or strategic movements with their mouths. Now the flood of pleasurable memories travels from your mind to in between your thighs as you remember just what exactly Phillip Graves is capable of.

“Fuck, baby, you’re already so soaked. I haven’t even done anything yet.” He murmurs, ignoring you entirely. He licks his lips, pressing quick, wet kisses against your inner thighs.

“Phillip, wh—what about dinner?” You fight the urge to instinctively buck your hips, but it gets harder to think reasonable thoughts whenever you feel him tugging at the waistband of your panties.

“You should’ve thought about that before wearing this slutty little dress. Were you trying to get the whole restaurant to fuck you with their eyes?” He practically spits out the sentences, and you’re momentarily shocked.

“I didn’t think it was…slutty.” You say, voice sounding as small as you feel. He can feel you practically shrinking away from him, and he mutters out a swear.

He doesn’t mean it. Doesn’t mean to be harsh with you; he knows you’re a sweet girl. He knows you would never have bad intentions.

But he’s not sweet. And he never has good intentions unless he’s the one benefitting.

And he can tell McHenry and even himself that this is all just a ploy to take down your father, but the moment he knew he had you wrapped around his finger was the same moment he realized that if he’s not the one protecting you from the dangers of men like him — maybe even men worse than him — then who will? It’s not like father dearest, for all his overbearing efforts, is doing that great of a job. Look at how easily Graves slipped through those defenses.

He’s doing right by you, is what he tells himself as he strips you of your panties, leaving you in just your pretty pink sundress. Men are wolves. They’ll take one look at you and eat you alive.

At least he has the decency and heart to make it a good time for you.

He presses a kiss against your clit, and you almost forgive him for his cruel words. Phillip makes everything so easy, including forgetting about any of his minor transgressions.

“I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean it like that.”

You nod, even though you’re sure that he can’t even see the movement. He’s too busy with his head buried in between your thighs, kissing all over you, sucking hickeys on your thighs before his mouth meets right where you truly need him. You can’t even remember what he’s apologizing for the moment you feel him lapping up your juices before plunging his tongue inside your needy cunt as if it’s his right to do so.

Your hands find purchase in the thick locks of his hair rather than the bedsheets. Phillip has been doing this lately — eating you out, that is. The first time he had done it, you nearly cried from the sheer embarrassment of having someone so close to a part of you that is so intimate. You suppose, though, that if it had to be anyone, at least it’s him.

You always want it to be him.

You wonder if all men are like this. If all men plunge so deeply into the wet depths of their girlfriend’s pussy. Your walls flutter around his tongue, and the tip of nose seems to brush against your clit every so often, only adding to the overwhelming stimulation. Maybe it’s because you’ve never done this before him, or maybe it’s because he has a stronger effect on you than he should have, or maybe it’s because you’re just a sensitive girl — maybe it’s all of the fucking above. No matter the reason, all you know is that the pleasure Phillip is capable of handing out is nothing short of overwhelming.

You gasp and mewl out his name, letting out breathy moans of curse words — such filthy words have never left your mouth before he tainted you — and you keep tugging at his hair. He pulls away, your weak grip doing nothing to keep where you want him. Before you can complain, he immediately replaces his tongue with two fingers, scisscoring them inside of you, trying to stretch you out.

“Such a tight, little pussy.” He breathes out, chin wet with your slick and eyes darkened with lust. “Wonder if my pretty, little girlfriend can make me proud.”

“Huh?” Your pleasure-addled mind makes it hard for you to keep up with what he’s saying, and he only chuckles darkly at your clear confusion. He’s only been eating your sweet pussy for a few minutes, and you’re already too fucked out to even make conversation.

Cute. You’re too cute.

Fuck — he wants to keep you by his side forever. Even after his little con is over, and he gets the position he wants.

“You know what I wanna give you for your birthday, baby?” He’s still slowly thrusting his fingers in and out of your tight hole, and he relishes in the feeling of your walls contracting and squeezing against him. He decides to add in a third finger, which makes you gasp. He takes that opportunity to press his lips against yours, forcing his tongue inside your mouth and giving you a sloppy kiss. You think you can taste a hint of yourself on his tongue, and the dirtiness of it all makes you moan into his mouth. Everything right now is so filthy. You don’t know why you’re enjoying it so much.

“I wanna give you something special.” His voice is rough with lust, and the feeling of him curling his fingers in your tight cunt makes everything so hard to keep track of. All you can focus on is the heat coiling in your belly, and your eyes are glazed, barely able to look at him straight. “I want to give your little pussy something you deserve. I’m going to fuck my cum in you, and then when we go out to dinner, everyone is going to be able to see your wellbred pussy. How does that sound, hm? You want it? You want me filling your cunt with cum for the first time?”

If you had been in your right state of mind, you would have had the decency to be embarrassed at the way you cum all over his fingers, his words bringing you right to the edge.

“Oh? I think my baby likes the sound of that, huh? Just turned nineteen and already such a slut for me.” He’s still lazily thrusting his fingers in your cunt, and your walls are still spasming from the orgasm. “But you only act like this just for me, right?”

You nod too eagerly. “Yes, yes, yes. Only you. Only your slut, only want your cock, your cum.”

He’s already unzipping his pants, tugging down his briefs, freeing his cock from its confines. He removes his fingers from your wet hole, and your cum and juices act as lube as he uses it to wet his cock. In the back of his mind, even he’s aware of how far he’s taking this.

There’s no coming back from this — he knows this. But he’s still going to do it.

“You trust me, baby?” His eyes search yours for any hint of hesitation. He knows that he’s taken advantage of your naivety already; if you tell him to stop, he will. He expects to see nothing pure in your eyes, certain that he’s your ruination, only to have his heart skip a beat when he realizes that there’s only love and reverence in them. You’ve fallen for him, and he has no idea why he feels the way he does. Swallowing hard, he ignores his uneasy feelings in favor of giving into the one he knows he can actually control: lust.

You nod your head, eager to please him. His rough hands are gripping both your legs, easily exposing yourself to him, and you should feel incredibly vulnerable, but all you really feel is safe. It’s Phillip, after all. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.

“Good girl.” His eyes travel down your body, stopping once to admire the amount of marks he’s left on your soft skin, and then stopping again the moment he sees his prize. Your pretty pussy is slick with arousal, tiny hole clenching around nothing. You want him; it’s clear as day. And he’ll give it to you, give you everything; any part of him that he can afford to give is yours for the taking.

What he’s doing is unforgivable.

He doesn’t want forgiveness, though.

His hands grip your waist as he sheaths himself into your virgin cunt, your previous orgasm allowing the movement to be slick. It’s far more gentle than Phillip would treat anyone else, but it’s merciless all the same. There is no room for resistance, and all you can do is moan out in pain and pleasure as you feel yourself stretching to accommodate his length and girth.

You thought your first time would be romantic. A room full of roses, at least, like when he first asked you out.

But it’s Phillip. As long as it’s him, you’re happy.

“Fuck, baby.” He groans out, voice sounding raspy as he watches your tiny hole taking his dick like it’s supposed to. You feel full, filled to the fucking brim, and the foreign feeling of it all has you confused and overwhelmed. There’s a slight sting, and you think you should wait for the pain to subside, but he’s already shallowly thrusting, and you choose to shut up.

Phillip knows best. Phillip would have waited if you were supposed to wait.

“Forgot how good virgin pussy feels.” His touch is possessive as his hands travels all over your body, exploring areas he’s already well acquainted with before gripping your hips once more. His thrusts are starting to get more aggressive, but you find that the pleasure outweighs the pain. All you can feel is Phillip.

For a second, you wonder how many girls he’s been with before. Then he leans down to give you a kiss, and you forget what you were worried about.

“Don’t worry too much, baby. Just relax, and let me fill your pussy. Then, I’ll take you out to your birthday dinner. How does that sound?”

Nice. It sounds nice. Actually, you wonder why you even cared about something as silly as a birthday celebration. Isn’t this good enough?

“Should I make you go out with no panties? You’re squeezing me so tightly, I bet your cunt can hold my cum all night.” He kisses your forehead, the action far too sweet, juxtaposing the rough thrusts of his hips slapping against yours. “Or maybe I’ve loosened you up too much, and it’ll just drip all over your thighs and onto the floor. Wouldn’t that be a shame?”

You moan, imagining the filthy scenario in your head. Everyone would see; how humiliating. How exhilarating.

“At least everyone would know that you’re. Fucking. Mine.” He starts to punctuate every word with an especially rough thrust, and you can only moan as you lie there, taking it all. Taking everything he’ll give to you, and turning it into something sacred.

“I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours!” You cry out, and you prove it. You’ve proved it by the slight blood painting his cock from when he took your virginity, and you prove it a step further by cumming all over his cock. This is the first time you’ve ever came on it; Phillip vows to make sure it’s not the last.

Even if it jeopardizes his own personal mission.

“Atta girl.” He groans out, practically hammering into you at this point. You’re fucked boneless, left to just serve as a cocksleeve as he chases after his own pleasure. Phillip is surprisingly meticulous. He’s usually better at keeping himself composed, never one to give in to instinctual, animalistic pleasure.

In the back of his mind, he knows the risk, has even calculated it. He’s never done something as stupid and reckless as fucking a girl raw.

But no girl has ever been as sweet as you, as trusting as you. It’s the lust talking as he imagines you as the mother of his children. You’d be kind and patient, teach them to be better. They wouldn’t become fuckups like him if you’re there to raise them.

He can see it. He’s always been good at envisioning his future. Coming home to you barefoot and carrying his kids isn’t so bad. It’d be nice. He’d build you your dream house, make sure you always stay bred and dripping with his cum, keep you safe.

All of these thoughts only serve to bring him to the edge, and he makes sure he’s as deep in you as possible as his warm cum shoots inside. He refuses to pull out, and you don’t tell him to. Why would you? You feel closer to him than ever, and he’s kissing your forehead now, cooing that you’ve been such a good girl for him.

You’re tired. You felt like you’ve barely done anything, and yet your eyes are droopy and your vision is getting blurred. You still find the strength to mumble it out, though.

I love you.

He freezes up immediately, but when he looks down at you, you’re already fast asleep.

He’s got you hook, line, and fucking sinker.

So why doesn’t he feel like celebrating?

“Dad, what’s going on?” Your confusion is evident on your face. Your father has his hands pinned to his back, and there are men in scary uniforms yelling at you, and you’re frozen in place. “Dad, tell them that this is a mistake!”

“I’m going to be okay. Nothing bad is going to happen to me.” Your dad’s words of reassurance do little to console you; it’s kind of hard to believe what he’s saying whenever he’s quite literally getting arrested by men who are supposed to respect him.

You’ve just gotten back from a date with Phillip. He had seemed a bit off, but you brushed aside his odd behavior as a result of his nervousness. After all, he ended up presenting you with a promise ring. You don’t think he’s ever given someone something so precious and important.

Your good mood obviously disappeared the moment you walked through your front door.

“You’re innocent. You know nothing. They’re going to make sure that you stay in a safe place while I’m gone, okay? Just do what they tell you, and wait for me to get back—”

“Dad, I don’t understand. What are you talking about?” The desperation and anxiety in your voice makes him frown, but there’s nothing he can do as the officers drag him out of the house. Despite your screams of protest, they don’t stop, and even you know hitting an officer would only make things worse. It’s not as if you could have done any real damage anyway.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

The worst part is, you don’t even know what he’s apologizing for.

They’re calling your father a traitor. And by extension, you are one, too. A child is but a reflection of their parents, after all.

Your mother was an enemy spy, and your father knew. Even worse, he protected her. Broke his own moral code, broke the rules of his training, destroyed everything — all for her. The proof was hidden inside his own office, and you don’t even know how someone could have broken in to obtain such incriminating evidence.

Now everyone is treating you like a criminal, down to giving you only one phone call. Naturally, the only person you can think to phone is Phillip. He’ll understand. He’ll calm you down, explain everything to you because that’s just what he does. He’ll know what to do. He’ll get you out of this mess.

You bite down on your lip, impatiently waiting for him to pick up. Usually, he picks up after the second ring, but the dial tone goes on for what seems like ages until you hit the automated voicemail message. You frown, wondering if he’s been sent away. You try again for good measure, but he doesn’t pick up the second time, either. You’re about redial and try for a third time before the woman supervising you snatches the phone away.

“It’s supposed to be one call, remember?”

You don’t talk back, afraid to make things worse, but you don’t think it’s fair. Phillip didn’t even pick up for it to count as a phone call.

You try again and again. Every time they make you move to a different safehouse, you waste that one phone call opportunity on him, daring to hope that he’ll pick up.

After a month, the dial tone haunts you in your sleep.

Hindsight truly is 20/20. When you’re free from the haze of first loves and rebellion, when the smoke of lust has dissipated from the air, when you’re given nothing but your own thoughts to keep you company, that’s when everything starts coming together.

That’s when you can see a traitor for what they are, not what they tell you to view them as.

On the way to the next safehouse, they had to stop at a gas station. You had to learn to be sneaky these days, and the old you would have felt incredibly guilty at the idea of stealing a pregnancy test, but you refuse to ask your handler for one. Pride is the cause — or maybe shame is more accurate.

Whatever the reason is, you find yourself locked up in a gas station bathroom, your worst fears confirmed.

#phillip graves x reader #modern warfare 2 #smut #graves x reader #cod x reader #angst #fluff #one shot #lemon #wttcsms winter writing week

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ohmyeyesmyeyes · 1 year

Text

communication skills

anthony beauvillier x f!reader; platonic!mat barzal x f!reader

warnings: swearing, throwing up, based slightly on 'hits different' by taylor swift, i wrote a good 80% of this drunk so i apologise for everything

word count: 8.7k

The water was warm – not too hot that it burned your skin, but warm enough to encourage you to stand in front of the mirror – refusing to look at your own reflection – and keep your hands held under the steady stream. There was something relaxing about it, watching it cascade off your skin, fragmenting the light.

It was a twisty tap, and after a long period of you washing off the feeling of his last words, desperate to scrub any and all traces of him off your skin, even despite the pathetic futility of such a feat – another hand reached out from behind you, twisting it off and handing you a small pile of paper towels.

Much like your own reflection, you refused to look at the man on your right, keeping your head down and eyes entirely focused on the task at hand. If you even so much as caught a pitying or equally heartbroken gleam in his face, you’d be done for; that unwanted well of emotion would shatter, and Mat would be left to pick up the pieces in a bathroom of a club you’d only been to once before.

The last thing you wanted to do was talk about it, but when you chucked the scrap towels in the bin, the frustration had gotten the better of you, and your words spewed out of your mouth seamlessly. Mat was leant against a wall, nodding along to almost everything you were saying, and you could tell from the grave expression on his face that he was just as affected by the matter, too.

How could he not?

He’d known Beau since they were kids, and because of the inhumane system surrounding transfers, they’d be separated from each other for the first time in years.

“And what are you gonna do about it?” He asked, leaning back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, a stern yet altogether curious look about him.

You froze, knitting your brows together in slight bewilderment, “What am I gonna do about him getting transferred?” You checked, puzzled as to his query.

There wasn’t much you could do about anything; transfers were legally bound contacts as far as you knew, and you wouldn’t be able to hammer even the slightest dent in that framework – not that you’d even thought about doing that anyway.

It wasn’t your career, he wasn’t your boyfriend, and you weren’t going to mess with something set in stone. Still, that harsh truth didn’t exactly do anything to numb the stinging hurt prickling at your chest. Your throat tightened, and you pressed your lips together, trying to suppress the mounting build of sadness climbing up your throat.

You hated the helplessness of it all; you couldn’t control a single aspect of anything that had occurred within the last fifteen minutes and it petrified you. It sent goosebumps trailing down your skin, and a spike of adrenaline through your system.

“No,” Mat frowned, blinking at you, “What are you gonna do about Tito moving to Vancouver?”

You swallowed, trying to maintain the knot slowly building, “I don’t follow.”

You weren’t going to do anything. He was the one that had ended it. You were, however, going to go home and watch New Girl to cheer yourself up. Maybe call your parents; the time difference would mean they’d still be awake – and long term? Probably mope.

You weren’t sure you could quite stomach the thought of someone else at that moment – which was a shocker to you.

Moving on was always easy for you to do – it tended to be a benefit of never truly giving yourself to anyone. Yet, somehow, Anthony Beauvillier had worked his way under your defences and you’d given yourself to him in ways you never pictured yourself ever doing.

“I mean,” Mat rolled his eyes, “Are you going to let him break things off and jet across to the other side of North America?” He asked it like it was obvious, his shoulders shrugging as he watched you carefully.

He thought you were taking the entire situation rather well. You had since Anthony had panicked and dumped everything on you – how he’d literally just shouted in your ear ‘I’ve been traded to Vancouver and I’m leaving within the week’ – and how the only reaction you had was a poor ‘oh’ after you’d ingested his words. Other than that, you’d been in a sort of reverie, floating around the rest of the night, a haunted look on your face as you watched him leave.

He’d broken up with you, and Mat was almost certain that you didn’t know why.

Mat knew, of course he did. After Tito had told him, the first thing he’d worried about was you.

“I don’t want her to leave New York for me. She deserves better than that.”

