#because she was defensive and nervous and had every single right to be because she had been trying to save her friend

[roosterforme]

The Younger Kind Part 25 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley doesn't know how he will be able to function if Meredith wins custody. As Noah cries in the courtroom, he whishes he would have done more to ensure this never happened. But when he watches you, terrified but supporting him anyway, he knows what he really needed this whole time was you. 

Warnings: Angst, swearing, fluff, and age gap (18+)

Length: 4100 words

Pairing: Single dad!Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x babysitter!female reader

Check out my masterlist for more! The Younger Kind masterlist.

The courtroom was freezing cold. Your blazer was scratchy against your arms, and Noah was already crying. As soon as Bradley had to hand his son over to the court appointed counselor, Noah's tears started flowing. And now you were seated in the front row, right behind Bradley, but you couldn't slide down the bench to get to Noah. You couldn't even look at the back of Bradley's head for too long without feeling like it was suspicious. 

So you sat there and listened to Noah softly ask for his dad over and over again while Judge Greene listed everyone who was present today. When your name was called, Meredith and her lawyer both turned back to look at you with identical sneers.

Stay strong. Stay strong. You kept telling yourself you would handle this, but you didn't even have to do anything yet, and you already felt ready to fold. But the soft sobbing from Noah and the fact that Meredith hadn't looked at her son once kept you motivated. 

Both lawyers gave statements which were largely identical, each one claiming their client would be the better option to raise Noah. But you noticed that while Bradley was fighting for zero visitation rights for Meredith, she was doing the opposite. She seemed willing to have Bradley visit with Noah if she won today. And that made you nervous, because even to your untrained ears, it sounded like she was more flexible than him. She also made it clear she was going to fight for financial support. 

"Lieutenant Bradshaw, please stand and give your statement," Judge Greene commanded. You had listened last night at Bradley's kitchen table while he read over his personal statement with Tracy, but hearing his deep, raspy voice shake now had you squeezing your hands to keep calm. 

"My son turned four on April twelfth. For every single one of his birthdays, I have been the only parent involved in his life. If something needs to be done for him, I do it. I pay for everything. I care for him in every way. He only knows me," Bradley said, taking a deep breath. "His mother abandoned us. Both of us. And I know he's sitting right behind me and listening to everything I'm saying. And I can hear him crying, which is making it really hard to stand here right now. But I also know he has no idea who his biological mom is. I do not think it would be in his best interest to remove him from his home and the parent who loves him."

When Meredith stood to give her statement, you could tell she felt defensive. It was rolling off of her in waves. Her voice was harsh as she tried to make claims that you just couldn't believe. "Bradley has kept my son from me. For years I've tried reaching out to him, and I'm lucky to even get a response. So the idea that I could have abandoned them is preposterous. He never asked me for money, so I never gave it. Had he asked, I would have been more than happy to help provide. But along with that, changes in my lifestyle have meant that I'm ready to take full control of my son's custody. As his mother. And I'm more than willing to work with a court appointed counselor to ensure that visitation rights would be granted. I'm being more than fair. A mother is better equipped to care for her child than a father."

You were shivering in the cold room now, and while Bradley's posture had only incrementally changed, you could tell he was angry. But Tracy looked completely relaxed. How could that be? Meredith was a fucking liar! And Noah was whining for his dad! And nothing that was going on in this room was fair or just. 

The lawyers were going back and forth like a verbal wrestling match now. It was impressive. Mesmerizing. When one of them seemed to have the upper hand, the other made a swift comeback. The only problem was, Meredith was being made to sound like a saint. You couldn't understand why Tracy wasn't going for the kill right now. The sooner this was over, the sooner you and Bradley could take Noah back to his house and let things go back to normal. The three of you eating dinner together would help Noah forget about his tears. You wanted your boys to pretend today never happened.

You watched Meredith's profile as she sat there, completely aloof when Judge Greene called the counselor and Noah up toward the bench. Noah pulled his hand away and ran right for Bradley, tears in his eyes again. 

"It's okay, Bub," he soothed, dropping down from his chair to kneel in front of his son. "It's okay to go with them. It won't even take long."

"I want to go home," Noah hiccupped, looking between you and Bradley, knowing the comfort that one or both of you usually provided him. But none of that came right now. Bradley picked him up and handed him over with a soft kiss on the cheek. Noah wailed as he was carried off to the judge's chambers for some one on one questions with Judge Greene. 

And Meredith sat there like she hadn't a care in the world while Bradley cradled his head in his hands on the table in front of him. Tracy tried to get him to drink some water from her bag, but he wouldn't. You reminded yourself not to look at him too much, and that's when Meredith caught your eye again. She was fighting to try to keep the smirk from her face as she tried to appear serious. You knew what she was probably going to have her lawyer ask you. You knew it was going to be ridiculous. But you didn't like the way she was looking at you like you were the only thing between her and what she wanted. 