And no matter how many times Mat had tried to persuade Tito that, no, you deserved each other wholeheartedly, Tito was insistent on the fact that the only way to solve that issue of his was to break up with you.

Obviously, he’d neglected to confide exactly why he’d broken up with you, to you.

And that left Mat in this current predicament: you in shock hiding in the bathroom, and Tito, no doubt, packing his suitcase and mourning your entire relationship.

Honestly, Mat was sick of you both. You were too blind to realise that you guys were made for each other – you were just too stubborn to connect the dots and allow yourselves to be happy – with each other.

Your reactions just seemed to lack emotion; it was as if someone had snuffed out your ability to feel – you looked subdued, an empty vacancy hidden behind your eyes.

And when he’d asked you if you were going to go with Anthony to Vancouver, you’d just stared, looking mildly unwell at the prospect.

“What else am I supposed to do?” You asked, placing a hand on your stomach as though to ease the rising sickness. Where had it come from? “He told me he was moving to Vancouver and that he didn’t want me to go with him. In fact, his exact words were ‘I don’t want you to come to Vancouver with me’ and ‘I want to break up’.”

Mat blanched, frustration fisting an angry hand in his chest, slowly pushing its way through his sternum.

He swore you two would be the death of him.

He didn’t say anything, but took your silence as an answer. You’d been throwing hopeful glances at the door, and he’d elected to ignore it in wanting to try to get you to see sense, but it seemed Tito had left that job even more difficult to follow through on with his harsh words.

Reluctant words. Words that Mat knew absolutely killed him to say to you.

He’d seen the way his friend had looked at you, and to know that he was moving to Vancouver – away from him and New York, a feat that he’d be doing alone – and leaving you behind was something that broke even Mat’s heart, and in that, he knew that it destroyed both yours and Tito’s.

If Mat hadn't known that Tito only broke up with you because he didn’t want you to drop everything for him, he would have assumed the guy was running from something.

In a sense, he was running away from you – but in doing so, he was running away from quite possibly the best thing he’d ever had in his life, and Mat wasn’t about to let either you or Tito make that mistake.

He didn’t voice any of that, however, just moved aside and let you through the door, making sure to keep a steady hand on your back in reassurance as you both made it out of the club, past the millions of couples devouring each other – who only served as a sour reminder of the night’s events – and outside.

It was chilly, and the frosty air nipped at your exposed skin.

You’d barely had time to string together a coherent thought before hands were tugging you in all directions; cold and clammy as you were pulled back and forth, concerned touches on your elbows, shoulders, and chin. You barely even registered exactly who you were looking at.

“Are you okay?”

“There’s a cute guy inside that’s been checking you out all night–”

“I can’t believe he just broke up with you.”

“Why isn’t she looking at us?”

Questions were fired left, right and centre, and you were numb to it all; their voices trickling in through one ear and flowing out of the other seamlessly. They sounded like they were underwater, and you felt Mat’s comforting hand on your back once more, gently guiding you away from your friends.

You heard him say something, it must have been something about getting you home because they all let out a chorus of disappointed ‘ohs’ and patted you sympathetically on your arm.

For some reason, hearing the truth of what actually happened barely half an hour ago seemed to set it into stone; it felt different keeping the breakup in the bathroom just between you and Mat – it felt more private somehow, like you could walk out of the room and pretend Anthony hadn’t left you in that club, heart shattered into oblivion and mind stuck on his words and the way he looked like he might break if you so much as even stepped towards him or touched him or whispered even a word of protest.

But you’d wandered outside in the hope of clearing your head, only to be bombarded and heralded and overwhelmed when you were busy trying to deal.

Why did he break up with you? You would have gone with him - you knew you would.

Did he get bored of you? He couldn’t have; he’d just told you he was wildly in love with you three weeks ago.

Had he met someone else? Was he in love with someone else?

And that was when you saw it; although they were further down the street, Mat pushing you into a walk as you both strolled down the sidewalk, you could just make it out in the hazy darkness.

They must have been illuminated by the light from the inside of the bar, because each time a door opened, their section of the sidewalk practically glowed, highlighting them.

You couldn’t see who the girl was, she seemed to be hidden from view by the man, but it was him who’d caught your attention. If it weren’t for Mat coaxing you along, you’d have frozen in place, eyes fixated watching them with the slow drip drip of dread pounding your body.

You were entranced by the way he brought his hands up to the side of her face, throwing his head backwards in a laugh – a real one, unbridled with joy – and then leant forwards, peppering kisses all over her face as she giggled sweetly at his attentions and affections. It wasn’t the PDA that had you stalling.

That man was Anthony. You could only see the back of his head, and he was further down than you, but he was around the same height and you could see the curls in his hair. He was even wearing a typical Anthony outfit.

It was simple, and you were sure almost every guy in the vicinity was wearing some variation of it, but what caught your eye was he was wearing the same grey t-shirt Beau had just left in.

It could have been any grey t-shirt.

But Anthony had just left wearing it and it was logical that he’d broken up with you because he was in love with that girl.

Mat seemed to sense your hesitation, and he slowed to a stop, brows furrowing at the intensity with which you were watching the young couple in front of you. His eyes drifted from you, his hand now gently grazing your forearm as though he was afraid you’d peel and leave him, to the couple.

He didn’t understand what was so compelling about them that had you completely fascinated. Granted, you looked horrified, and your eye twitched, a flash of pain appearing and then disappearing almost as soon as it had made its presence. If he thought you looked ill before, you looked like you were about to throw up–

He’d barely managed to steer you against a wall and wind your hair up before you’d thrown up on the side of the road.

You quickly pulled yourself up, hating that your eyes instantly drifted back over to the couple.

You frowned. The man wasn’t Anthony.

Then you hurled again, and Mat’s level of concern skyrocketed.

“How much did you have to drink?” He asked, helping you to stand back up, a slight grimace to his face as he made sure there were no splashes coating his jeans.

You briefly shut your eyes, stomach turning, feeling your heart break in real time as the emotions you’d bottled started to manifest itself in physical symptoms – completely against your will. Your eyes pricked with hot tears and the lump in your throat was back as your chin wobbled. You tried to hide behind your hand, but Mat had caught the momentary vulnerability before you could turn away.

He sighed, letting your hair fall back down and automatically pulling you into his chest.

“I didn’t have anything to drink.” You admitted.

His chest rumbled, and you didn’t know if it was the comfort he brought, because no one else seemed to understand what you were feeling at that moment, or if you simply craved a human touch from someone you trusted, but you felt your demeanour shatter, the tears tracking down your cheeks before you could catch them and reel them back in.

“I didn’t have anything to drink.” You repeated, shaking your head.

All you’d done was picture Anthony Beauvillier with other girls in love, and then promptly thrown up on the street.

Yeah, you were pretty fucked.

___

Yet, despite the fact that Anthony had moved to Vancouver, there was a temporary feeling about it – as though you didn’t believe the breakup had actually happened, or you didn’t believe it was really…a breakup?

It definitely had something to do with the fact that Mat was currently in your apartment, a rental, pre-furnished – one that rather conveniently, you hadn’t had the time to move into properly yet, and he was helping you box your belongings, taping the edges together and piling them up in the corner.

You were sorting out your clothes, placing them into a suitcase, and he was in the living room, going through your kitchen.

It hadn’t happened quickly. It took Mat a week to plant the seed in your mind, and it took you another three to decide to move out. Honestly, after Mat had pointed out that, in fact, your ‘friends’ weren’t really your friends; your job had previously offered you a different position in Surrey, not too far out from where you’d just rented another apartment – and it was a career move. That was what you kept telling yourself; technically the job move was a promotion – your salary had been upped and it was more of what you actually wanted to do job-wise.

Plus, your parents lived in Vancouver. You grew up there, went to school there, your friends still lived there. The only reason you stayed in New York was because you’d managed to snag a job straight out of college and you’d established a sort of life for yourself. Albeit, completely apart from your family, but you’d gotten used to the loneliness in college.

If anything, the only reason you’d stayed in New York and hesitated to accept that job offer in the first place – one that you’d gotten even before Anthony had dumped that bomb on you – was because of Mat.

You guys were pretty close, and it felt like a betrayal leaving him (especially after Anthony had just done the same thing, though it was out of his control) for the person he’d introduced to you.

And to say he was eager to send you back to Vancouver – ‘for your job opportunity’ – would be a bit of an understatement, if his volunteering to help you pack had anything to do with it.

It almost felt like someone had taken the knife already living in your chest and twisted it when you heard the song playing through the speakers. The song.

The melody was instantly familiar, even more so the croning of the voice, and it sent a pang of nostalgia ricocheting off the inside of your skull.

There were people everywhere; though it could have had something to do with the fact the venue was only one room – a large one at that, with tall ceilings and rather gorgeous curtains. The back wall was made up entirely of windows and the view overlooking the city was gorgeous from where you were standing. You swore you could see stars when you looked up.

Not that you looked very hard; your eyes were indefinitely locked onto Anthony as he leant back against the glass.

You were both sitting on the floor, him with his back to the glass, and you perpendicular. Somehow you’d both managed to find a quiet corner – literally – and sit down, because after you’d gone to get drinks, your chairs were occupied by some unfamiliar faces, and it was the perfect excuse to get him alone, at least to some extent.

You weren’t entirely isolated from the celebrations, but you made it work.

Your legs were stretched out along the floor, and because of the limitations of you being able to wear a dress in public, Anthony had elected to place his legs over the top of yours like some sort of criss-cross pattern. You were pressed together, him almost sitting on your lap, and you could tell he was comfy.

He’d shrugged his blazer off and a few extra buttons had come undone somewhere along the lines. Your hand stroked delicate motions on the material of his suit trousers, and although his head was resting against the glass, his eyes were watching your fingers.

There was a glass of champagne on either side of you both, yours empty, his only half.

Perhaps that was the reasoning behind your exaggerated reaction when you heard ‘Crazy in Love’ begin to play over the speakers.

You smiled to yourself, unaware of the soft look of mild amusement he was giving you. You’d noticed a pattern recently, and even through your high state of mind you’d somewhat remembered it.

“What?” His voice had your attention snapping back over to him, the motion of your hand on his leg never stopping. You could tell he was trying not to laugh, and you rolled your eyes.

“You haven’t noticed?” You ducked your head, disbelieving of his obliviousness. You threw your free hand in the direction of the music, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

“Clearly not.” He breathed a laugh, eyes lighting up at the mock offence you’d managed to implicate on your face.

“Everytime we go somewhere together, ‘Crazy in Love’ plays. Yesterday, at the restaurant; Mat even played it when he hosted dinner the other day…it’s just something I’ve noticed.”

“Now that you’ve mentioned it…” He trailed off, a cheeky smile donning his face as his cheeks turned a rosy pink.

“Now that I’ve mentioned it? How convenient–” You started, but were promptly cut off when he leant forwards, reducing the short distance already between you both, and kissed you.

It was an effective silencing method, one that he’d used on you many times before and one that you’d used on him before. You were at that stage where little displays of affection, no matter how intensely they made those butterflies swarm, didn’t swerve or particularly hinder the one-sided conversation anymore. In other words, they’d lost their effectiveness, and even after this realisation, it didn’t seem to stop either one of you giving or accepting such attentions.

“I was thinking,” he muttered, pulling away whilst you kept a hand on his wrist, preventing him from moving too far.

Usually you would have teased him, warned him to be careful in doing such a thing, and it seemed he was expecting some sort of comment, because he paused, brows furrowing when he was met with silence. You nodded, however, unable to hide the fact that you were completely enthralled by his existence – you were sure he could see it on your face; you could even feel your cheeks heat up for no apparent reason at all other than the magnetic pull you felt towards the man sitting in front of you – and urged him to continue.

“Maybe it should be our song?” He asked, lifting the hand in your grasp up to your face, momentarily brushing a strand of hair from your face with his thumb.

He wasn’t nervous about the suggestion, that much you could tell. He was comfortable, eagerly anticipating your answer.

You smiled, tilting your head and you felt your eyes widen slightly. It didn’t seem like a silly idea.

“Why?” You asked, unable to help the quick glance at his mouth.

“I think it’s fitting to us.” He shrugged.

You nodded, not entirely surprised by the implication. You hadn’t said the words yet, but you knew how you felt. Rather shockingly, however, it didn’t fill you with a sense of dread or unease.

So you replied, “I think it is too.”

Despite the complexity of love, it seemed remarkably simple with Anthony.

It certainly didn’t feel that way when you walked into your living room, seeing Mat half attempt to dance along with the music as he placed various cups and mugs into a box on the kitchen counter.

It felt irrevocably wrong to hear it without Anthony there, and that mere fact was what spurred you on to lean over the phone on the coffee table and hastily press the skip button.

You ignored Mat’s groan of disapproval as you wordlessly made your way back to the bedroom.

“What are your neighbours like?” It was Mat on the phone, his face in the frame on FaceTime as he virtually kept you company as emptied the last couple of boxes.

You’d officially moved back to Vancouver a month ago, your parents offering your childhood room back for the first few weeks until you moved in properly. You didn’t exactly have the heart to say no to them, but their coddling (however attentive it was) had begun to get a little overbearing, so you’d taken every opportunity to sneak over to your new apartment and empty as much as you could.

It was fairly livable now: your main priority had been the kitchen and bedroom, and you’d emptied nearly everything to the point you were comfortable actually moving in. In reality, you knew if your parents hadn’t been there you’d have easily put up with living in a skeletal apartment – so for that, you were grateful.

All the nighttime sneaking out of your parent’s house and into your apartment had meant that you’d neglected to actually talk and meet your neighbours. All you knew was there was an elderly couple living two doors down, who’d only smiled at you in passing, and there had been a card posted under your door from your neighbour on your right, but you didn’t know what they looked like.

So when Mat asked you that question, you sighed, “I don’t actually know.”

He didn’t seem too shocked, and nodded in understanding.

“I probably need to, to be honest, I got something posted under my door the other day.”

At this, his interest peaked, and you saw him look up from his plate, raising an eyebrow, “Who was it from?”

You frowned, his rather exaggerated interest raising your suspicions, and froze from where you were unwrapping a glass, “Why?”

He shrugged, playing it off, “Because I think it’s important to know who you’re living around. What if something happens and you need help? Forget your key?”

You returned to your previous task, mulling his words over. You knew he was right because you’d had that exact same reasoning drilled into you since you’d left home in college, but your why hadn’t really been directed at meeting your neighbours, more, “Why were you so interested in who it was when you asked?”

He swallowed, shrugging once more, “Just am. No reason.”

You didn’t believe him, and he could clearly sense it, because he rolled his eyes, not saying anything else.

“It was from ‘Number Twenty-Three’.” You answered, watching him carefully, still not entirely trusting him.

He just nodded, ensuring to keep his facial expressions impassive as he shovelled another spoonful of rice into his mouth, not caring when a few grains fell back onto his plate.

There was a few more minutes of general chatter, and you found yourself sitting back against the sofa, pensieve as you took in your new living quarters.

“Do you think I was silly moving here?” You asked Mat, not looking at him as he pondered the question.

“No.” Was all he said, and you turned your eyes back to him.

The thought was something that had been majorly playing on your mind since you first agreed to move back to Vancouver. There was a part of you that knew you wouldn’t have even considered moving back if Tito hadn’t gone – and it freaked you out. You were aware putting Tito above all else was risky, especially considering the fact you hadn’t messaged him since you’d broken up; you didn’t know where he was or if he’d even want you anymore, if he had a girlfriend. It had been months, and you knew he was a desirable guy. You wouldn’t blame him if he’d moved on.

But there was always that nagging thing that had you feeling like you’d moved only because of Anthony, and you hated it so much. It made you want to curl up and teleport back to your old life in New York, but even the thought of that made your stomach turn because you knew he wouldn’t be there.

It just kept coming back to him.

You didn’t know what would happen if he saw you – that was assuming you ever gained the courage to actually face him again.

A part of you felt almost sheepish at the mere idea of seeing him. Sure, your heart rate picked up and your hands trembled against your will, mouth going dry as you remembered the night he broke up with you.

And the only reason you knew you could confide in Mat was because he had both sides of it; although he didn’t talk about it much – presumably for your own fragile heart – you knew he talked to him as much as he could, if not, everyday. You felt like you were using him as a bridge, and even then his words of encouragement fell on deaf ears, your own insecurities drowning them out with fears of rejection.

You wouldn’t have even moved to Vancouver if it hadn't been for Mat’s support and help.

He sighed, and you could tell he’d sussed you and your doubts out.

“He told me he’s not been able to even look at another woman without feeling like he’s gonna hurl.” He started, pausing to gauge your reaction. You swallowed, feeling a little guilty at the relief you’d felt upon his confession, “He asks about you everyday, and he’s not doing too well. I don’t even know if he’s sleeping properly.”

You remained silent, instead choosing to reach a hand into the box next to you.

Fuck.

One of Anthony’s Islander’s caps.

Almost instantaneously you felt your eyes begin to water, both at the hat and everything Mat had just told you.

It was a lot, all of this new change, in one go.

“I think I’m gonna go.” You said quietly, trying to hide the way your voice cracked a little at the end. You refrained from sniffling, not wanting to raise Mat’s concern.