When Judge Greene returned empty handed, Bradley scrambled to his feet. "Where's Noah?" he asked, and Tracy was immediately trying to get him to sit down.

"In my chambers, coloring. He's just fine. Now, I'd like to call up some character witnesses."

You waited while three separate people spoke about Meredith like she was sunshine incarnate instead of a woman who left her son behind like he was nothing to her. Then your name was called. You made your way up to the seat near the front, and Meredith's lawyer wasted no time in trying to break you. 

"You're a character witness for Bradley Bradshaw?"

"Yes," you replied, mortified by the way your voice shook. "I am."

"And how do you know him?"

You swallowed hard. "I babysit Noah on occasion." It was the truth, but it felt like a lie. Saying you were just Noah's occasional babysitter was a wholly inadequate representation of what the two of them meant to you. Of how much you loved them. You had to swallow against the sick feeling in your throat.

"Is that all you do when you're watching Noah? Or do you stay? Earn some money by doing things for Lieutenant Bradshaw?"

Cold sweat broke out along your neck and chest, and your eyes shifted to Bradley without warning. He looked irate and red in the face, and you were already embarrassed after less than a minute of questioning. 

"I object!" Tracy called out, waving her hand in the air. "That's hearsay. And irrelevant." 

"Sustained," Judge Greene said calmly, as if there was no reason for you to feel like you were going to vomit right now. "Any further questions?"

But of course Meredith's lawyer had more questions for you. And they were all designed to make you look bad. 

"How did you pay for nursing school? Did Lieutenant Bradshaw offer to give you an outlandish salary to spend time with him? Do you actually have any experience watching a child that age? How are you qualified to spend time with him? What sorts of questionable things did you find in that house?"

You tried to answer each question with calm composure, but soon you felt like you couldn't breathe. Your eyes were burning. You turned to the judge, but she gave you a bland look. You were on your own. So you took a deep breath, determined to finish this even if your voice was shaking again.

"As a nursing student, you must have access to prescription drugs. Do you use them?"

"No!" you said, having had just about enough of this. Bradley was rubbing his hand along his face, barely keeping it together. Tracy was looking at you, eyes pleading with you to hold it together. "I do not steal or use prescription drugs. I'm studying pediatric nursing. I'm more than qualified to take care of Noah."

"Would you be willing to be drug tested?" the other lawyer asked. 

"Absolutely. You want blood? Urine? Hair? Depending on the lab, you could have results by the end of the day." Your jaw was clenched tight. 

"One last question," he said with a smile. "Is it true that you seduced Lieutenant Bradshaw? And that you're pregnant with his child?"

The audible gasp that came from you mirrored Tracy's. Bradley was now gripping the edge of the table in front of him. You were shaking as you said, "I'll take a pregnancy test, too."

You would do it if they made you. But it didn't seem fair. Your relationship with Bradley didn't have anything to do with how he cared for Noah. It didn't have anything to do with how qualified you were to babysit. Tears filled your eyes, but you had promised Tracy you wouldn't cry. You watched through blurry vision as she jumped to her feet and approached your seat. 

"He's badgering the witness with irrelevant questions!" she said, and Judge Greene told the other lawyer to sit down. 

Tracy must have been able to tell you were shaken up, because she asked, "Can we take a short recess?"

"No," Judge Green replied with a sharp shake of her head. "Let's carry on with your questioning."

Tracy took her time walking back to the table and gathering her notes, giving you a moment to catch your breath. Your hands were still shaking when Tracy asked you, "Did Lieutenant Bradshaw ever make you feel uncomfortable?"

"No. Never." 

"Did he ever criticize the way you cared for his son?"

"No," you said, your voice sounding stronger now. 

Tracy shuffled her papers and asked, "Does Lieutenant Bradshaw seem to be a loving and caring parent to Noah?"

"Yes," you replied with conviction. 

"Now, can you tell me a little bit about how you injured your arm in the parking lot at Meyer Park?"

You watched the color drain from Meredith's face as you recounted the way she had scared you, forcing you to run to safety with Noah.

"And was that the only time you saw her prior to this morning?" Tracy asked. 

"I saw her yesterday," you replied. "At the grocery store. I thought she was following me."

"Objection!" shouted the other lawyer. 

"Sustained," responded Judge Greene. Your head was swimming with what you were supposed to say and what you were supposed to stay away from. You couldn't remember. And you could barely focus on Tracy. But she wanted you to get to the point. You could tell.

So you blurted out, "Meredith asked me if I was sleeping with Bradley to get to his money. She mentioned a life insurance payout and his expensive car."

"It's actually a Bronco," Bradley muttered, raking his fingers through his hair as Meredith slammed her hand down on the notebook in front of her and started whispering to her lawyer. 

Tracy asked another question quickly while everyone else was distracted. "And what did you do when you left the grocery store?"

She was giving you an encouraging look, so you said. "I looked some things up online. About how her business filed for bankruptcy. And her home went into foreclosure. And she said in an interview after Noah was born that she doesn't have any kids."

"Objection!" the other lawyer shouted again. 

"Overruled," said Judge Greene, and Tracy looked like just won the lottery. "Please continue," she said, brow creased in concern now.

You felt like an idiot as you told Tracy that you used Google to search for information about Meredith, but you just kept going. 

"I found articles that suggest that her business went into bankruptcy because of mismanaged funds. And insider trading with her business partner. They were married, but it appears that he left her."

Every single time the other lawyer tried to object to what you were saying, the judge overruled it. And then Tracy urged you to continue. But you were shaking from a combination of anxiety and fear. 

"It sounds like she has no money," you said, voice quivering again as you met Bradley's eyes. You'd never seen him look so distraught or so hopeful before. He was silently cheering you on, like he knew how strong you could be. So you kept going.

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

Bradley was practically ready to crawl out of his own skin. He couldn't stand the way Meredith's lawyer kept yelling at you. He hated that he had to sit here in this horribly uncomfortable seat and just listen as your character got ripped to shreds. He wanted to take you and Noah home, order a pizza and watch a movie. You looked like you wanted to cry, but you didn't. And Bradley was so proud of how strong you were.

When Tracy started asking you questions, you sat up a little taller. You sounded a little bolder. And then Meredith was the one in a state of panic. 

"It sounds like she has no money," you said, as you met Bradley's eyes. "That doesn't sound like the right reason to fight for custody of a child."

The room went silent for a second after that. And then Meredith stood up and said, "I've lost everything, okay? Everything! But Noah is my blood, and I have a right to him, too!"

Then chaos broke out. When Bradley stood and said, "Why do you want him now that you're broke, huh?" he felt Tracy's hands on his arm, pulling him back to his chair. 

"Let her sink her own ship," she whispered, keeping a firm hand on his forearm. You were still sitting up in the front, perched on the edge of the seat like you wanted to run. He wanted to scoop you up like he always did, for your own comfort, but for his as well. 

He listened to Meredith rant and try to blame him for everything as her lawyer begged her to sit. He listened to her call you a slut and claim once again that you were pregnant. She said she knows you bought pregnancy tests at the grocery store. So what if you were pregnant? It didn't have anything to do with Noah or Bradley's ability to take care of him. It didn't have anything to do with that fact that Bradley would never abandon a child like she had. 

He watched Judge Greene remain completely calm as Meredith's lawyer finally got her to sit down. Then she stood and said, "Please bring me all written evidence. I'll have my decision shortly." Both lawyers handed her folders before she disappeared into her chambers. 

"Where's Noah?" Bradley asked Tracy immediately, accepting a bottle of water from her. 

"He's with the counselor. He's fine. And you did great."

"I barely did anything!" he growled, worried he hadn't done enough today. He'd done nothing compared to you. As you stood and made your way to the rows of benches behind him, you never met his eyes. He loved you. All he ever wanted to do was protect you from all of this. You shouldn't be here right now. If he lost Noah today, he didn't know how he was going to continue to exist. And you should have had no part in this nightmare. 

He'd forced this on you in a way. Every step he took since he met you led you here. Bradley had tried so hard to cut you out, end things with you, but he was so fucking weak. He should have been more focused on Noah. But he had been. He'd been trying to find someone to date who would make him and Noah complete, or at least better. And despite his initial reservations, that was you.

When he turned to face you, your eyes snapped up to meet his. He'd never be able to thank you enough for everything you'd done for both of them. But he wanted to have the chance. He wanted you to know what you meant to him and to Noah. 

"How long is this going to take?" he asked Tracy, wiping his sweaty palms on his suit pants. He could hear Meredith talking, but he kept himself focused on his lawyer.

"Hard to say," she told him calmly. "Just keep breathing. Focus on your breathing." 

So he did, and when he started to feel sick again, Tracy talked to him. And then Judge Greene was coming back out, and Bradley could see Noah through the door before it closed. Dread rose inside him as the judge had everyone in the room stand. He felt like his limbs weighed a million pounds as he faced the front of the room. 

Every second of silence made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He almost had to reach for Tracy when Judge Greene said, "In light of today's testimonies and evidence plus the collection of evidence I reviewed leading up to the trial, I have reached a decision regarding the custody of Noah Bradshaw."

Bradley had to close his eyes. All of his senses were overwhelmed, and he was afraid he was going to breakdown. 