“Okay,” he muttered, his voice soft, “Look after yourself. Call me if you need anything.”

You nodded, pressing your lips together, not trusting yourself to speak.

“Maybe think about replying to number twenty-three? Look at making a few new friends, yeah?”

You laughed, though it was watery – the kind that had you questioning if you wanted to cry or not, “‘S not one of your worst ideas, actually.”

“Hey.” He mocked, faking offence, “But, really, I think you should.”

“I think I might.” You admitted.

You missed the way he sagged.

“Good.” There was a brief pause, “Anyway, love you, miss you, have fun unpacking.” He waved at the camera, flashing you a charming smile, which you didn’t hesitate to reciprocate.

“Miss you too, Barzy. Try not to hurt yourself before I next see you.” It was a low blow, and you saw the hurt flick over his face momentarily.

Then you promptly ended the call, unable to stop yourself laughing a little.

___

Tito had just finished washing up when a piece of paper slipped under his door.

He’d stopped what he was doing, midway to the living room. The paper had slipped under his door coincidentally at the exact moment he was walking past it, and he’d frozen, creeped out at the timing. It was almost as if the person on the other side had known he was walking past the door and chosen that specific moment in time to post the letter through with the purposeful intent of freaking him the fuck out.

Nevertheless, he’d put his coffee mug down on the counter, reaching to inspect the piece of paper.

He almost dropped it when he saw the writing.

His face drained of blood, and before he’d even opened it, he’d thrown the door open, hastily checking the hallway.

It was empty.

Disappointment clawed at his chest, but he remained somewhat hopeful, his fingers working quickly to unfold it, his foot holding the door open in case they decided to make another appearance.

Why did he spend so long looking at it? He could have caught her, for fuck’s sake.

It was a stretch, in hindsight. There had to be at least a million people who flicked their ‘f’ like that, and there had to be even more who wrote at an angle like that, with their letters remaining round.

It had to be common.

Thank you for the welcome, 23.

Then when his eyes tracked down to the sign-off, he swore someone was playing tricks on him.

Obviously, his immediate reaction – completely bypassing the excitement and blinding fear of her having moved on from him bubbling in his stomach – and shut the door behind him, scrambling for his phone.

Mat picked up almost instantly.

“You fucking prick–”

Needless to say, the injured Islander knew exactly what he was talking about.

___

He’d not wanted to scare you, truly.

Since Mat had admitted to everything – from the reason you’d moved to his helping hand in finding you a place to live temporarily – he’d taken measures to ensure you didn’t run into him without any semblance of warning, but he’d found it much harder to put into practice.

He’d almost run into you three times in the past week, and every time he had to leave or enter his apartment, he’d take a cautious look down the hall and run – not wanting to startle you too much.

He just didn’t want to catch you off guard was all.

He knew you’d probably want to see him under your own control, and he was all for waiting for you. From what he’d been told, you weren’t doing much better than him.

But he’d known his luck was bound to run out at some point.

Which was how he’d found himself in this exact predicament.

___

You’d been weirdly wanting to go downstairs. You didn’t know why you’d had the sudden urge, but all you did know was that there was a lounge and a bar, and you were in desperate need of some socialising. It had been a gruelling week – and incredibly dull – unpacking your things and overthinking your first day at work, and you needed to escape from it all.

Each and every time you’d left your apartment, you’d cast a curious glance at your neighbour’s door. Number twenty-three.

They were a perfect neighbour: very rarely did they disturb you, and when they did it was only the quiet hum of some music that you guessed must have been played in their bathroom, because when you pressed your ear against the wall it felt as though you were standing right next to a speaker.

The only issue you’d had with them was that you hadn’t seen them; whenever you’d heard their door shut, you’d immediately gone to look through your peephole, only to be met with an empty corridor.

It had frustrated you to no end, but you’d coped, helplessly wondering when you could thank them. They’d been the first person to welcome you and you hadn’t even seen them yet – there had been a nagging in the back of your mind that perhaps they’d been dodging you, but there was no way it could have possibly been intentional. You’d barely been at work a full two weeks, which hardly gave them time to actually deduce your timetable or hours.

You’d been watching the Canucks, unable to help yourself from consuming every piece of media Anthony was part of, and then you’d switched off the TV a few hours later, completely alone and needing to get out of the confines of your apartment – desperately and immediately.

That was how you’d come to be locking your door from the outside – ever-weary – and frozen, nerves tingling and heart pounding with nerves as you heard a pair of footsteps coming down the hallway. They were slow, and you could vaguely make out the sound of their trudging, so you’d stalled, secretly hoping that they’d be Number 23.

You’d pretended to fiddle with your keys as you waited for the footsteps to round the corner only when they did, you heard them stop short of you, a quiet “Putain” whispered under their breath.

You frowned, not yet looking up at the person. There was something familiar about their whisper, something you couldn’t quite place immediately.

It was a different story when you looked up.

You could immediately tell from the soft echo of sorrow on his face and abundant lack of shock at your appearance that he wasn’t entirely surprised at your presence. His hand was firmly holding the end of his duffel bag that was slung over his shoulder, and he was wearing the usual suit, his cheeks still a little flushed from the match you’d only been watching a while ago.

You couldn’t help thinking that the TV screen did him no justice, because even though he wasn’t smiling or expressing any semblance of excitement at your presence, he was stunningly breathtaking in your opinion. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was parted – he hadn’t wanted to see you at that moment, that much was obvious from the expression stagnant on his face.

You, on the other hand, found yourself quite unable to draw oxygen into your lungs at his sudden appearance. You were completely frozen, unable to do anything other than stare dumbly, your jaw half-dropped in sheer shock.

Your heart was thunderous, practically clashing against your ribcage so hard you were sure you could feel the pain of it, and your mouth had dried, eyes watering. You weren’t on the verge of tears, by any means. In fact, you felt rather numb to any sort of emotion, because you’d prepared yourself for this moment for months, and now that he was standing in front of you, looking almost sheepish at your lack of understanding, you were unable to string even a coherent thought together.

There was a moment when you had thought he’d arrived in your hallway purely to see you, but that had quickly dissipated when he regained his composure, seemingly on the verge of saying something, and slowly walked past you, unable to tear his eyes away.

You let out a shaky breath when he reached the door branded ‘23’, and furrowed your brows.

He’d been in front of you this entire time–fucking Mat.

He’d orchestrated this car crash. He was the one who’d suggested you speak to your boss whilst he’d look at possible apartment rentals for you, and you’d naively agreed, assuming he had no ulterior motives in his uncharacteristic generosity considering he’d been nothing but helpful with your entire move, but right now you hated his guts.

Anthonylooked away, briefly, considering something for a second, before looking straight back towards you, a hand smoothing his hair back unconsciously. Neither of you said anything as he blindly unlocked his door, taking one last look at you, before stepping through.

It was only when his door slammed shut that you were able to take a breath.

The hand that had been fiddling with your keys dropped to your side, and you were hardly able to realise what you were doing before you’d unlocked your door, flinging it open and making a direct beeline for the box you’d purposefully avoided since your unfortunate FaceTime call with Mat. Your hand immediately sought out the cap, and operating purely on adrenaline and the mindset of ‘what-the-fuck-I-have-nothing-to-lose’, you’d made your way back out of the door, plans to head downstairs completely forgotten.

You wouldn’t have done it if you hadn't had the confidence instilled in you from Mat, that Tito had been miserable since he’d left New York, even despite the efforts of his new teammates to introduce him to Vancouver society.

Your brain must have been running a mile a minute, because when you clashed into a suit-clad chest, not entirely taken aback by his sudden appearance, you were pushing the cap at him.

“You made me cry over a fucking hat, did you know that?” You asked, the Islander’s cap hanging between you.

Tito blanched, unable to speak.

You waited in anticipation, pursing your lips harshly to stop yourself from speaking.

You wanted him to say something to alleviate the doubts you’d had.

He gave you nothing.

“Say something.” You implored, hand dropping.

He took a breath, relaxing as his shoulders slumped forwards, “I’m sorry I made you cry over my hat.”

Your jaw clenched, fighting the burning in your eyes. You absolutely refused to cry until he confirmed what Mat had been telling you – only then would you let yourself break. You also had to be inside an apartment; you weren’t about to let yourself cry in the hallway for all your new neighbours to see.

“I’m sorry I broke up with you.”

It was quiet, so much so you would have had to strain your ears to hear him. His voice sounded broken and weak, and when you looked up at him his eyes were pooling with regret, lips turned down in what you could only place as sadness. It was plain and bare, and so hopelessly effortless than you felt yourself soften, even despite the bitterness you still held against him.

“Why?” You asked, not reaching for him. You were determined to keep him in the balance, refusing to give him even a snippet of what you were feeling. It may have been a harsh play on your behalf, but you weren’t about to forgive him too easily for unnecessary heartache.

He hesitated, fingers tapping his thigh uneasily, “Because we’d only been dating a few months and I didn’t want to ask you to uproot your entire life to Vancouver just for me.”

His honesty was startling, and you took a sharp step backwards.

It seemed too good to be true, yet you hated the doubt and mistrust placed in him to the point you felt like you were betraying him.

“I uprooted my entire life to move from Vancouver to New York in the first place, you know that.” You replied, somewhat coldly, turning around and entering your apartment.

There was that prickling feeling as though you were being watched through peepholes, and you desperately needed space to breathe.

You heard Anthony follow you, the door clicking shut behind you with ease, and you threw yourself onto the sofa, dreading and anticipating the late conversation.

“I do.” He admitted, hands in his pocket as he seated himself on the coffee table in front of you, “But I also know that you don’t enjoy change and I felt guilty even—”

“You didn’t even ask.” You interrupted, irritation flaring up.

He sighed through his nose, and you could tell he was almost as fired up as you were. This argument had been a long time coming, the reasons and excuses simmering beneath your skin for far too long, and now you were facing each other with no particular time constraint considering the fact you now shared a wall — something you couldn’t quite decide if it was a blessing or a curse.

“If I had asked, would you have come?”

“I guess we’ll never know,” you snapped back, looking at him as he rolled his eyes, “You really fucking made sure of that, didn’t you?”

“Well I apologise for trying to protect you from making a decision that could have ruined your career–”

“I don’t need protection, Beauvillier,” he winced, the surname jab stinging, “I can make my own decisions perfectly well.”

“Let me rephrase: I didn’t want to make you feel like you had to come with me because I wanted you to.” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, jaw clenching.

“I would have wanted to go with you, dipshit.” You fired back.

“Would have?” He repeated, tilting his head, that wild element of determination flashing through his eyes. He was clearly referring to the past tense you’d used.

“Yes.” You breathed, “I would have, because I’d gotten a promotion located in Vancouver, and the only reason I would have said no, as much as I’m ashamed to admit it, was because of you and your stupid hockey team. I thought you’d stay an Islander so I held off–”

He spluttered, “And you didn’t think to tell me?” His voice raised in pitch, hands flying in front of him as he tried to convey his exasperation.

“No!” You raised your voice incredulously, unable to hide your appall from him, “You left before I could even argue against the breakup and I haven’t seen you since.”

“Ah,” he held up a finger, dodging your lame attempt to swat it away, “But when did you get the offer, huh?”

You paused, feeling your cheeks flush with colour, “You don’t have to patronise me, Tito.”

“Tell me when, and I won’t have to.” He explained, eyes wide as he waited for your answer.

“I got it a couple of days before you broke up with me.” You admitted, voice now a few notches lower.

“And why didn’t you say anything before?” His voice tipped with an edge of regret as he spoke, desperation coating his words as he finished his question.

You were both breathing heavily, adamant to portray your points and frustrations. Neither of you seemed to be thinking much of anything but about the other – much less of what or who you’d been doing since your departure – Mat’s words to both of you seemed to have eased that question, allowing you to freely have at one another without any holding back or worrying about the other’s antics.

You were both clearly still hung up on each other, and that knowledge had you feeling both euphoric and hopeful – a dangerous concoction you’d acknowledged amidst partially yelling at each other. Despite that, it was obvious you’d both been holding back – voices strained for the sake of not wanting to disturb your neighbours, even if you were closer to the wall you shared with Tito than your other neighbour.

“Because I didn’t want to be that girlfriend who says ‘oh, by the way, if those crazy rumours of you getting transferred to the other side of the continent were true, you totally wouldn’t have to worry about our relationship because I’d most definitely go with you anyway’, and then before I could tell you that you ran out of the club. Then when I tried to ring you literally a day later, you’d blocked me on everything!” You rolled your eyes, groaning when he took his blazer off, his hands on his hips after loosening his tie.

You didn’t know if he was doing it on purpose to gain an upper hand in the argument, but it had you losing your train of thought briefly.

“Oh, so now it’s all my fault?” He frowned, a crease forming between his brows.

You laughed bitterly, “Dude, of course it’s your fault. You didn’t let me not allow you to break up with me.”

“But you didn’t tell me about the job offer – which, by the way, is amazing, so congratulations, I’m incredibly proud of you,” he sidetracked, his voice becoming gentler and allowing himself to express a little sincerity within his facial expressions, before returning to its previous sternness, “But you telling me about that job offer would have quietened any doubts I ever had about dragging you here.”

“Well, it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?” You muttered sarcastically.

“You’re telling me? I just didn’t want you to be unhappy for the sake of my own happiness, okay?” He held up his hands in surrender, waiting for you to respond.

You shrugged, still not quite believing where he was coming from, “Why were you doubting it, I’m literally in love with you. I told you that.”

“Well, I’m in love with you, too. But I guess my guilt overpowered that. I wanted you to come to Vancouver because you wanted to, not because you felt like you had to.”

“You didn’t even ask me, though. You took that right away from me.” You said.

You’d both softened, voices dropping a few octaves and flailing limbs reducing as your frustrations slowly poured out of you.

“And what would you have said if I’d have asked?” He echoed from before, slightly breathless as his chest heaved.

He was looking straight at you, curiosity and a destructive hope practically radiating from his face. He wanted you to say no, to reassure him he’d made the right decision.

“I would have said yes.”

His face collapsed, and his hands immediately went to cover his eyes for a few seconds. You stayed rooted to your spot, watching him mutter to himself and shake his head. You couldn't hear what he was saying – some complex French mutterings, your ears may have picked up a string of profanities.

Then, just as you were beginning to submit to the gravitational pull towards him, he lifted himself back up, eyes watering and rimmed red – it had you wondering if this was how he’d spent your days and nights apart; torturing himself with what could have been if only he’d had the courage to ask you the question. You knew you were in no position whatsoever to criticise his lack of action, however. It was just the only thing you could stomach to blame.

At least this way you knew the fate of your misery the past few months had been out of your control, even if that small voice in the back of your mind screamed against that.

“Of course you would have.” He nodded, foot tapping against your floor. He still had a lot of pent up agitation begging to be relieved.

He’d just played a match and he still had energy to burn.

Instead, you did the thing you weren’t entirely expecting, and you could tell from his face that he wasn’t expecting you to pull such a move, either.

What you really wanted to do was launch yourself at him – there was no doubt in your mind he’d catch you, he always did – and not let him go, but you held back, both for your own sanity and his, as well as the fact that you knew you were both going to have to spend the night in your own beds, absorbing and mulling over every single thing that had come to light.

“We’re both idiots that should probably work on our communication skills a little more.”

The trace of a small smile worked its way onto his face, an idea flashing through his mind, “What was that?”

You didn’t even think before you’d picked up a cushion from the sofa and launched it in his direction. It felt like you’d been anticipating such a trashy joke because your aim was spot on; the cushion smacked him squarely in the face, eliciting a shout of surprise.

After he’d let it fall to the floor you both stood in your half-made-up living room, both your hands on your hips and considering each other carefully.

You didn’t know how you were going to go from here, but you knew what you wanted to get out of it, and what you wanted was the man standing in front of you, bravely looking as confused as you felt.

“You played really well tonight.” You said, desperately wanting to break the tense silence.

You could tell what he wanted to do, and you couldn’t exactly deny that you also felt that same desire begin to burn you from the inside, but you knew you had to make him work for it.

“Thank you.” He replied earnestly, not entirely shocked by your revelation. Since he’d found out you were his neighbour, he’d been keeping an ear out for your TV patterns.

On more than one occasion he’d been able to hear the NHL channel blast through the walls.

“No problem.”

“I think I should go.” He made no move to do such a thing.

“I think you should.” This time, he took a few steps towards your door, his hand hovering over the handle as though expecting you to change your mind, before throwing it open and leaving as quickly as he could.

Your head was a mess and your chest was surely about to implode.

You let yourself think it over for about five minutes, hands pressed together and resting against your mouth as your eyes darted across the room. You caught sight of the Islander’s hat on the sofa – when had you even let go of it? – and picked it up, leaving your apartment to knock on his door.

He must have been standing behind it waiting for you because it swung open only on the second knock and you barely had time to breathe before you were tugged roughly against his chest, your hands not wasting any time in burrowing themselves in his hair, and moving your mouth against his, tongues intertwined and breathing just as heavy as it had been when you were arguing.