"The following decision is a reflection of what is in the best interest of the child. Full custody is to be awarded to Bradley Bradshaw. There will be no visitation privileges. There will be no child support owed. The child's biological father is to be his sole guardian."

Bradley collapsed back down onto the chair as he cried. "Oh my god," he groaned, cradling his face in his hands. He was gasping for air as he felt Tracy's hand on his shoulder. He could see Meredith storm out of the room. He could hear you laughing and crying at the same time behind him as the counselor walked back out of the judge's chambers with Noah. 

And then he was out of his chair again, rushing toward his son and scooping him up. "I colored you a monkey," Noah told him as Bradley smothered his whole face in kisses. 

"I love it," Bradley promised him without even looking at the coloring sheet. "It's perfect, and I love it so much." He buried his face against Noah's neck and inhaled. 

"And I colored a unicorn for Princess."

"Yeah?" Bradley asked, holding him tight. "She's gonna love it, too."

"I know," Noah replied confidently. "I told them about how she brings me coloring books and cooks food like spaghetti. And how she plays blocks and reads and can sing good."

"You told them about Princess?" Bradley asked, turning to the back of the room. You were waiting patiently for them, a huge smile on your face as you bounced a little bit on your feet.

"Yep. I told them that she loves me and that you do too. Can we go home yet?"

As much as Bradley wanted to keep you separate from all of this, he needed you the whole time. And so did Noah. He rushed toward you and took you by the hand. "Now we can go home."

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

You unlocked the front door with your key, and Bradley kissed you again. A huge smile was still plastered all over your face as you watched how much he loved his son. He ended up on his back on the living room floor while Noah sat on top of him and laughed. Bradley's suit was a wrinkly mess now as you knelt down next to them. 

"You want spaghetti for dinner, Noah?" Your appetite was back, and you were ravenous. There was no doubt in your mind that Bradley could do with a good meal as well.

"Yeah! And ants on logs!" 

You kissed his chubby cheek and said, "Let me check on the raisin situation." Then you leaned down to kiss Bradley's lips, and he pulled you back for a second and a third. 

He murmured, "I love you," before briefly swiping your tongue with his. You ran your fingers back through his hair and let your forehead rest on his. 

"I love both of you." Then you kissed his nose and went to the kitchen, letting them have a little more time alone as they laughed on the floor. 

As you set a pot on the stove to boil some water, your eyes filled with tears. It felt like a combination of stress and relief and happiness. You sank to the floor with your back to the cabinet and cried. When you left the courthouse with Bradley, Meredith was nowhere to be found. Bradley had hugged Tracy with tears in his eyes, and she promised to be in touch with him soon to take some final actions. And then she told you that you had done a great job of staying calm and presenting evidence against Meredith while acting as a character witness. "I wish everyone was as professional as you."

Her words echoed in your head as you remembered that you didn't live here with Bradley and Noah. Not really. You were still going to need to finish writing your final papers for school and start looking for a job to support yourself. Because contrary to what Meredith thought, you hadn't been fucking Bradley to get him to pay your tuition. You had a mountain of loans to pay off now. And really, it would be better if you left after dinner tonight and went home. You'd have to get used to a routine where Bradley was your boyfriend with his own space. 

Noah came running in a minute later as you wiped your eyes. "I'm hungry," he informed you, sitting down on your lap. Bradley walked in without his suit coat on. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. His tie was loose, and his top few buttons were undone.

"How about I make dinner and you just supervise?" he asked, pulling you to your feet. "You had a long day, too."

So you nodded at him, and he picked you up and set you on the counter. And then he set Noah on your lap and started the playlist you made. You showed him how to brown the meat and add the sauce. You showed him how to keep the spaghetti noodles from sticking together.

And as he was plating the food, he paused and looked at you. "I forgot. I picked something up at the store the other day for us to celebrate with. Wait here." He dashed out of the room, and you slipped down off of the counter with Noah in your arms. You finished getting the spaghetti onto plates and pulled out the carrots to make him some ants, and then Bradley was back in the kitchen with the biggest bag of Skittles you had ever seen.

Laughter bubbled out of you along with another sob. "I'm happy, but I can't stop crying."

He tossed the Skittles aside and grabbed you by the hips. "That's because you really care about us. You always have. And you saved us today."

The prickle of his mustache against your skin had you parting your lips for him. He held you close, his thumbs stroking you through your pants as you worked your fingers through his hair. "I love you," he rasped, releasing your lips in favor of whispering the sexiest, loveliest things in your ear while Noah made a huge mess of spaghetti at the table. 

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Ahhhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhh! Hope you enjoy your fic, @beyondthesefourwalls And thank you @mak-32 !

PART 26

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#bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster fanfic #rooster x you #rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #rooster bradshaw fic #rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster x reader #top gun imagine #top gun maverick imagine #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction #roosterforme #the younger kind

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

darilaros (princess) │ Chapter 6: Kindred

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: As the second daughter of King Viserys, you experience firsthand what it means to belong to the House of the Dragon. Your uncle returns from his war in the Stepstones.

Hello! Another apology for the lateness of this one; in my defense, this is over 8,000 words, hahaha. Lots of stuffs/feelings to be had! A note - Daemon did not return and get exiled on the same day here. He's gonna take a couple weeks before fucking up, lol. Just - be aware of that as you read on. Thank you to @randomdragonfires for workshopping this crapbag for me, ahahaha! And thank you to my boobear @ewanmitchellcrumbs, who is sick as a dog but gave this her addled, slightly fever-induced thumbs up.

TRIGGERS: child injury, mild blood mention.

“Shoulders back,” Septa hisses from above you.

Although there are so many people around you, you are the only one that hears her. Everyone else is too busy whispering among themselves, wondering why Papa has called the lords and ladies staying in the Keep to attend him—and why they are being made to stand outside the Great Hall.

You can feel Septa looking at you, so you do as you are told and straighten your back, pushing your shoulders into place the way she wants. She hates it when you slouch. Usually, you’re better at keeping to her rules, at being a good lady, but you find yourself distracted today.

Is that ’Nyra? you wonder, trying to look past the rather wide nobleman’s form beside you to further back in the crowd, to where you are sure you’d seen a head of silver hair far too tall to be Aegon or Helaena.

It shouldn’t be her. ’Nyra has been on a tour for moons now, sailing around the kingdom in search of a husband. According to Papa, she has rejected every single one. That doesn’t surprise you—she has always said that she would never want to marry and have many babies like some ladies are made to do. Still, an order is an order, and Papa is King. That means that ’Nyra has to do as he says, and so she must find a man to marry and have babies with whether she likes it or not.

She cannot be back, then. She still has two more moons left.

Suddenly, the doors swing open. The Kingsguard at the front of the crowd march into the Great Hall, clearing the way for you and Septa to follow. She takes a firm hold of your arm as you walk to the steps leading to the Iron Throne, to where Papa stands holding onto Blackfyre. Because Lord Hightower has taken his station to the right of the Throne, you go to the left, where Ser Harrold has made a space for you. Septa releases you and makes herself invisible in the crowd, leaving you alone. You clasp your hands together tightly, trying your best not to bury your fingers into your skirts and twist like you do when you are always nervous. You do not like crowds very much, even though you are a Princess and all Princesses ought to enjoy the attention.

You watch the lords and ladies fill each side of the Hall, and you see it again. The silver-haired head. Her. It is ’Nyra, you realise.

A part of you wants to shout her name, to smile so wide your face hurts and run to her and give her a hug so strong it nearly cracks her bones into pieces—but you won’t. Septa Marlow would be terribly angry if you behaved so poorly. And, from the way she won’t look at Papa, and the way he is frowning at her, she is in plenty of trouble. You do not think he knew she was coming back, so she must have done so without him allowing her to.

A great clang comes from beyond the entry, getting yours and everyone else’s attention. All eyes turn to the doors as footsteps echo out, fast at first, and the room falls quiet. Then, a new set of steps can be heard, slower and quieter.

He appears. Uncle.

The first thing you notice is his hair. It used to be long, you think. It isn’t anymore. You are sure you very much liked to play with his long hair when you were smaller. Most of his hair—short now, shorter than even Ser Criston’s—is covered by a strange crown that looks like it’s been tied together rather than forged like gold ones are. His armour is plain, with only a dragon scale pattern showing that he is a Targaryen. The grandest and most familiar thing about him is his sword, Dark Sister, shining bright at his hip and in his hold around the grip. A heavy-looking hammer swings from his other hand.

When he sees you, he smiles. You wish you could do the same.

You were so little before, when he knew you and you knew him. You don’t remember it well. One thing you do remember is how your sadness at him leaving turned to anger. He never said goodbye. He never even wrote to you. He could have written. He could have, and he didn’t.

Ser Harrold draws his blade when Uncle comes near, pointing the tip into his breastplate. The other Kingsguard draw theirs, too. Uncle Daemon stops, staring down at where the steel meets his own body. He gazes up to Papa behind you.

Holding out the hammer, he says, “Add it to the chair.”

It makes a loud clattering sound when it falls heavy upon the stone floor. You want to hold your hands to your ears, but it’d do naught but earn you a scolding from Septa later. As he steps back, you notice that ’Nyra has moved further up in the crowd. She is fighting not to smile as she stares at him.

Ser Harrold sheathes his sword and picks up the hammer, moving back to where he was previously.