It was short, possibly about ten seconds of unadulterated desire and lust and love, before you were shoving him away, attempting to maintain some seriousness. It failed drastically, your eyes working to keep up the act, but your mouth giving you away hilariously as you still felt the remnants of his kiss on you, leaving you able to do nothing but smile dumbly at him.

“I’m giving you this back.” You shoved his hand against his chest, but he made no move to take it off you.

“I don’t want it.”

“Neither do I.”

“It looks better on you.” He argued, taking it from your hand and placing it on your head.

You pulled a face, and swiped it off, “I’ve always been more of a Nucks fan than an Islanders, so, no thank you.” You let it drop between you, before failing to resist pressing another hot kiss to his mouth, dodging out of his needy hold and leaving. You hear the vague protest of “I’m telling Mat you said that!” and you spun on your heel, inappropriately shouting, “Fucking go ahead!” Before you shut your door, unable to process anything until you collapsed onto your bed face-first, cursing Mat Barzal’s wicked plotting.

#tito beauvillier x reader #anthony beauvillier x reader #anthony beauvillier imagine #anthony beauvillier oneshot #tito beauvillier imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

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bullet-clubs-bitch · 4 days

Text

King Switch 🩸🗡️

Jay White X Fem Reader

Jay White Masterlist Main Masterlist

Warnings: 18+ knife play, wax play, blood, unprotected sex, oral (f) receiving

Summary: It started off as a joke. Everyone always called Jay a knife pervert because he was a freak who wore a switchblade around his neck. Soon the nickname got to his head and Jay started feeling things he hadn’t felt before. Feelings that made him want to try new things in the bedroom.

An: I'm alive, I haven't posted anything in weeks because I have been so busy but I finally sat my ass down and wrote this fic I was meaning to write for months. Enjoy!

There was no secret that Jay White was different than other men. He was a total freak that was bat-shit crazy for you. Everyone knew about his things for knives but everyone assumed it was just a gimmick. It was for a while until it became much more than just an act. The first person to call Jay a knife pervert was Chuck Taylor, he said it jokingly at first but the nickname quickly caught on. One might think Jay was offended by the word, that he didn’t like the names but he loved it. The name was quick to get to his head, his freakish behaviors became more risky and noticeable. At times you had to beg him to stop, he couldn't just eat you from under one of the tables in catering. You could see the look in his eyes change every time someone mentioned the nickname. He became predatory, he looked psychotic, it turned him on. There were times when Jay refused to take off the switchblade around his neck. He liked the way the cool metal felt on his hot skin. He liked the sight of him pounding into you while the blade dangled from his neck above you, he loved the way you would sit on his cock, keeping him warm as you carefully played with the blade. At the end of the day it was a real knife he wore around his neck, he had to be careful he didn’t cut himself or you by mistake but he always wondered what if. Jay had become so fixated on being called a knife pervert that he knew he had to explore what exactly a knife pervert would do.

When Jay texted you to come over you knew what he wanted. He had been texting you all day about how badly he missed you, how he was a starving man and your cunt was the only thing that would save him from salvation. Jay was never shy about how hard you made him, he always wanted you to know that no one else could make him feel the things he felt when he was with you. When you entered his apartment you were greeted by darkness. Just as you were about to call out his name you noticed the piece of paper on the floor. ‘Keep all of the lights off. Follow the candles honeybee’

You noticed the trail of candles that led to the bedroom. When you opened the door you saw him. Your boyfriend lay in bed, the thin white sheet had made a tent, he was extremely hard and was staring into your soul. The room was dark, multiple candles being your only light source. As you approached him you noticed handcuffs and a variety of knives on the nightstand. “What’s all this?” you asked nervously. “I want to try something new,” he told you calmly. He could see the fear in your eyes and was quick to calm you. “Don’t worry honeybee, I won’t be using any of this on you. I want- no need for you to do this for me. Do you think you can do that for me?” “I don’t want to hurt you,” you told him but he assured you he would be fine.

You followed his instructions carefully. He watched you strip before him. How you slowly took off your shirt and pants. How you played with yourself as you took off your bra and underwear. He was salivating at the sight of you playing with your nipples, fighting back a moan. “Come here baby girl, I need to taste you,” He told you. You carefully climbed on the bed and sat on his face as he instructed. There was something about the way you came on his face that drove him to insanity. He was a madman who loved nothing more than to get drunk on your sweetness. He ate you like he was a starving man, like his life depended on it. He always knew exactly what he was doing, he knew what you needed without you ever having to say it and right now you needed to cum. Jay continued the assault on your pussy as your orgasm washed over you, making sure to lap up every drop. “Fuck, you taste so sweet,” Jay told you “As much as I want to eat you out to the point where you are crying there are some other things I want to do with you”

You carefully placed kitten licks and kissed his hard cock before slowly sinking down on him. Jay handed you a candle and asked you to pour it on him. You hesitated at first before pouring the wax on his chest. You could feel how turned on Jay was as the hot wax landed on his skin, instantly hardening. “Fuck, it feels so good” Jay wined out. Next, you picked up a knife and carefully removed the wax from his chest. You left light scratches on his chest and arms with the blade, admiring the pleasure you were able to bring him. “Y/n…” Jay asked sheepishly. “Yes” “Do you love me?” “Of course I love you, what kind of stupid question is that” “Than I need you to do this for me”

You couldn't believe what he was asking you. He wanted you to take the blade he wore daily and create 5 deep cuts on his right peck. “Are you sure you want me to do this?” You asked him nervously. “I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life” You watched the beads of blood form as you made the first incision. You felt almost like a doctor performing surgery. “Fuck” He grunted as his hips bucked into yours unintentionally. The blade was now covered in his blood as you created the second mark. Jay began thrusting up into you as you continued to draw blood. The two of you slowly became covered in his blood. You had never felt so full in your life. “I need more” Jay cried out once you created the third and fourth cut. The fifth mark was the hardest, the incision going diagonally through the other four wounds. The fifth wound was the deepest, you kissed him passionately to silence the moans and grunts that fell from his lips. You kissed the wounds and began to ride Jay hard and fast as you could knowing Jay was desperate for that release. You continued to ride him through his release which triggered your own, cumming for the second time tonight. The sensation that washed over you both was something you had never felt before. You carefully traced your fingers over the fresh wounds. Jay hissed at the touch, he was overstimulated and sensitive everywhere, never experiencing such a powerful orgasm. “You really are a knife pervert” you told Jay playfully as you put the switchblade around your neck. “I can’t wait to see what else this blade can do” He told mischievously.

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georgeweasleyslostearhq · 1 year

Note

hey pretty!! before i ask a headcanon, i just want to tell you that your writing is absolutely BEAUTIFUL, i’m in deep love with your imagines and headcanons

——

btw, can you do some headcanons for ajax x reader who is a metalhead and guitarist (F)?? but like, can you don’t write with that stereotype of a creepy,rude… metalhead??🙈

( sorry if I said something wrong, english is not my first language

yes!! and thank you so much cutie!

AJAX PETROPOLUS HC x guitarist fem!

teaching him how to play guitar and getting absolutely nowhere because all he can play is the intro of Smoke On The Water by Deep Purple.

learning songs just to make his snakes happy.

him watching you play every time.

acts like he likes the songs you play but it's just not his thing and he doesn't want you to think he hates them

he's obsessed with the way you dress/your style and your band tees

he can get down to Metallica, he likes some of their songs, especially Enter Sandman, he likes the beat to it.

you often find him pretending to play the guitar.

before you he had only heard of the most talked about bands, Metallica, Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath and Quiet Riot, so you had to teach him the ones that you love

one day when you were going out on a date you noticed he was wearing all black with a band tee with all these chains, if you looked closer you could see the faint eyeliner he put on.

you had laughed so hard at him

"what is all this about? why are you wearing that?" you asked with an amused look planted on your face, you weren't making fun of him, you were just confused, this wasn't his style

"I wanted to be more your type" he admitted, looking down at your outfit

"do I look that bad?"

you had to reassure him he was exactly your type.

he had always thought metalheads were scary and mean but when he met you he didn't even know you were a metalhead.

he only found out by sitting down next to you in the library and asked what you were listening to.

you gave him your and earphone and let him put it in his ear before playing unpausing it. he flinched at the loudness and what seemed to be screaming

"what is that!?" he asked in shock

"Megadeth" you answered him, frowning at his expression "what?"

"is that metal?"

"yeah? what were you expecting, Taylor Swift?" you tilted your head

"maybe a bit, yeah" he chucked

he was shocked that metalhead AND a guitarist could be so sweet and kind

begs you do little concerts for him, even if he doesn't like how loud it can get, he finds the sound of you playing the guitar mesmerising.

not so much as you but it's just beautiful, he'll request you do one of his favourite songs as well because you learnt some of them for him.

Ajax researches things about Guitars and brings them up in conversations to make him seem smart and has things to talk about with you.

he has a lot of nicknames for you, some include:

~my little metalhead

~my little rockstar

~hotstuff

the last one is just because he thinks your hot when you play the guitar.

----------------------------------------------

sorry if this isn't good, I don't really know about anything about metal or guitar even though I used to play guitar.

I only listen to about 7 metal bands

#ajax petropolus x reader #ajax petropolus #short imagine #headcannons #ajax petropolus headcannons #metalhead girl #guitarist #ajax petropolus imagine #georgie farmer #wednesday series #wednesday show #wednesday 2022 #netflix wednesday #request

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brewsterispunkk · 1 year

Text

die for you in secret

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

warnings: mutual pining, fluff, angst to happy ending :,)

WC: 4.1k

summary: “all these people think love’s for show, but I would die for you in secret,” or “would it be enough if I could never give you peace?”

a/n: this one is for @thot-of-khonshu for @pedrostories secret santa ! I had so much fun with the prompt and i hope it doesn’t disappoint! the lyric prompt comes from taylor swift’s peace. enjoy, and happy holidays!!!!💖💖💖💖

die for you in secret

2000

Your scuffed chucks looked stupid next to his white ones against the roof tiles.

It almost made you laugh at the stark difference.

You and Frankie had purchased the shoes together last summer, after you both got your first paychecks from your summer job at a mini-golf place. It had been a big deal; a right of passage. A purchase with your best friend to mark the milestone of your first job together. Now, nearly ten months later, Frankie’s still looked as pristine as the day he had bought them, and yours were scuffed and stained with age and wear.

You supposed that was just the difference between you and Frankie: you were always the wild card, the person who acted first and thought about consequences later, while Frankie looked before he leaped.

“What is it?” Frankie’s foot nudged yours from where he laid sprawled next to you on the roof.

“Nothin,’” you mumbled back to him, passing him the smoking joint.

He raised an eyebrow at you and took a drag.

At seventeen, the two of you were young and stupid enough to think that smoking weed in broad daylight was a good idea, and the novelty of the drug had yet to wear off on you.

“Bullshit,” he exhaled the smoke, the scent of teen rebellion filling the warm air above you. “Tell me.”

“My shoes look dumb next to yours,” you blanched, thinking of shrugging him off but deciding against it. You never were good at lying to him.

“Did you hear that from Santi?” He asked, chuckling.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“He’s our best friend,” you corrected. Frankie snorted.

“You’re my best friend,” Frankie let his head drop down beside yours, turning his eyes to the blue sky above you that was rife with clouds. “Everyone else is just confetti.”

“Ha,” you said, sarcasm rolling from your tongue. “I’ll tell him that, I’m sure he’ll appreciate the sentiment.”

“Ahh, he already knows.” Frankie waved you off.

You tried to ignore the butterflies in your stomach at his words, frustrated that they still persisted no matter how much you tried to stomp them down.

Everyone else is just confetti.

You sighed.

Frankie had been your best friend since fifth grade, when you had transferred schools. He’d been your only friend for that entire year, and he hadn’t been able to get rid of you since.

Santi came along freshman year and completed your trio. And no matter how many times you’d told Frankie that he was full of shit, that the three of you were best friends, Frankie would insist differently. That you, who had been by his side since the two of you were ten, were his best friend. Even in high school, when you’d joined student government and he’d had a growth spurt that made him the object of every girl’s attention, you’d remained the same as you always had. And therein lied the problem.

You, in sometime between when you’d met and now, had fallen in love with Frankie. So much so that no matter who you dated or hooked up with, or whoever he dated or hooked up with, it was always him. And you were hopeless. It was a blessing that he didn’t know yet (Frankie Morales couldn’t read a room if his life depended on it), and it was a miracle that Santi hadn’t caught on yet.

“D’ya think he’ll be mad at us?” You asked, turning your head to face Frankie.

From here you could see his profile perfectly; his strong, aquiline nose, his lips pursed in contemplation, his eyelashes that were so long they were sinful—No!

You snapped yourself out of it.

“Who, Santi?”

“Yeah.”

“For what?” Frankie turned to you and you could feel his breath on your face.

“For skipping without him!” you burst, turning your head away. You were scared that if you looked at him like that—with his wide brown eyes and floppy dark hair—that you would do something stupid like kiss him.

“He’ll get over it,” Frankie said. “Besides, you know he doesn’t like to smoke.”

“Hmm,” you hummed, taking another drawl from the joint.

It was true; Santi didn’t like weed. He didn’t like the way it smelled or the way it fucked up your lungs. Besides, he ran track, and didn’t need a failed drug test to stand in his way of a college scholarship.

“Did he tell you about the party tonight?” Frankie asked after you were silent for a few moments.

“Yeah.”

“And?”

You laughed.

“I said I’d go,” you nudged his shoulder with your own. He let out a sigh of relief beside you.

“Well that makes me feel better.”

“Why do you say that?” you asked curiously.

Although Frankie wasn’t the party animal Santi was, or the wild child you were, he wasn’t opposed to parties. His growth spurt last summer had flung him into popularity, and a popular girlfriend along with a few new friends on the football team had secured your trio invitations to more parties than even you knew what to do with. The reluctance he was showing was something new.

“It's just,” he sighed, sitting up with his elbows on his knees. “I’m not necessarily looking forward to the whole… fanclub thing.”

Oh.

After Frankie had broken up with his girlfriend of three months, Giselle, last week, the female population of your high school had swarmed. Hey, you couldn’t blame them. But still, Frankie was shy, and definitely not used to the attention. Santi had cheekily nicknamed Frankie’s new suitors as, “the fanclub.”

“Well, I’ll fight ‘em off for you,” you joked, sitting up with him. He chuckled.

“Thanks,” he said softly. “I don’t know. It was different when I was with Giselle. I mean, I was taken. Off the market. Now, wherever I go, it feels like I’m looked at under a microscope. I hate it.”

You were silent for a moment, struck at the raw insecurity that Frankie was finally voicing. He seemed to take your silence for a sign to continue.

“It’s like they’re not even doing it because they like me,” he said. “They don’t even wanna get to know me, it’s just about how I look. It’s all about others seeing, it’s all…”

“For show,” you offered. His eyes met yours, melancholy.

“Yeah.”

“We don’t have to go,” you said. “My mom will freak if I break curfew again. We could tell Santi that I don't wanna risk it.”

Frankie tossed you a crooked smile, before bringing his arm around your shoulders.

“Nah,” he said. “He’s been looking forward to this for weeks. Garrett’s throwing it.”

Your lips parted in understanding. Of course you had to go.

Garrett was the boy that Santi had been crushing on since tenth grade. There was no way the three of you could miss this party.

“Alright,” you finally said. “We’ll go then. How bad can it be?”

- - - -

Astronomically bad, it turns out.

You rubbed your clammy palms on the denim miniskirt you already regretted wearing as you sat on your knees on the scratchy basement carpet.

Across from you, Santi made intense eye-contact with you, the look on his face urgent, as if to tell you, “calm down.” Frankie sat a few people down from you in the circle you had created, wedged between two girls who were practically falling over him.

“Well?” One of them asked, an eyebrow arched. “It’s your turn.”

She nodded to the bottle in front of you and you choked. Right. That’s what you were here to do.

God, why had you agreed to this?

You reached out and twirled the bottle with a flick of your wrist, hoping to god it landed anywhere but Trent Dean who had been leering at you all evening. Spin the bottle had been his idea.

You held your breath as it slowed to a stop in front of…

Frankie.

Your breath left your chest, and you stared at his brown eyes that were as wide as yours were.

The whole circle was quiet for a moment, until one of the girls next to Frankie scoffed. Santi cleared his throat, before patting his thighs.

“Well,” he said, voice strained. “You can’t argue with the bottle.”

“Alright, you know the drill, in the closet, seven minutes.” Trent sneered, glaring at Frankie who all of a sudden looked more sheepish than you’d seen him the entire night.

You panicked at the mention of the time. Seven minutes might as well be an eternity.

“Make that three!” A voice piped up. Santi had crossed his arms and was now staring at Trent. “We have a curfew.”

Thank God for Santiago, you thought as you got to your feet.

You wobbled a bit and Frankie’s hand came out to steady you. Someone from the circle whistled before Santi promptly smacked them.

The closet was exactly as you’d expected; stuffy, dark, and filled with old jackets and golf clubs that once belonged to someone’s grandfather. And Frankie. Frankie was also there.

You wiped off your hands on your skirt again, your stomach in knots.

The sound of teenagers whooping and laughing outside was muffled, and you could scarcely hear your own heartbeat over the sound of your breathing.