“You wear a crown.” Papa looks very grand in his robes, his own crown making Uncle Daemon’s look silly indeed. “Do you also call yourself ‘King’?”

“Once we smashed the Triarchy, they named me ‘King of the Narrow Sea’.” Uncle’s smile is what Septa would call arrogant as his words set off gasps in the crowd. You do not think she likes him very much. “But I know there is only one true king, Your Grace.”

He kneels. The other Kingsguards’ blades follow him down. “My crown and the Stepstones,” he says, taking off his crown, “are yours.”

Papa looks to the door. “Where is Lord Corlys?”

“He sailed home to Driftmark.”

“Who holds the Stepstones?”

“The tides… the crabs, and two thousand dead Triarchy corsairs, staked to the sand to warn those who might follow.”

You shiver. How awful. What a frightfully monstrous thing to do to another person, and he did it to two whole thousand of them. Septa says that noble knights treat their enemies with respect—you are not sure if Uncle Daemon would count as a noble knight, then.

Papa walks down the stairs to the Iron Throne, using Blackfyre as a sort of cane. It clacks against the ground as it hits each step.  He stills right before Uncle, accepting the crown and passing it to a nearby Kingsguard. “Rise,” he says.

For a moment, you are not sure what he means to do. He’d looked unhappy. Perhaps he is going to hit Uncle. Maybe he’ll have him thrown in the cells.

But, after Uncle stands, Papa’s hand comes to rest on his arm, and then up further to his shoulder. Uncle moves forward, his head falling onto Papa’s shoulder in a hug. The lords and ladies in the room applaud.

You follow along, though you are sure the sound of your own claps are very quiet compared to all the others. Truthfully, you don’t know if you are as happy as everyone else seems to be.

Septa Marlow does not let you stay back to speak to ’Nyra. Instead, you are made to go back to your chambers and find an appropriate dress for the feast Papa has announced is to happen in an hour’s time in the Godswood. All the while you are being dressed by your maids, you can hear her muttering about how unseemly it is that a party is to be held in such a godsless place. You tell her in your mind that the Godswood is not godsless, but rather is for gods that she doesn’t believe in. Saying such a thing aloud will only earn you a strike to the palm with her willow switch, though. You’ve only ever been struck once for asking Alicent why she named your youngest brother Aemond when it is almost the same as Daemon, and so she ought to have named him that instead. It is not a lesson you want to repeat.

By the time Septa allows you to go down to the Godswood—thankfully, you get to go without her, because she refuses to ‘step foot in that blasphemous space’—the nobles are wandering around, laughing and drinking as they celebrate the return of the King’s brother. You spy platters of lemon cakes, pastries, cheeses and breads undercover and to the right. Papa, Alicent and Uncle Daemon stand closer to the heart tree, appearing merry in their conversation.

Before you can decide where to go, you are set upon by ’Nyra. “Little sister,” she says, stepping in front of you with a smile on her face. She looks very well in her rose-coloured gown, her hair pulled back like always.

Your own mouth curves to match hers as you fling your arms around her, breathing in the smell of her, of seawater and flowers and something that you cannot describe, but is just part of who she is. Her hands press warm against your back and you don’t think you’ve ever missed anything, anyone this much before. She is home.

She laughs as she pulls back. “I missed you, too.”

If you speak all the words on the tip of your tongue—I am so glad you are back, I love you, please please don’t ever leave me alone here again—you think you might cry. If you cry, you will be sent back to your rooms, back to Septa Marlow. You do not wish for that to happen.

“Are you done already?” is what you decide to ask, squeezing her hand so as to tell her the things you cannot say. She squeezes back, so she understands, though at the same time she is tilting her head a bit like she does when she’s confused. You realise that your question probably does not make much sense to her. Septa says you must learn to be clearer when asking things. “With the tour?” you add, to help her see what you mean.

’Nyra shrugs. “I found little to be desired in the men of the Stormlands. Or the North. Or the Westerlands. The entire Realm seems to be made up of insipid little beasts masquerading as suitors.” She sniffs, scowling. Her hand tightens on yours, but it does not hurt. You think she can tell that you don’t really know what she means, because she smiles down at you and gives you another, different answer. “I am done with the tour. But I have not found a husband, no.”

Your sister pulls you along to the table away from the lords and ladies gathered, grabbing a lemon cake and handing it to you. You frown—there is no candied lemon slice on top, like there is usually. In fact, none of the lemon cakes have candied lemon slices on them. They are your favourite part. You hope the cooks are not trying something new. It does not stop you from eating it, though.

“Will Papa be very angry with you?” you ask her in between bites, taking care not to speak with your mouth full.