“We don’t have to, you know.” Frankie broke the silence. “They wouldn’t know.”

You winced.

Except they would, you thought.

“My lipstick, Frankie.” You cringed.

“What?”

“My lipstick. It’s red. They’ll know if we don’t kiss.”

Frankie sighed resolutely.

“Alright then.” He said. “Wanna just get it over with?”

You shriveled a bit on the inside. Of course he’d see this as something to get over with. You knew that. You’d expected that, it didn’t mean it hurt any less.

Frankie seemed to take your silence as apprehension.

“Or not,” he added. “I can go back out there and tell them all to fuck off if that’s what you want.”

“No, no it’s okay, Frank,” you rushed, hands finding his forearms in the dark. “I just zoned out.”

“Okay,” he seemed unconvinced.

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Oka—“

And before you could comprehend it, his lips were on yours.

They were decisive, unyielding, like he knew what he was doing. Which, you learned, quickly, that he did.

Almost immediately, his hands snaked around your waist, drawing you flush against his front. At the same time, his lips parted yours with a gentle urgency, nothing like you’d expected. His tongue gently prodded into your mouth, and you couldn’t help but gasp at the contact. Your knees, (embarrassingly), buckled, and you stumbled further into him.

“Hmph,” he let out a noise between a moan and an exclamation as you returned his kiss with equal fervor.

You sighed in response, your hands moving from his arms to tangle in his hair. It was exactly as soft as you’d imagined and god, now that you’d gotten a taste of Frankie, you weren’t sure you could ever go back.

The door opening sent the two of you jumping apart.

“Time’s up,” Garrett said amusedly. Behind you, you saw that most of the other people in the circle had left the room.

“Game over?” Frankie asked coolly.

“It would seem so,” Santi raised an eyebrow. The four of you were the only ones remaining in the room.

“Hmm,” you hummed. “Well, we have 45 minutes til we have to leave, wanna dance?”

“Sure, dancing queen, let’s go,” Santi linked his arm with yours and began to lead you out of the room.

You didn’t need to turn to Frankie to see the expression on his face; you were sure you already knew what it held and you weren’t in the mood to see his regret today.

Behind you, Frankie brushed his lips, now stained cherry red.

- - - -

2009

He brought his new girlfriend this year, and you’d felt your heart deflate a bit when he walked in.

Signing, you blamed it on the bad break up you had two months ago. Deep down, though, you knew that it was more than that. No matter how many years went by, seeing Frankie with someone else always sent the same knife through your gut.

You sipped at your champagne flute, the guys roaring at the television in the other room. A moment of reprieve, that was all you wanted.

In the decade since graduation, your circle had grown, and you were glad for it.

Where you had decided to go to college and get your degree after high school, Frankie and Santi had joined the military. After they’d completed one tour, you’d graduated and they had added Will, Benny, and Tom to the group. Along with some close friends you’d made in college, your friend group had grown from three to about ten. While at times it was overwhelming, you were glad of it at time like these, when you yearned for a moment to yourself.

You leaned onto the entry of the kitchen, observing the scene before you in the living room.

Benny and your friend from college, Regina were arguing over something sports-related, while Will was talking to Tom on the couch, a flimsy cardboard headband that said “2010!” on his blond head. You snorted at the sight.

Standing in the middle of the room wrapped in each other’s arms were Frankie and his new girlfriend, Andrea.

They looked happy. Truly, genuinely, happy, which made you feel even more guilty for hating the sight of them together.

You pursed your lips and took another gulp of your champagne. The bubbly, gold stained liquid tasted bitter on your tongue.

“Well, if that isn’t the most pathetic thing I’ve seen all year.” Santi’s voice came from your left.

You suppressed the need to roll your eyes.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” you drawled dryly.

“Mmhm,” Santi said, sipping from his own glass. “I thought you said that you were gonna finally tell him.”

You sighed.

So we’re doing this.

Frankie might have been your oldest friend, but Santi knew how to push you like no one else did.

A little before graduation, he’d questioned you about your crush on Frankie and you caved. You told him everything, and it felt so good to get it off of your chest. Since then, though, Santi had never ceased to bug you about it. Recently though, since your break-up, it had gotten worse.

“I was,” you replied. “But, in case you haven’t noticed, he has a date tonight.”

“They’ve been together for a week, tops.” Santi dead-panned. “You’ve loved him for, like, fifteen years—“

You shushed him, smacking his arm.

“—ow! Okay! Okay! I’m just saying. It’s a new decade. New year, new me and all that.”

You snorted.

“You don’t actually believe that.”

“Says who?”

“Says you,” you poked him. “Since we were fifteen.”

“Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

“You wanna know what I think?” You turned to him.

“What’s that?”

“That you just like to annoy me.”

“That is also true,” he clinked his glass with yours. “But, not the case here. Last year, your resolution was to finally tell him. Now is your chance.”

“I don’t think so, Pope.”

He made a disgusted face.

“Ugh, it’s so weird when you call me that.”

You laughed, chest feeling lighter already.

“Hmm, maybe Benny will be my new years kiss.” You sipped your champagne.

“Oh god, that would be the worst.” Santi laughed. “The only thing worse than the two of you separate is the two of you together.”

You laughed, looking back to a flushed Benny still arguing with Regina. You smiled. Benny was a joy, the true heart of the group. All golden hair, mischievous smirks, and wide eyes.

Your eyes drifted to Frankie and your smile fell. He was smiling, and a bit tipsy is the blush on his cheeks told you anything, whispering in Andrea’s ear. Your heart stuttered.

Beside you, Santi breathed your name, his hand finding yours. You sniffed, ripping your eyes away from them.

“Mhm?” You responded, looking over at Santi.

His brown eyes held tenderness, something that you would almost call pity. You plastered a smile on your face.

“Do you ever get tired of it?”

“What? Of your endless prodding?”

“Ha, ha,” he said with no humor. “I mean,” he paused, and you braced yourself.

This was just like Santi, starting a deep conversation casually.

“What?”

“How do you do it?” He asked.

Your brows furrowed.

“Love him in secret,” he clarified.

You chuckled humorlessly, all lightheartedness drained from the conversation.

“I guess I’m just used to it,” you said, running a finger over the rim of your glass.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” he said. You closed your eyes frustratedly. He always knew when you were bullshitting. He could see right through you, and now was no exception.

“Okay, fine,” you turned to him. “I couldn’t give him peace.”

“Wha—“

“If I told him, he’d say yes with no questions asked.”

“I’m glad we see eye to eye, now—“

“No, Santi.” You all but snapped. “He would do it to make me happy. That’s just who he is. It doesn’t matter whether he felt the same or not. I wouldn’t do that to him.”

“And how do you know he doesn’t feel the same way?”

“I just do,” you sighed, eyes finding your too-kind best friend. “He’s restless, he always has been. He needs something… I don’t know. Something different. Not me.”

Santi contemplated for a minute, before sighing.

“I think you’re both idiots.” He said with finality. “Frankie’s looking for something, you’re right, but he’s not gonna find it in the army or in traveling or in that girl’s pants.”

You blanched at his bluntness.

“And you,” he continued. “Need to buck up and tell him. Because before you know it, he will be settled down and it will be too late.”

You didn’t say anything, you were too busy deciding whether to be offended by what he said or not.

“Now,” Santi came to stand in front of you. “I’m going to go drink with our friends and ring in the new decade. Don’t stay here for too long.”

He gave you a too-tight hug before sauntering off.

You remained silent as he walked away.

That new year, at midnight as the ball dropped, Santi and Benny pressed sloppy kisses to your cheeks on either side while Frankie embraced his girlfriend. And though you were surrounded by love and laughter and friends, you couldn’t have felt more empty.

- -

2019

Your ass hurt.

You’d been sitting in this uncomfortable airport terminal for going on five hours, watching families reuniting and workers coming and going, and you were tired.

You rubbed at your bleary eyes, the fluorescent lights making them sore. You weren’t sure how much longer you could do this.

You’d woken up from your post-work nap to your phone ringing at full volume. From the ringtone, you could tell already that it was Frankie. Your heart had skipped a beat before you frantically answered the call.

He had been out of the country with Santi, (something that was never good news), at an undisclosed location for more than a week without checking in. And because what they did was highly illegal, there was no one you could call when the day they were supposed to return came and went. No missing persons reports. You’d been suffering in silence for more than three days when your phone had finally rung.

Frankie had told you that he’d be returning alone, separately from the others, and that he needed you to pick him up.

That was supposed to be three hours ago, and still he hadn’t showed.

You tapped your foot for a few minutes, eyeing the clock. It was close to midnight.

You grabbed your empty coffee cup, thanking whatever god was listening that the welcome kiosk was open 24-hours.

As you filled up the paper cup (it must’ve been your fourth cup of the night), you felt your phone buzz in your pocket.

You scrambled to open it, hoping for word from Frankie or one of the others.

Anything yet? The text read.

It was from Frankie’s mother, Belen. You sighed, typing a quick “no” before returning to your coffee.

After a three-year span where you’d lived in New York, you’d moved home when Frankie and Camille had split. He had full custody of their six-month old, Valentina, and needed some support. Of course, you’d gone without a thought. That was a year ago.

With your new job, though, Val was with her grandma while Frankie was on his little “trip.”

Much to Santi’s chagrin, you still had yet to tell Frankie your true feelings. And you were finally learning to be content with that.

Jobs, significant others, and living situations came and went, but you and Frankie were forever. Nothing would change that, even your own feelings for him.

Besides, a day ago you weren’t even sure if he was alive, now you would take whatever you could get.

You jumped as the baggage claim carousel creaked to life behind you.

Your heart leapt. That meant… Frankie.

You turned on your heel, speed-walking to the hallway where the new-arrivals entered from.

People began filing through, all bleary-eyed and tired. You watched them pass, growing more and more antsy until your eyes caught one familiar Standard Oil cap in the crowd.

Your eyes found his, and for a moment the earth stood still.

His eyebrows drew together, before he let out what looked like a deep breath, and you both raced for each other.

You collided, and you would’ve lost your footing had it not been for his arms bracketed around you like steel.

He gasped into your shoulder, shuddering when one of your hands found his hair, and the other grabbed at his waist. You sobbed out a breath.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you breathed into the side of his head, holding him as if he would disappear any minute.

He breathed heavily into your shoulder, hunched over you, squeezing you just as tightly.

“You—“ you began, before he was pulling back.

His hands found your cheeks, holding either of them up to force your gaze to him.

His eyes looked almost crazed, yet relieved as they gazed into yours.

“I love you,” he breathed out, stealing the air from your chest.

Your eyebrows barely had time to raise before his lips were on yours.

If the first kiss you’d shared nearly twenty years before was passionate, then this was feverish.

There was nothing soft about the way Frankie kissed you. It invaded your senses, and you waited a moment before responding and pressing your lips against his with equal force.

You grabbed at him anywhere you could find purchase, wanting to savor this moment every way you could.

One of his hands slid back into your hair, holding the back of your head. His tongue pushed against yours languidly, and you pushed back.

By the time he pulled back, your hands were on his cheeks. You pressed smaller, chaste kisses to his lips as he caught his breath.

“I love you,” you whispered back. His shoulders sagged a bit.

“I’m such an idiot,” he lamented, forehead against yours. “You don’t have to say it back, baby, I just, I thought I was gonna die out there and I needed you to know—“

“Frankie, Frankie, Frankie,” you forced his gaze to yours and all you found was insecurity. The same kind that you saw all those years ago on the roof.

“Frank,” you giggled breathlessly, nudging your nose with his. “I’ve been in love with you since high school.”

“Wha—What?” He sounded genuinely disbelieving.

You sighed, eyes locked with his. You nodded.

“Since we were fifteen.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” His voice was straining, like he was getting choked up.

You brushed his cheek fondly.

“I guess you’re not the only idiot.” You dead panned.

And maybe it was the sleep-depravity, or the trauma of that god-awful trip, or your awful work day, but either way: right then, you and Frankie erupted in a fit of laughter, right there in the airport terminal.

He threw his head back and laughed so deeply that it sounded like it came from deep in his chest. You followed, (you could never not laugh with Frankie; his joy was contagious), and soon you were doubled over with sore-sides from laughter. And all was right in the world, if only for a moment.

After you’d calmed down, Frankie, cheeks rosy, grabbed your hand and asked,

“Take me home?”

“About time.” You answered

#pedrostoriesgift2022 #frankie morales x you #frankie x you #frankie morales fanfic #frankie morales x y/n #frankie 'catfish' morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie 'catfish' morales x reader #frankie x reader #triple frontier #friends to lovers

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sublimecatgalaxy · 1 year

Note

Hi!

So I don't know a lot of other creators on here who actually write 'x sibling!reader' but I think you've done it a few times so I was wondering if you'd write a Bucky Barnes x wilson!reader?

I'd love to see the dynamic between their relationship and her and Sam's sibling relationship. I can imagine the sass lol

Thank you! If you're not comfortable writing it, it's no big deal :)

Thank you for much for the request sweets! I really enjoy this concept too since we sort of saw a hint of this in the show so I'm grateful to be able to write this for you!

"This will never not be weird." Sam mutters, looking between Bucky and I as his bionic arm wraps around my shoulder, taking a swig of his beer.

"Get used to it, Sam. Bucky has this habit of surviving assassination attempts so I don't think he's going anywhere." I curl into Bucky's side with a happy grin, resting my head on his chest and soaking in the fact that I have the two of them here with me, safe and sound.

"I could hit him when he's least expecting it." Sam mutters, glaring at Bucky and I giggle, reaching out to grab the nearest pillow to chuck it in his direction. "I'm just saying. My baby sister with this douchebag." He scoffs with a dumbfounded look but I just gawk at him, glancing up at Bucky but he doesn't look the slightest bit offended.

"He is not a douchebag." I gasp, placing a hand on Bucky's chest in a way to be protective but Sam just continues with his ruthless taunting.

"Do you know how many grandmas this man has slept with?" Sam asks, leaning forward to 'level' with me but before I can think of a witty comeback, Bucky beats me to it.

"They weren't grandmas when I slept with them, Wilson." He huffs, tilting his head at my brother with a tired look, lips pulled into a fine, exasperated line.

"You guys are more of an old married couple than we are, Buck." Both men's eyes raise in a defensive look and Bucky scoffs, looking down at me with huge eyes.

"Ouch-" Sam scoffs, shoving his face into his hands.

"No, god. Doll why would you say that?" Bucky whines, face twisting up in a pitiful look at the mention of god forbid being closer to Sam than he cares to admit.

They're like brothers whether they want to admit it or not.

"You bicker all the time! Over stupid shit and you're constantly taking shots at each other."

"Shut up." They say nearly at the same time, their eyes flickering over to glare at each other, upset at their sudden synonymousness. I slap a hand over my mouth, loving how easy it was for them to prove my point.

"Awe, you guys love each other! How cute."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- Taglist: @bubblebuttwade @rafelover2405 @leslienjazzy @sorceresss @grxnde-dwt @alex–awesome–22 @bunnietoof @niyamar1e @serialghost @plantlungs @geniusohn @akaliltimmytim @lilaalouuxx @xshariex @elliotsbeigeguitar @elle4404 @lelieja @srhxpci @joselyn001 @taysirene @spinkspanther @thedivineuphoria @peter-maximoffs @tsukishimawhore @poohkie90 @szlaco @distantsighs @nstyles4299 @wolflover384 @givemefoodandlovesstuff @vane28282 @yeswhatever33 @amirrahfranson @vvaalleennttiinna @f-mu @yaspillz @jeyramarie @skylievin@abbybarnes17 @jointherebellion215 @visiondaddy @steezysimfinds @its-ya-gay-boi-luigi @crunchytoenailsyum@glizzymcguirex @beth123lg @melovesmut @rafecameronswhore @ariianelle @write-from-the heart @vampviolets@haylee-e @honee-chai-tea @lokiandbuckywife

@officiallyunofficialperson@heyaitsklaudia@rosepetalsparks @bluetreecloud20 @scenesofobx @double-shot-of-tequila @1dluver13xx @colbysbrocks @iamasimpingh0e @loveshineslikethesky @id-3-kbro @diorsitgirl @errorfound101-allideasburnedout @neverwillknowme18 @ellyskey @taylors-folk @loversjoy @myaloveee @thyris-is @lagataprrr @aaaaslaaaan @witxhy-lexx @minjix @luvroseee @tee-swizzle @savageneversaw @admiringlove @hysteriahall @piceous21 @starlightandfairies @igotmajordaddyissues @drewstarkey-wife1 @manyfandomsfanvergent @revesephemeres @bungunz

#bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #marvel #marvel fic

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smartycvnt · 2 years

Text

i sit on acid

pairing: chuck taylor x reader

prompt: "don't be shy now, sit on my face." + "don't cover your face, i want to see you."

warnings: smut, oral (f receiving)

You tucked your head down against Chuck's chest as he thrust into you. The action wasn't meant to make the moment more intimate or muffle any noises you were making. You were hiding away from Chuck, not wanting to expose yourself as any more vulnerable. You did this almost every single time that you came, but Chuck had never reacted like he currently was.