“Most likely,” ’Nyra says. She does not sound concerned by it. You must look bothered, because she laughs and adds, “Do not worry yourself about it—I’ll be fine, as I always am.”

You wish you were as brave as her. If Papa is ever as upset at you as he sometimes is at ’Nyra, you would cry.

As you watch her, you realise she is staring over your head at something. You glance behind you. It is very easy to see Uncle and Papa and Alicent from here. No wonder she is so focused on them.

’Nyra pats your head without looking at you. “Wait here a moment.”

She walks away, leaving you by yourself at the table to go and speak to Alicent and Papa and Uncle. From here, it looks like Uncle is the only one who appreciates her walking over. You wish she’d brought you along. Being by yourself makes you feel afraid sometimes.

A nobleman strolls over, his laughter booming and making your heart race quick. You slowly edge your way towards one of the pillars, hoping to use it to hide behind. When you were smaller, it worked. But you are too old now, you think, because the nobleman pauses in reaching for some of the food and stares at you even though the pillar shields most of you from his view. He smiles. You smile back because it is polite, but you don’t know him. Still, it makes him chuckle, take his food and leave, so there must be something useful about being polite all the time anyway.

Gazing out at all the people is making your head feel funny again, like panic, so you turn around and face the climbing plant that is scaling the wall. You wonder if the heat from the brazier will make it less green, if the fire can burn all those leaves even from here. Does fire have to be touching something to burn it? you wonder.

It is an interesting thought, and one you might try to find an answer from Septa for later. She can be stern and even mean, but she does like your curiosity. That means wanting to know things, she says.

“As far as hiding places go, this one is terrible.”

You jump, startled by the closeness of the voice. You have to look up to see who has disturbed you.

“Uncle Daemon,” you whisper.

He grins, a piece of his hair flopping over his face in a way that you think the ladies might like. You try not to think about that, though, because it only leads you to remembering what Papa had made Septa Marlow tell you only a moon’s turn ago about how men’s parts and women’s parts go together to make a baby. It is enough to make you want to avoid all men forever.

“That’s right,” Uncle says, getting your attention once more. He makes no move to come closer, just stands there and looks at you. It gives you a chance to watch him back.

His face is very stern, you think. You don’t know if it was always that way, or if his war made him more frightening. When you try to bring those memories back, there is nothing but feelings of happy-fun-love. You don’t think you and he look very much alike, even though you are both Targaryens, but there are parts of him that match you. The hair, silver like yours. The purple eyes. It makes him a little less strange to you.

“Did you miss me?” he asks. That hollow-feeling soreness in your chest seems suddenly wide open, throbbing and aching.

I did. Sometimes I used to think I dreamed you up in my head. Like you were the person I had to pretend was real so that there was someone in the world I could talk to. Someone who would listen to what I was saying, like I really meant something.

I don’t even know if I remember you, or if I’ve just spent so long waiting for you.

These are all the things you keep locked inside you, wishes like sand in an hourglass that swirl around in their glass prison. And, like the sand, they will never get to escape from where they are trapped.

“Your hair is different,” is what you say instead, quiet and sad-sounding. You try not to pout as the words come out. “I don’t like it.”

It is how you try to say what must stay hidden, words that secretly mean other words. You think he understands, though, what is stuck in your chest and in your heart, because his smile fades. He sighs, something soft making its way onto his face.

“It’ll grow back,” he murmurs. “Time heals all wounds.”

He twitches after saying that. For a moment, you swear you can see something red and angry peek out from under the collar of his coat, like a scar or a burn. It is there and gone in an instant. You wonder if you ever really saw it at all.

Then, he stands up a little straighter. “Come out from there,” he says, brow furrowing even as one side of his mouth turns up. “Let me look at you.”

This is what all the adults who Papa says used to know you ask of you when they meet you again. For some reason, they like to make a kind of list in their minds of all the ways you have changed, as though it is a good thing that you’re so different from when you were very small. To you, it just means that they never really cared to keep knowing you the whole time.

You inch your way out from behind the pillar so that you are facing him, so that you are close enough now for him to reach out and touch. He takes hold of your chin, pulling your face up so that he can inspect it. You are tilted side to side, all angles being carefully examined in a way that makes you nervous, almost like you want to run away.

“Ūbrilta iksā, riñītsos.” You’ve grown, little girl.

It sounds like praise. His palm is soft on your cheek as he strokes away one of the strands of your hair that won’t stay put, calling up a wisp of a memory of gentle hands and deep laughter and love love love, a spark just out of reach.

You tremble. The sand threatens to explode out of its glass trappings.

“I learned my letters,” you whisper, eyes stinging furiously. A group of ladies walks by. You do not want them to know what you are saying, what should be kept secret, just between you and Uncle. “Ynot bardutos daor.” You did not write to me.

Now, he frowns.