"Don't cover your face, I want to see you," Chuck said. He had stopped thrusting and moved just far enough away to take away your hiding spot. You tried to force yourself to look at him, but you couldn't regain the necessary amount of composure. "Come on, look at me."

"I-I can't," you admitted. Chuck let out a small sigh and placed his hand on your shoulder. "I don't want you to see me like that. It feels like I'm giving up too much control."

"Okay, then we'll find a way for you to have more," Chuck said. You were surprised that he was willing to work through this with you. In the past, other guys had just brushed you off for being "high maintenance" or something. Chuck was patient and willing to do almost anything to make you feel more comfortable.

"I don't know what to do." You let out a frustrated breath, but Chuck didn't let you get too far into your own head. You leaned against his side, and as your nerves subsided, you were reminded of what you had been doing moments before. "I can't think like this."

"Then let me help you," Chuck said as he rolled onto his back. You started to straddle his waist when he stopped you. "Not there. Up here."

"Excuse me?" you asked, heat rising up to your cheeks. Chuck placed his hands on your hips and lifted you up towards his face.

"Don't be shy now, sit on my face."

"If you're sure," you said quietly. Chuck didn't waste a second of time lowering you onto his face. Your fingers instinctively tangled into his hair, like they did every single time that he ate you out. This felt different, and you realized that you had the option to just pull away if it became too much.

Chuck was careful though, using the gentlest touch he could. You kept pulling him closer, hoping that he would take the hint that you wanted more. Chuck kept his hands to his sides, using only his mouth to pleasure you. You bucked your hips against his face, pushing yourself closer and closer to your own orgasm. You could feel it coming, but you attributed it to a low moan from Chuck that had taken you by surprise.

"Come here," Chuck said tiredly. You moved off of his face and laid down to cuddle with him. He turned his back to you and you wrapped your arms around him, more than happy to be his big spoon.

#aew #aew x reader #aew imagine #aew imagines #chuck taylor imagines #chuck taylor imagine #chuck taylor x reader #chuck taylor

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plentyoffandoms · 4 months

Text

Requests that will be done this month.

Line through it means it has been posted.

Action Andretti x f/Reader (18+)

Part 2 of When I Said I Do ft Adam Copeland x f/Reader

Part 2 of We Are The Law ft Christian Cage x f/Reader x Adam Copeland

Adam Copeland x reader (18+)

Darby Allin x f/Reader (18+)

Dan Moloney x f/Reader

Car thief Chuck Taylor x f/Reader (18+) AU

Pregnancy HC with Ares, Hermes, & Poseidon

Part 2 Invader of My Heart ft Leif Eriksson x f/Reader

NSFW HC (18+) - ft Ares, Hermes, & Poseidon

Percy Jackson & twin sister reader

Ares x daughter

Loved ones taking a hit HC - Christian Cage, Hook, Chuck Taylor, Swerve Strickland

EVP Matt Jackson

Swerve Strickland (18+)

Jon Moxley (18+)

#requests #action Andretti #christian cage #adam copeland #darby allin #dan moloney #chuck taylor #wrestlers x f/Reader #percy jackson #ares pjo #hermes pjo #poseidon pjo #Leif Eriksson #vikings valhalla

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katelynnwrites · 2 years

Text

pairing: Jessie Fleming x f!Reader

warnings: f for fluff

word count: 1306

summary: jessie is your forever and you are her always

a/n: title is from one my my favourite taylor swift songs and i really just wanted to write a ton of fluff for jessie because when she’s sad, i’m sad.

Forever And Always

The whistle blows and you happily give Jordan a high five. Playing against Chelsea was never easy so you were satisfied with a draw.

You shake hands with a couple of Chelsea players before seeing her.

Jessie was on her knees, not having a lot of energy left and far too exhausted to stand up.

Walking over to her, you sit down beside her and ask, ‘You okay?’

Jessie looks up, a smile gracing her face once she sees that it’s you.

‘I’m so tired.’ She laughs and you wrap an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer to you.

The Canadian’s ponytail had come loose, flyaways falling into her face.

Lightly, you use your free hand to brush them back, tucking the longer strands behind her ears.

She hums, finding a piece of grass and flicking it at you.

‘Jess!’

She only grins, chucking another piece into your lap.

You roll your eyes, throwing it back at her and making her giggle.

‘I’ve missed you.’ She says and you agree, making her cheeks flush pink.

Jessie leans her head against your shoulder and the two of you continue to chat aimlessly, making the occasional joke that causes the other to laugh.

The both of you were so lost in your own little world that you don’t see your respective teammates approaching until the majority of them have surrounded you.

It’s obvious to anyone how comfortable you were in Jessie’s presence, the unusual sight of your introverted self being at ease with anyone other than the people you knew well sparking your Arsenal teammates’ interest.

The same goes for Jessie’s teammates, Magda wondering what about you made Jessie so relaxed. In the two years she had known the younger girl, she had never seen her so at peace.

She wasn’t quite sure she knew how to describe Jessie’s demeanour around you. She didn’t even know if there was a word that could properly capture it.

Katie nudges you with her boot.

‘Do you have something you would like to tell us?’

‘No?’ You furrow your brows at the older woman, tilting your head to the side.

The Irish player points at Jessie, ‘Do you have something you would like to tell us about Fleming?’

‘No? We played at UCLA together?’

Jessie nods and with that, you stand back up and hold a hand out to help Jessie up. You can see how tired she still is and that’s when you let her climb onto your back, clinging to you tightly like a koala.

Your teammates watch you both go, making your way to the stands to take photos and sign autographs.

Not once do you let go of Jessie and by the way she’s smiling brightly, arms wrapped loosely around your neck, it’s clear she didn’t want to be let go of.

Then Magda thinks that though she may not have a word to describe the pair of you, she could see how perfectly the two of you fit together and how easy it was for one to make the other laugh.

******

When the stadium is mostly empty and it’s time to go back to the locker rooms, Katie rolls her eyes as she sees you and Jessie.

You were completely absorbed by whatever the Canadian was telling you, the softest smile on your face as you listen to her animated words.

‘Oi! Do tell us when the wedding is lovebirds!’ She yells, catching the attention of the surrounding players.

You draw up near Katie as you and Jess look at each other in confusion.

‘We are married.’

‘What?!?’

The resounding reaction of both your teammates have you and Jessie casting weird looks at them.

Katie stares at you intently, just now noticing that the ring you always wore on a chain around your neck matched the one hanging around Jessie’s neck.

She shakes her head, proclaiming, ‘I need a drink.’

Niamh pats the Irish player on the back sympathetically.

‘You know when someone asks if you have anything to share about your relationship, you should typically start with the fact that you’re married.’ Leah says slowly, still trying to wrap her head around what she had just learnt.

You shrug and Jessie hops off your back with a tiny smile on her face.

‘What do you think Jess? Should we lead with that next time?’

Your wife’s smile only widens as she gives you a little kiss on your cheek.

‘How long?’ Pernille asks, seeing as the rest were still silent with shock.

‘Almost three years now. We got married before we even started playing here.’ You say, hand coming up to touch your ring subconsciously.

‘That means that you were both what? Twenty one?’ Jordan asks, no hint of judgement in her eyes. Just plain curiosity.

‘Yeah. We knew we were it for each other so there was no point wasting time you know?

Sam Kerr grins mischievously.

‘Who asked?’

‘I did.’ Jessie quietly admits, her cheeks bright red.

‘Aw little Jess!’ The Australian reaches out to teasingly ruffle Jessie’s hair, making her blush even harder as she buries her head in your neck.

‘Wait is this why you’re never free on weekends? Other than those weeks that we have games, we never see you.’ Beth asks, things clicking into place for her.

‘Yeah. As long as we don’t have games, we take turns travelling to spend the weekend together.’

Collective awws can be heard from both teams, the revelation finally sinking in.

‘Sorry but wouldn’t it be easier to play for the same club?’ Magda asks, clearly thinking about her and Pernille. She hadn’t found it easy when her girlfriend had played for Wolfsburg.

‘You want to take this one Jess? You nudge the smaller girl who hums agreeably.

‘I wanted to play for Chelsea but this one-’ She gives you a little poke to emphasise her words, ‘went on and on about how she was a gunner for life and how she could never play for the blues.’

‘Even though I love you.’ You add cheekily.

Jessie snorts.

‘I was born and raised a Gunner Jess. How could I betray them?’

‘Doesn’t stop you from wearing my jersey to my games does it?’ She teases, making you gasp.

‘But that’s because it’s you! I wouldn’t be caught dead in any other Chelsea jersey! No offence guys.’ You quickly say, glancing at Jessie’s teammates.

A few of them laugh and you relax back into Jessie’s arms.

‘Honestly though, it’s not the easiest thing but we make it work.’ You explain seriously.

‘Since you’re married, you could technically play for Canada. That way you get to spend more time with each other.’ Viv suggests.

‘No!’ Leah and Beth loudly yell at the same time, Jordan chiming in just a second late.

You laugh at your fellow England players.

‘I tried. I tried so hard.’ Jessie complains, making you laugh even harder.

‘Don’t worry girls. I’m English through and through.’

‘You could always play for England, Fleming.’ Leah asks hopefully.

‘Never.’ Jessie firmly states, even as a small grin makes its way onto her face.

You laugh again and both your teammates smile, seeing how happy the pair of you were together.

The moment is only broken when Katie sighs dramatically.

‘I guess it’s too late to give the shovel talk now.’

******

Both you and Jessie were private people, barely ever on social media. It had taken some convincing on both your agents’ part to even get the two of you to create Instagram accounts.

That night however, you both posted the same photo.

A photo taken on your wedding day. The two of you were standing in simple white dresses, silhouetted against the light as you shared a sweet kiss, barefoot on a beach.

The captions were short and sweet.

‘My Forever.’

‘My Always.’

#jessie fleming imagine #jessie fleming #jessie fleming x reader #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso fanfics #woso fanfiction #woso imagines #canwnt x reader #canwnt imagine #katelynnwrites #fluff #chelsea fcw x reader #chelsea fcw imagine #uswnt imagine #uswnt x reader #engwnt imagine #engwnt x reader

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scorpio-marionette · 2 years

Text

It Feels Like Today

This is my first Writer Wednesday, but seeing this picture reminded me of a daydream I had and I needed to get it out of my head.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x Short, Baby Faced F!Reader

Warning: age gap, flufffy fluff, noticing and liking body changes, mistaking people with baby faces to be children, singing in Japanese

Summary: Marcus Pike has been living in D.C. for a few years now and loves his job and his life. Success at finding someone to share his life with has been non-existent. On the brink of giving up, he runs into you while on vacation, visiting your sister. Not wanting to dive in too soon or too fast, he takes his time with you. He just wants to get to know you and be friends… maybe.

A/N: This is very much a self-serving fic. The reader character is heavily inspired by me, but I still tried to not include a physical description. I hope you like it. If you're curious which song is being sung, it's Karano Korono by Anly.

Sequel: It Feels Like Forever

Marcus is more than positive that this all looks a little weird. What with him being in a suit and tie, and you in your cute little pleated skirt that's honestly getting a little too short for you these days. Not that he minds, of course. He knows it's because your butt has been getting bigger. You told him that, but what he won't tell you is how much he likes it. No, this all looks weird because you look like a little girl compared to him. Without any context and from the right angle, you could easily be mistaken as his daughter. He can't find it in him to be upset by this though.

When you first met he had mistaken you for a child. Your everlasting baby face and short height weren't helping. You had been wandering around the Smithsonian in your beaten up Chuck Taylor hightops, a pair of cargo shorts, and a Star Wars graphic tee with a cute little backpack to boot. He had been worried you had gotten lost and were trying to find your parents, so in true gentleman nature he asked if you needed help. To which you answered with a question.

"How old do you think I am?"

Marcus wasn't sure if he paled or blushed at your question. Suffice to say, he was surprised to learn you were twenty four. To apologize, Marcus offered to be your own personal tour guide for the rest of your time in the museum and for any others you might visit. You accepted his offer, wanting company more than anything because "moments are meant to be shared" as you would say. A quality of yours he's grown to deeply admire.

It is on your tour that you surprise him again. You don't know everything about every piece, but you have a broad knowledge of a lot of things between the different installations. Curious to pick your brain, he asks you to dinner. You decline for the night. You already had plans to have dinner with your sister. However, you brightened his spirits by agreeing to meet the next night for dinner. Marcus gave you his phone number and planned where to take you. A difficult task given he didn't know much about you at the time. A task he nailed though when he took you to his favorite Italian restaurant.

That was all a week ago. By now, he knows your favorite colors, food, music, and hobbies. You hang out as much as possible. You're always mindful of his job; reminding him to get some sleep, to eat better, and relax. He knows you have another week here in D.C. and he'd be lying if he said he didn't want you to stay. You've become a kind of bright light at the end of the dark tunnel he seems to have found himself in. All of his other relationships have ended amiably, if not poorly, since his engagement to Theresa. Not one of them got that far since it ended. There's something about you though. Not to sound like a Jane Austen novel, but there's something in your air that he can't get enough of.

Perhaps that's why you're here together now, walking under the famous cherry trees of D.C. as they bloom. You had told him how much you wanted to see the blossoms and who was he to deny you? Once you had arrived, Marcus' favorite part of you so far revealed itself. Upon seeing the flowers, you smiled and opened your lips. From there you began to sing in Japanese. The song title slips his mind every time you sing, but he knows it's one of your favorites. The music from an anime he hasn't had the time to watch for himself. It doesn't really matter to him though. He loves how much you love culture. You know and appreciate so many different cultures he's surprised you can keep them all straight in your head.

He watches as you spin around singing. Your pleated skirt picks up a little from the motion, showing off your kitten stockings. Your oversized baby pink sweater holds it down just enough that you don't accidentally flash someone. Your platform loafers drag against the cement as pink petals adorn your hair. The warm sunlight gives you an ethereal glow as you continue to serenade the trees. Yes, anyone could mistake this moment for a father taking his little girl out for a walk among the cherry trees, but Marcus doesn't care. In this moment, your beautiful voice is soothing his aching soul and you're reaching out to him to dance. Taking you into his arms, he embraces your frame. You sway back and forth, not a care in the world. His worries of your departure from him melt away. If only he could have this moment forever. Why can't every day feel like today?

@writer-wednesday @supernaturalgirl20 @writer-darling @heythere-mel @iblogtopassthetime @misspearly1 @misspearlssideblog @doommommy @toomanystoriessolittletime @thegreenkid @anaaaispunk @sturkillerbase @mindidjarin @little-red-83 @hummelmi @absurdthirst @oonajaeadira @littlemisspascal @whataperfectwasteoftime @writeforfandoms @wilhelmina-g @skvatnavle @radiowallet @beskarberry @dornish-queen @themand0lorian @the-scandalorian @juletheghoul @queridopascal @wordsnwhiskey @jessie-writes-things @hardlyinteresting @wheresarizona @kesskirata @amneris21

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x female reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfic #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #marcus pike and reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike #writer wednesday

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captainsimagines · 2 years

Text

dreaming in june || ten

Summary: At the request of an old friend who now happens to be the new Captain America, you move to a place that only vaguely feels peaceful, to secretly protect his best friend. There you meet Bucky Barnes, your next door neighbor, who has also lived countless lives, seen a lot of things, and lost the one he loved. You have more in common than you thought.

Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x (F) POC Enhanced Reader

Based on the Song(s): Heat Waves by Glass Animals and iann dior ; Coney Island by Taylor Swift and The National

Series / AO3 Link / Playlist

(10/15)

Warnings: 18+ ONLY; smut; unprotected sex; oral sex; rough/emotional sex? (lmao you’ll see what I mean); strong language; discussions of cults; emotional angst; Steve Rogers, baby, why did you do what you did; mild violence; blood; whoop! DEMONS!

Word Count: 7,420

Author’s Note: That warnings list is a doozy. xxMoni

“The Immortal, the Bleeding Heart, the Forgotten, the Shield.”

“I was thinking—“

“Oh, no.”

Bucky sends Sam a glare across the kitchen counter. Sam continues making the eggs, unmoved.

“What were you thinking about, James?”

“I call you by a different flower everyday. Do you want me to call you by your birth name, or continue with my nicknames?“

Your birth name hasn’t been uttered by anyone since Ari, with the exception of Sam very rarely. Even Druig refrains from calling you it—“Princess” is his go-to. You’ve never even told Bucky your birth name, but you assume Sam told him.

“Why do you call me by different nicknames? Why not settle on one?”

Bucky shrugs. “I didn’t plan on it. You just buy, wear, or smell like a different flower everyday.”

“Weird that you notice that, Buck.”

Bucky grabs a banana from the fruit bowl and chucks it at him. Sam jumps, the sudden movement sending scrambled eggs to the floor.

“Those are yours,” Sam grunts, pointing the spatula down. Bucky rolls his eyes.

You try and fail to contain the incoming grin. “Who am I today, James?”

Something shudders behind his sternum. Something sweet and familiar.

Bucky scans you over, trying to keep his eyes focused on the important features. You’re dressed in a large, pink knit sweater that reaches your knees, with white leggings and fuzzy pink socks. Your red nails are a dark contrast against the colors, especially with the way you’re hugging one knee against your chest and steadying yourself on the stool.

He loves your hands. The hands that have wiped his brow and fed him, held his own and waved him off, flipped him off and welcomed him home. He thinks about the way your fingers curl when you use your magic, the way they seem to change in color. He swears he has seen ink, like a tattoo, crawl up your arms and to your neck. It all depended on which hand you used.

You applied an artificial blush to your cheeks and lips today. The make-up you use always seems to have some glitter infused in it. He scans your hair, your eyes, your nose, your cheeks, your lips—if Bucky thought red did it for him, pink certainly lights a switch as well.

The thoughts bombard him—those pink lips on his neck, leaving their innocent mark. Those lips connecting to the base of his neck, to his chest, where your tongue would finally peek out and brand him as yours. Lower, lower, lower, until those pink lips swallow his cock down and stain the tender skin, up and down, until his harsh thrusts smudge the perfected outline. Then he’d finish on them, watching as his spent dripped down your chin as he tugged you back up, and smashed his own lips over yours, licking and tasting himself on—

He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. He looks around the room, hoping no one watched him practically defile you with his stare alone. Peter smirks at him from the sofa, his eyebrows raising and falling, like his stupid spider-sense can scent the arousal.

Bucky quickly diverts his eyes.

“Poppy,” Bucky declares. “Ancient Greeks associated poppies with Demeter’s daughter, right? She had something to do with the seasons and agriculture. You said your mother was gifted. So you’re Persephone in this equation. Or, poppies like, for the Ancient Egyptians—they associated them with eternal life. Plus, you look preppy today. Preppy, poppy.”

Everyone stares at him.

“If my question gets a ‘yes’ answer, I’m going to tease the ever-living fuck out of you until we die,” Sam starts. He shuts off the stove and turns his whole body to Bucky. “Have you been googling these damn flowers and their symbolism?”

Bucky turns scarlet. “What else was I supposed to do on that ten hour plane trip—”

Sam erupts with laughter, Peter following.

“Poppy,” you repeat. You say it a few more times, testing it out. Bucky turns his attention back to you, where he finds you unmoved from his confession. He watches your lips softly smack together. Poppy, poppy, poppy.

“Are you fine with the nicknames? Do you want me to call you by your birth name instead?” Bucky whispers, clenching one eye shut when Sam laughs even louder.

You shrug, even if what you’re about to say is a big deal. “By calling me multiple names, it may seem like you kill me off the next day. But that’s fine because you make me into something new. Ari was the last person to call me by my birth name—and that name, sadly, is dead to me. Even on official documents I use a different spelling. So please continue to call me by what you see. I like that you take the time to see me.”

But you told Sam. Bucky wonders if Sam knows what honor he had been given.

“Well, then. Poppy.” Bucky’s smile is electrifying. “Up for a museum trip today?”

For a history buff, you hate museums. You can stand art museums—those ones you do find joy in. Some of the paintings and statues were created during your lifetime. Hell, you were alive for some of the Renaissance. When you woke up, the 1600s only brought more art with it.

But natural history museums…Something about them makes you want to crawl underneath the bed and never come out. The stuffed animals are fine, so is the evolution section, and some historical art. But the New World section…

The lights are dimmer than the rooms where they house earlier history. It’s the same way in all these sections: Egyptian history, Mesoamerican history, Native American history—all of it is stored as if its people are extinct, as if the culture has dimmed throughout the centuries. You don’t believe all that light-preservation bullshit.

Whatever you think you’re expecting isn’t at all what it was.

The Mesoamerican section is dimmed, yes, but there’s so few items that it actually tears your heart in two. The small room does its best to showcase the wonders—the pottery, the jewelry, the stone art. It’s both suffocating and amazing.

You carefully navigate through the small aisle, around glass cases and standing nameplates. Bucky, Peter, and Sam follow closely behind, but keep their distance. They too are relearning history.

Scraps of clothing, old bows, colorful blankets, baby shoes, instruments. A flute, still intact, has its own glass box. You don’t bother reading the information plaque.

You can hear it.

Closing your eyes, the first notes of whistled breath begin to take form. It starts as one long whistle, until it becomes lower, lower, higher, lower. Paired with the mellow beat of the drums. The sound carries through the tents, over the river, up into the trees.

In the late 1600s, you remember walking through an Italian marketplace. Packed, busy, bustling. The sound of a flute had caught your attention, then the beginnings of a brand new instrument. Four strings, one bow, on the shoulder of a boy no older than ten.

It was the first time you had ever heard a flute and violin pair.

And next to the flute’s case—a case containing all found jewelry.

The jade stones stand out from all the rest. Even with dirt along the thread and some of the stones cracked, it’s an exact replica for the one you still have. The bracelet you haven’t worn in so long. The bracelet that was stored in the box you brought in the bottom of your suitcase. The bracelet burning a hole in your coat pocket right now.

Pressing your hand against the glass, you swallow down the tears. It’s sitting right there. A piece of Ari. And you’re so far away.

“Excuse me, ma’am. You can’t touch the glass.”

But you don’t hear them. Your top lip greets a stray tear.

“Ma’am…Ma’am.”

“I booked a private tour for a reason. Can’t you see she’s visiting family?”

The security guard startles, clearly confused. He looks at Sam then back to you. “These things are older than some of the castles here.”

“And in a world full of aliens, Gods, and supers—How do you know she isn’t seeing her own jewelry from that long ago?” Bucky nudges Sam’s side with his elbow. But Sam doesn’t back down, his eyes flaring with threats.

“I still can’t let you touch the glass. It’s my job to say this. I’m sorry.”

Peter stands next to you, staring at the same piece of jewelry. He reaches down and grabs your hand, his grip powerful.

“For his soul to rest, I need to rebury him.”

Peter chooses his next words carefully. “Does the museum have him here?”

His bones. His remains. His corpse. Say it, Peter. Just say it.

“Druig told me they did.”

It was a blessing they hadn’t put his bones on display. A small, but glorious miracle.

“So then he’s in storage?”

You grunt, your face contorting into an expression of disgust.

“Ma’am. I can lose my job. Please, just…Just stand there without touching.”

You turn to the security guard. Sam is ready to fight, and Bucky’s holding him back. But your lips twitch into a small smile, and you nod at the guard.

Reaching into your coat pocket, you reveal the matching bracelet. Your bracelet.

“It’s part of a pair,” you say, rolling the bracelet over in your hands. The guard looks from the case to your hand, no doubt wondering if it’s an exact replica or if you stole it from one of the cases.

“That one was my husband’s. We didn’t do rings back then.”

We didn’t do rings back then.

Rings.

It clicks for Bucky quicker than it does for the others.

The bracelets are your wedding rings.

Bucky gasps, covering his mouth. Sam looks close to breaking the glass open and stealing it back. Peter simply grips your hand harder.

“I am going to get it back. I am going to get him back.”

Sam’s got a set of balls for going toe-to-toe with the Director of the Museum. He’s already contacting Margot, lawyers, and museum directors who are known for returning human remains to descendants. Bucky watches you flash Sam a grateful smile, then move on to another exhibit with Peter right next to you.

He doesn’t want to leave Sam alone, but he clearly has it handled. Clearly. Bucky’s afraid that if he interrupts, Sam might backhand him.

So he ventures into a different part of the museum. Past the dinosaurs, past the stuffed exotic animals, past it all. He enters the room labeled “Recent History” and knows exactly what he’ll find.

The snap. The fall. The blip. The fight. The fallout. The reconstruction.

It’s weird reading about it. It’s weird watching people live a whole five years and not having any memory of it. This time, however, the memory loss wasn’t intentional.

The timeline of events is printed on the wall, spanning past all four corners and wrapping back to the front door. Bucky walks through the first year.

Chaos. Governments falling. Grief.

Year two dealt with more grief, but also radical change. World hunger lessened, borders opened, laws were changed.

Years three and four was more fixing, fixing, remembrance.

The final year—the fight, the return. Steve Rogers. Natalia Romanoff. Tony Stark.

He stares at the hyper-realistic painting of Steve on the wall, leading them all into battle. The shield broken, his lip bloodied, his hair unruly. The same expression Steve wore in all those back alley fights.

Bucky blinks back the tears and grimaces.

It hits him violently. Seeing the timeline, seeing how it coincidentally ends with a painting of Steve—Tony is painted on the wall behind him—a brutal, fierce hit.

He’s been torturing himself. The timeline was basically a timeline of the years he lost, of the years Steve lived. And the second that timeline ended, Steve chose to go back to the beginning.

Bucky’s been torturing himself. Love isn’t supposed to be torture.

He just witnessed the weight of your love when you held up your matching bracelet—your fucking wedding ring—and he’s been crying over this? Over something he never fucking had?

“The timeline wasn’t over, Steve. It wasn’t over for me.”

Bucky backs away, nearly tripping over a stroller, and heads for the entrance.

Bucky stares over the expanse of the cliffside, hands fisting against his thighs. His lips wobble as he tries to think about anything else, anybody else, but his mind keeps conjuring images of Steve.

Bucky believed he had already gone through the anger phase and was basking in the mild glow of acceptance. But here he is, anger pooling in his chest and a metal arm that won’t stop whirring with the need to hit something.

The air is cold and the clouds are bringing in a thunderstorm. He wishes for a breeze of heat, the weather of New York—and it’s pissing him off. Can’t he escape that half of him that New York has in a vice?

It’s all hitting him at once.

Steve left when the world was thrown into another form of chaos.

Steve left when Bucky wanted nothing more than to finally relax.

Steve left when everything was finally good.

Steve left him with unanswered questions and a weird feeling in between each rib after telling him that everything would be okay.

And everything had been, all things considered. Bucky hasn’t put a gun in his mouth, no matter how much he’s imagined it. He’s been on dates, he’s fallen for someone new, and has made new friends. He got a goddamned cat, for crying out loud.

And Steve isn’t here to see him flourishing. All that fighting, all that angst and drama, all those empty praises Steve spit were all pointless if he wasn’t going to stick around long enough to see Bucky making the best of what he’s got.

He may be suffering with heartache and addiction, but he’s alive and that’s damn enough. His best friend left him for someone else, someone Steve knew for such little time. After growing up together, sharing each other’s dreams and breaths, saving each other’s lives for over a century, Steve still left him.

And Bucky Barnes is angry.

“Fuck!” Bucky screams, long and painful and thunderous. His scream echoes horrifically, like a ghost calling for their lost love, like a town screaming at a ship to stop before they crash land, like a man who’s finally breaking. He screams again, longer this time, until his lungs burn. He clenches his fists to his chest and screams again, unaware of your presence creeping up behind him.

He sobs with dry eyes and stares at the waves crashing down below. They’re hypnotic, enough to distract him.

After a moment, Bucky turns to you. The wind whips your hair around and nips at your cheeks, so Bucky focuses on that. You don’t look like you’re going to judge him, or even try to talk to him.

Instead, your chest heaves once, then twice, then you’re expelling a heart-wrenching scream over the same cliffside. A long scream too, one that rips through the fog and gives Bucky an inside look at five hundred years of history. But he knows you’re not screaming for it all. Just like him, you’re screaming for the love you lost. Anger, humiliation, and heartbreak are all mixed into that scream, he can tell. It matches his.

“I hate him,” Bucky says, glancing at you momentarily.

You don’t turn to him. Instead, you nod facing forward.

Then, like he knows it’s the thing you’re not verbally expressing, Bucky crumbles and sobs again. “No, I don’t.”

“They’re both gone, James. It’s up to us to move on.”

“You think I don’t want to?” Of course Bucky wants to move on, wants to think about Steve and not feel his heart crack. He feels all these things for you and it scares him—but there’s no guilt.

If he moves on, then Steve truly is gone. No matter how many times that reality slaps him in the face, moving on would seal it. But he doesn’t feel guilty about it. He thought he would. It pains him. He wants to move on. If skipping the pain was possible, he would move on in a heartbeat.

“I feel it too.” You reach over and grab at his fingers. You’re barely holding hands, but it’s the contact that’s enough. “But we owe it to them.”

“I don’t owe Steve anything.”

That declaration surprises the both of you. Abrupt declarations are always rooted in truth.

“Then we do it for ourselves instead.”

You text Sam that you and Bucky took a taxi and are heading back to the house. He messages back saying him and Peter are going to grab some dinner.

You and Bucky had sat by that cliffside for an hour, freezing and teeth clattering. But you stayed.

Bucky’s angry at halting his own life, at a time he finally got it back, for something he can’t change.

You’re angry at living for ages, experiencing all there is to know, and not noticing that a part of your soul wasn’t at rest.

Or Ari’s soul. He did say you were bonded.

So it’s your soul, too.

Once your bones hurt and Bucky’s shoulder went stiff, you finally went home. You poured yourself some tea, Bucky already sipping his.

“The last time I slept with someone, it was to spite Steve.”

You sputter around the teacup. Bucky’s got that determined flare in his eyes, the one he gave you when he attempted to reassure you about the test results, the same one he gave you when he told you to come to him if you ever wanted to put another bullet in your mouth.

You tread lightly. “When was this?”

“France. 1945.”

You nod, a small urge for him to continue.

“I saw him with Peggy and I just…snapped. I went to the first bar I could find that wasn’t bombed and picked the prettiest girl. Went back to her place and fucked her as slowly as I could. I didn’t want to leave. First time she came, I used my mouth. The second time, she came when I was inside her. Third and fourth time? Same thing. I was with her for a total of four hours. And the second I left her, I broke down. It wasn’t her fault at all. It was me.” Bucky breathes, voice shaking. “I have been punishing myself all because Steve didn’t like me back?”

You swallow through the lump in your throat. Bucky didn’t tell you that story because he wanted to gloat—he hates himself for tearing himself apart.

“You have every right to be angry with him.”

“But I’m letting it control me.”

You can’t just say “then stop it”. What good would that do? Besides, you understand him completely. For decades, centuries, you have let your love for Ari guide (not control) you down paths in life. Whether they led you to good ones, or ones that destroyed you from the inside-out.

“Do you feel guilty about liking me?”

His head snaps upright. You’d be insulted if you didn’t already know he liked you back.

He reaches across the kitchen counter, gripping your chin between his thumb and index. He holds you still as he says, lowly, “All the times I have thought about being with someone new, I have felt guilty. Like I was betraying Steve. Like I was hurting myself. But then you—”

Your blood stops circulating.

“I look at you, and I don’t feel guilty. Not one bit. Not at all. I thought I did, but that’s because I was so used to feeling that way.”

Your breath brushes against the palm of Bucky’s flesh hand. He closes his eyes and fights the shiver that races up his spine.

He steps down from the barstool, the sunset lights cascading over his shoulders. “Everytime I think about being with you…I don’t think about Steve at all.”

He places himself in front of you, his toes touching yours, his brow connecting to yours as he leans down.

“I think about kissing you, and only you. Touching you until your whimpers turn into pleasurable screams. I think about your mouth on me and around me. Your hands pulling at my hair, my hands pulling at yours. I think about being between your legs, tasting you, drinking you in while you fist the mattress. I think about having you on your back and on your stomach, against the wall and on the fucking floor. You have no fucking idea how badly I need to be inside you. To fuck you, make love to you, cherish you. My body craves you. I want you, because I want you. And that about makes me so fucking happy, and so fucking terrified.”

You choke on an inhale. Bucky’s breath mixes with yours, hot and heavy between the small distance of your trembling lips. His hands skim your waist, barely touching as they work up and down. Little fires erupt, tingling and blistering your skin.

A voice in the back of your mind mockingly mutters, You’re a rebound. And he’s yours.

The thought extinguishes the moment Bucky’s lips connect with yours. Shocks begin at your fingertips, trail up your arms, to your neck, igniting something that has lay dormant for centuries.

It’s too much—too much.

The press of your lips becomes stronger, and once Bucky’s tongue slips out to kiss your bottom lip, you become languid. Wobbly and healed and so fucking high it has you pressing your upper half to him, for an overwhelming second, before you jump to hook your legs around his waist.

Bucky anticipates this. He holds you against him by gripping your ass, hot and cold hands squeezing with abandon. He walks you to your room, his breath mingling with yours, small pants escaping when your hands go up to his hair and pull.

He kicks the door closed and falls onto the bed, careful to not crush you. But his care is quickly scoffed at—your legs pull at him with a strength he hasn’t considered.

You’re enhanced. You can take it.

“This is it, Poppy.” The nickname bristles you. “You have to tell me now. You want to do this?”

His eyes are like crystals. Beautiful crystals that sparkle from the mere sight of you. You’ve seen them shine whenever he woke from one of his hangovers, whenever you boxed his dinner, whenever you opened the damn door. Now they sparkle similarly, but with an added honesty.

You run your thumb across his swollen lips, some of your pink lipstick passed on to him.

“I’m honestly surprised we haven’t before.”

Bucky chuckles, peppering kisses down your chin to the column between your collarbones. You arch into him.

“What makes you say that?”

You do your best to shrug while laying down. “I read too many novels.”

This time, Bucky can’t help but laugh louder. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him up to kiss him deeply. Same way as you do for him, Bucky opens up without protest.

“Do you want it soft and slow? Or hard and deep?”

You haven’t been fucked in years. Most of the people you’ve been with have been the slow and sensual type. Not that that’s bad—but fucked? That was over five hundred years ago.

“Hard and deep, James. I’m not fragile.”

Bucky growls, deep and low. The sound travels from your chest to your core.

Remove my clothing. Fucking remove my leggings, James.

As if he read your mind, Bucky keeps his lips on your neck as he rips your leggings down your thighs. Down, down, until he rips them off your bare feet.

“God,” Bucky rasps. His forehead comes to rest on your heaving chest.

“What?”

“The serum.”

You pull yourself up, resting on your elbows. “Are you okay?”

Bucky growls again, his hand gripping your outer thigh. “I can scent you.”

“Make me feel insecure right now and I’ll murder you. I can have the trees pull up their roots and they’ll feast on your decaying corpse for decades.”

He lifts his face to give you an incredulous look. His mouth parts, then snaps shut.

He shakes his head, a strangled laugh held tight. “You smell fucking incredible. And that threat almost made me come in my pants.”

Your shoulders drop in relief. As if to make his previous statement law, he pulls your underwear down with the same force he used when ripping off your leggings. The fabric leaves a burn on the skin of your thighs.

Bucky wastes no time. He dips his head, settles his hips on the bed, and slants his greedy tongue directly over your clit. You yelp, hips jacking upward and nearly punching Bucky in the face. But he’s quicker, and his metal arm holds you down.

Killing you slowly, drowning you in a pleasure that keeps your chest heaving and thighs trembling.

Bucky, for the life of him, doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop. The memories of decades ago float into his mind, providing him with the muscle memory of how to do this. Because if Bucky had to bet on something right now, it’d be that past Bucky Barnes definitely found the taste of pussy delectable.

He lays his tongue flat, providing that amazing pressure you seem to love, then he’s closing his lips around that same spot. Sucking, kissing, angling his tongue to the point he has you screaming.

That’s something Bucky missed too—the sound of a woman crying out from what his mouth can do. He wants to bottle up that beautiful sound you’re making and listen to it the next time he has his hand wrapped around his cock.

If he is lucky, if the Gods grant him a wish, then Bucky won’t have to use his own hand anymore. He might be able to listen to that perfect sound while he has you on his cock instead.

He nips at you, the feeling of his teeth sending you over the edge. The scream you expel turns into a grunt instead, then a squeal as Bucky continues lapping at you.

“James—James, fuck.”

“Come again,” he orders. He holds you down by the sides of your hips, bruising you with care. His flesh finger slips inside you, and that has you writhing.

It’s not enough. Bucky knows it isn’t enough. But he fucks you with his finger, working his way up to two, until his palm smacks against your mound with a squelching rhythm that has you near sobbing.

His metal hand snakes up your waist, past your stomach, and balls your sweater up into a tight fist. He pushes it up, up, balling it against your sternum. You deemed a bra unnecessary today considering the heavyweight sweater. Your breasts bunch underneath the pulled fabric, until the force of Bucky’s push has them reaching a limit. Once they’re presented to him, he sucks a nipple into his watering mouth.

The combination of his fast-moving hand and magnificent mouth is otherworldly. Bucky graduates to three fingers, the stretch welcoming but intense.

He has really big fingers. Three together is about the size of your largest vibrator. He forces them in, past your tight squeeze, past the astounding wetness, fucking you with such precision.

“Come for me,” he breathes. “You have no fucking idea how badly I want to fuck you.”

You can tell. If this is how he fucks you with his hands—

You erupt, hands sprawling over your head to grip at the sheets. Bucky kisses you, even as you scream, until you’re kissing him back feverishly.

He laments pulling his fingers from you, but that only invites the alternative.

Bucky quickly undresses, all the while watching you. You already look fucked-out, blissful and head hazy. The only sign of continuation he gets is when you pull the sweater over your head, baring everything for him.

He tries to catch his breath as you both study each other. He knows he’s littered with scars and healed skin, slash marks and burns.

There, right where your heart is, is a puncture wound from that damned arrow. Bucky makes it his life mission to heal it with his kiss.

You knew he was sculpted. The amount of cardio this man does—fuck. Your eyes fall to below his waist. You bite your lip, taking his cock in. Definitely bigger than your sex toys.

He crawls back onto the bed, eyeing you with a gentle wariness. Like you’re going to change your mind. Second guess this—second guess him.

You pull him to you, latching your eager lips to his, and push whatever love you can into it. Laying a palm on his chest, you share your endless heartbeat.

Bucky grips you by the back of your neck and meets your eyes. “You want to know something?”

“What’s that?”

“If you were to tell me to go, I would beg on my knees to stay.”

Your breath catches. Bucky Barnes, the legendary Winter Soldier, the powerful White Wolf, begging to be yours?

Slow, excruciatingly slow, you drop your knees apart and open yourself to him.

Bucky breathes in slowly, most likely scenting you, and loses control.

Good. You want him to lose all of it.

He pushes you down until his chest meets yours, crushing you underneath his heat. He’s heavy, but it’s nothing to you. You might not have super strength, but you’re able to withstand weight.

Like a tree who houses its many inhabitants.

Bucky pushes into you with a low grunt, his teeth clenched together. Slipping in was so easy, so fucking glorious, he can’t fathom what it’ll be like to do it over and over.

You whine, moving your hips in a small circle. You’re adjusted, you’re great—if only Bucky would fucking move.

“Bucky,” you gasp, feeling him go impossibly deeper. So fucking thick and hot. “Fuck me until I beg you to stop.”

He fists your hair at the back of your head, and pulls your head down into the pillow, bearing your throat for him. With a bite, Bucky slips out until his cockhead remains, and slams back into you with a curse on his lips.

Bucky certainly fucks like he’s got a reason to. You know he feels something deep for you—he made that obvious—but you also know what else he’s sharing. His grief, his individuality, his personal control.

It’s something he was able to decide for himself without anyone else’s influence.

You’d let him fuck you stupid if he needed it.

Your legs lock around his waist, pulling him deeper with each harsh thrust. The force reaches something brilliant in your core, like Bucky’s fucking a tight coil to the point where it’s going to explode. Scratching an itch you couldn’t reach. Imprinting himself at your base.

Bucky grabs onto the headboard, and with that newfound steadying factor, he fucks that coil until your clenching around him, coming with an intensity that makes the veins in your throat expand.

God. You hope Peter and Sam are having a long dinner.

The thrusts have stopped. Coming down from the pleasure, your back falls down onto the mattress. Bucky looks down at you, his hands still braced against the headboard.

“Three times,” he gloats.

You breathe deeply, mouth dry. He grins, a wolfish one, and moves his hips slowly. You whimper, oversensitive.

“Make it easier on me,” you plead, glancing down to where Bucky’s moving inside you. The sight has you reeling, groaning in euphoria.

“How?”

The slide of his cock is so fucking filthy. So fucking flawless.

“Throw me down at the edge and do all the work yourself.”

His eyes go from regular black to some impractical, void black. “I’m already doing all the work.”

“If I wasn’t so floppy right now, I would flip you over and fuck you until you said sorry.”

Another sultry grin. “Promise?”

The Bucky Barnes of the 1940s seems to have made an appearance tonight.

“Before the others return, James. I’d rather you come inside me when they’re nowhere near.”

Come inside me.

That would turn any man feral. Bucky slips from you, missing your tight warmth immediately, and helps you to the end of the mattress. There, he pushes you down onto your stomach and shoves your thighs apart after placing a pillow beneath your hips. Your head hangs off the edge slightly, arms languid.

In this position, Bucky just about adopts the mindset of an alpha asshole. Coming inside you, gripping your hips for his enjoyment, fucking you relentless?

He’s already bitten you. He’s passed that alpha line a hell of a long time ago.

When your legs are spread as far as Bucky wants them, he covers you with his body and drives his hips forward, reaching brand new areas that already have you whimpering.

This position is one that’s going to kill him. He’s going to think about this feeling, the sight of your perfect ass, the sight of your cunt presented for him, for fucking ever.

Bucky moves his hands over yours, lacing his fingers through the tops of your fingers. He fucks you hard, fiercely, taking his cues from the squeeze of your cunt and your fingers in his.

There. There. There!

Your mouth parts in a silent scream, your saliva staining the sheets below. For the fourth time, Bucky draws an earth-shattering orgasm from the pits of your fucking soul.

He fucks you through it, the thickness of his cock bringing tears to your eyes. The delightful stretch, the perfect burn—if he doesn’t come in the next minute, you’re going to start vibrating.

“You are the best thing I have ever felt,” Bucky breathes in your ear. Goosebumps erupt down your neck. “The absolute best woman I have ever met.”

Something inside you breaks, leaking down each rib. His words hold so much meaning, so much gratitude, so much pain.

You sob as Bucky nears his end, spilling into you with a loud moan. He fucks through it, milking himself of everything he can. His spent leaks out of you, circling the girth of his cock. He continues, however, fucking it all back into you.

The primal words whisper through his head.

Mine.

When he finally finds the strength to remove himself, he lays beside you. His metal hand remains intermingled with yours. He taps his fingers, and you tap yours back.

Good. For a moment he thought you were dead.

“James.”

Bucky swallows, sweat drenched over his chest. “Poppy.”

You grin, half of your face still smooshed against the mattress. “You’re in charge of telling Sam and Peter why the fuck you’re sleeping in my room tonight.”

Bucky’s laugh rumbles through your chest, filling you with another kind of pleasure. A more innocent, dormant one.

Neither of you feel like this shouldn’t have happened.

Not once did you mourn what you have lost; not once did he mourn what he never had.

Bucky wakes up around two in the morning. He feels the weight of something across his chest, warming his metal arm and tickling his hair. He glances down, marveling at the top of your head and the sound of your gentle snoring.

He smiles up at the ceiling, biting his bottom lip to keep from cheering. It’s immature—he wants to fist bump the air like a teenager who just got laid. And that’s part of it. He just got laid for the first time in a fucking long time, and he did it with someone he trusts, and who trusts him.

So excuse him for being a little immature about this. He lays for a while longer and thinks, “I deserve this. I deserve to be happy.”

The feeling of his dry throat has him rising carefully, folding your arms into your own chest so you're hugging yourself. He looks at you, desperately craving another round, but even he can’t get it up again tonight. But the sight of you in his t-shirt and panties?

He runs a finger along your hairline, pushing your baby hairs back only for them to bounce up again.

His heart clenches, and bleeds magnificently.

The kitchen is dark when he goes to fill a glass of water. He can vaguely see the outline of Peter’s body on the couch. The little fucker took the opportunity. Which means Sam and Peter most likely know where he was tonight. He hadn’t had time to tell them anything—you both fucked a couple times after the first round.

The realization has him cringing—but also wanting to punch the air again.

He drinks his glass, studies the trees outside, and wonders how the fuck he got so lucky with friends like these.

His ear tickles, so he scratches it against his shoulder. It tickles again, but this time he can faintly hear the unmistakable voice his mind couldn’t possibly conjure. Like a fairy, small and delicate, scared and in a panic.

“We can’t get in! But you can get out! Wake her up, wake her up, wake her up!”

Bucky hits the floor when he takes the first step.

Something slithers across your exposed leg, raising the blankets and inviting in more cold. The black tendrils of shadow come from the cracks beneath the bedroom door, as if they entered through the front, through the living room, and down the long hallway. It’s silent, both dry and slimy, harmless and brutal.

One tug is all it takes to rip you out of bed and onto the hardwood floor. You yelp, immediately reaching down to pry it from your leg, but it’s intangible. Your fingers go directly through, scratching at your own skin. The tendrils pull, pull, and you’re yanked closer to the door. You dig your nails into the floor, clenching your teeth from the pain of it, and slap rapidly to make noise.

Your mouth won’t work. Something heavy wraps around your neck, choking you while at the same time breathing life. Your voice is rendered useless.

You slap and hit and rip shreds of wood from the doorframe as it yanks you through. Your ribs hurt from all the writhing, and as much as you try to prevent your chin from slamming down, each yank nearly causes your cheek to splinter the floor.

The tendrils pull you past Sam’s room, and you’re banging, banging, snatching the wood of the frame until it breaks off. With that piece of wood, you stab it into the wall and keep it there, leaving a brutal slash that continues as you do.

Sam sprints from his room, looking both ways before he sees you on the floor. You lift your arm up, reaching for him, but the shadows are too quick.

“Guys! Guys!”

Bucky snaps awake, his eyes heavy and an awful ringing in his ears. Peter awakens the same way, groggy and slow. A lamp falls, wood cracks, the wind howls.

Then Bucky sees as the front door whips open from his place on the kitchen floor, and a horrible black shadow stands there, pulling you across the floor like you’re an escaped horse.

Bucky scrambles, his eyes burning, his head throbbing. Peter moves similarly, but he’s quicker—thank you, thank you, thank you, Bucky thanks whoever.

Sam’s yelling, demanding Bucky stand, demanding Peter to use his webs.

Why can’t he move quicker? He can’t run, can’t speak—it’s like he’s dreaming and he needs to get away but he runs in slow-motion, his feet swollen, his heart pounding.

Wake up, wake up, wake up! the sweet voice screams.

When your head passes through the front door, your screaming becomes audible. The porch squeaks, then snaps as your fists slam down into it. But the shadow is too strong, relentless, and it’s laughing as you struggle.

Your body meets grass and finally, fucking finally, the trees spring into action. As if they too were rendered useless until exposed to you.

Branches slither across the ground and reach you, wrapping themselves around your waist and below your armpits. You’re tugged in the opposite direction now, back to Sam and an incapacitated Bucky and Peter.

A tug-of-war ensues, bruising your body. But you endure it, you press your lips together and endure it. The house creaks as the roots beneath it flourish to the top and crawl to you.

Your eyes meet Bucky’s. His wide, frightened ones. He and Peter clamber down the front porch steps, seemingly understanding that their powers are pointless if on the property. The shadows still encompass the house—their minds.

Sam. Sam’s human. He wasn’t deemed a threat. He has a shield, he has a gun, but there’s no possible way he could stop the darkness.

A bandage of webs around your outstretched wrist aids your magic. Peter pulls, digging his heels into the ground, and shouts as the shadows snap back against him. But he doesn’t falter—he digs his heels in further, jaw clenched, and pulls through the blinding pain.

Bucky wraps his arms around Peter’s waist, pulling in the direction of the house. His head is still heavy, but he knows where he is and what’s happening.

Bucky refuses, absolutely fucking refuses, to lose you too.

He whips his right hand back and clasps Sam’s. Sam, digging the shield into the ground with his free arm looped through, is the last line of defense. You wrap branches around Sam’s waist to help hold him upright.

Something cracks.

Something—

You shriek and thrash, your skin blistered hot from the amount of force from both sides. Your stomach stretches, pulled to its maximum. Your elbows pop. Your shoulders pop. Your knees. Your hips.

You’re being torn in half.

The trees, sensing this, begin to loosen. Through their grief, through their apologies, they loosen their grip until you’re dropped back down to earth. Instant relief overtakes you, swelling in your eyes. Bucky’s eyes meet yours once again, confused.

You fashion a wooden dagger as fast as you can, your face one massive apology to the three men trying to save your life, and slash through Peter’s web.

They catapult backward, all of them falling into a pile. Peter stands, runs, runs, runs.

The shadow leans over you, flipping you onto your back. It leans down, down, until a nasty humanoid figure finally reveals itself. Pale, chapped skin that threatens to fall from bone, bloodless thin lips, eyes as big as tennis balls and dark as night. Its sunken cheeks stretch into a malformed smile, revealing no teeth but smoke, smoke that reeks of the undead.

The shadows loom behind the demonic figure. You want the shadows, the shadows, the shadows. You’d do anything to bring the boring shadows back.

Its hands reach out, long and bony with nails longer than the bone itself. It runs a nail down your cheek, nicking your tender flesh. The cut opens, spilling into its scooped nail. It brings its nail to its mouth, and sucks.

“Dear Gods.”

Other words elude you. There’s no point in begging for your life. This was an Undead. An immortal whose soul had been bled dry, sold, or never replenished. They were mere folklore. Characters in stories made to scare children. Creatures made by witches, made by the Gods themselves, made to wreak havoc when called upon. They dragged their human prey down to the deepest trenches of Hell, where they tortured, raped, and tore them apart.

The cult. The goddamned Undead. This demon must have been unleashed by the cult in demand of your blood.

You twist your neck as far as you can, forcing yourself to look away from its monstrous face.

Peter has stopped running. Thank the Gods he stopped. Like him, Bucky and Sam are frozen.

Noise resembling that of nails on a chalkboard bursts in your ears. Your ears bleed. One more look at the demon atop of you and you realize that’s its voice.

“The Immortal…The Bleeding Heart…The Forgotten…The Shield. All in one place.”

“What do you want?” Your voice shakes. Your stomach drops as it pushes its face down to yours, slowly, teasingly.

“Four is better than one.”

“Don’t you dare touch them.”

Smoke escapes its excuse of a smile.

“You will, undoubtedly, make an excellent feast, Mother Earth. I shall call you my Persephone.”

“Get away from her!”

Whether it hears the order or not, it shows no recognition. It wraps its bony arms around you, lifts you into its dark cloak, and vanishes into the night.

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