“Gimin,” he says, crouching down. I know. Balanced on one knee before you, his eyes and yours can meet so much easier—but he doesn’t let them. Instead, his stare slides past yours. You feel his fingers playing with the loose tendrils that escape your braids. “Ñuhe vīlībāzme vīlīptan… harrī aō bē olvī iotāptan. Nēdenka sagon yne beldā.” I thought of you often, while I was fighting my war. You helped me to be brave.

You cannot even imagine it—how someone silly and small like you could ever help someone so strong like him. Warmth floods through you, so quick that you wonder if your skin has flushed for him to see. “Really?”

He taps you on the nose. “Would I lie?” he asks.

You think about it. From all you can remember, he has never been anything but truthful, even with the hard questions. One of the things you can recall is when you asked where Mother had gone after Papa told you she was dead. Back then, you didn’t understand what dying was. Now, though, you know it as one of all the different ways that people can be taken away from other people, from those they love and who love them.

Uncle told you that Mother was never coming back, and he was right. He never lied to you then. He cannot be lying to you now.

“Ūndegon avy arlī, rōvēgrie biarves issa,” he tells you, cupping either side of your face with his hands. To see you again… it is a great happiness.

Your eyes are burning again, blurring your sight. You can still see how kind he looks, though, all the hard lines of his face made soft and glad by simply speaking with you, like you are the only thing that matters to him. Maybe your dreams and play-pretence were more real than you ever thought.

“Are—” You swallow hard. “Are you staying?”

It is suddenly all you wish. Please, please, please, please please please…

Uncle Daemon nods. “For as long as you want.”

You don’t know if he pulls you to him or if you push forward. All you know is that he smells the same as he did, even though you cannot possibly still remember that, like smoke and leather, and his arms feel solid and safe around you, like love. Like home.

Uncle makes good on his promise to you. He stays in the Red Keep, in his old rooms, and soon your days are filled up with more than just Septa and ’Nyra and the evening meal with Alicent and Papa.

You become very good at sneaking away from Septa. It is not difficult. Since Uncle has come back, Alicent has been asking for you in the nursery more often. You don’t think she likes that he has returned, but it is still nice to have her asking about your lessons, about your needlework or your prayers or your sums. Baby Aemond often gets upset when he hears voices talking—he likes silence most of all—so your visits never last long. Alicent always tells you to go back to your rooms when he starts, which gives you the chance to give Helaena a kiss on her cheek and slip off to find Uncle. Septa Marlow never need learn that you did not spend the entire time with your lady stepmother.

Uncle Daemon is usually with ’Nyra, sometimes out in the gardens or walking in the halls. It isn’t strange, exactly, but the way that your sister jumps away from him when you arrive makes you wonder what they are talking about at times. The only thing that stops you from thinking too much about it is that Uncle never seems very bothered. He just smiles like nothing at all has happened and asks how you are.

He watches ’Nyra with a heavy stare as she leaves for Council or to see Syrax or simply to give you time with Uncle, too. Sometimes, she looks back, and her stare is just as heavy on him. But then, he always says, “Yne aōlo bē tolī ivestrās”—tell me more about yourself—and you forget why it bothered you so much.

You realise there’s not a lot of ‘yourself’ that would be interesting. You talk about your lessons with Septa and how you are already very good at adding and subtracting numbers, so she is showing you how to multiply them and divide them. You talk about how you can embroider the Targaryen sigil on handkerchiefs, though sometimes the stitches aren’t as neat and even as they could be. You talk about how you’ve learned all the names and House words of the Lords Paramount, and what they supply Papa’s kingdom with—how the Reach has lots of grain and the Westerlands has lots of gold mines and the North has lots of lumber and timber for building things. You talk about how you can sing all the hymns and you pray in the Sept every sennight like a good lady, though this only makes him scoff and shake his head. You talk about how good you are at showing the courtesies of a lady like curtseying and only speaking when you are spoken to and keeping your back straight and chin up so everyone knows you are of good breeding.

When you hear these things aloud, you are sure it is very boring. It makes you think that the only thing that has him listening so closely is that you tell him all of this in High Valyrian.

“Gīmije suene ābrāzma. Drējī sȳz,” he says on one day, sitting side by side with you on a bench looking out into the Godswood. An accomplished young lady. Very good. With lips tipped up at one corner, he does not look exactly pleased by all you have been taught. But when he adds, “Muño ēngos aōhi sȳrktys ȳdrā,” you know that there is at least something he is happy with. Your mother tongue has improved.

Pride flushes you from head to toe, warm and exciting. “Rhaenyrosa gūrēñan.” I am learning from Rhaenyra.

You don’t find it as hard to say her full name anymore, but she always looks at you funny when you call her ‘Rhaenyra’. It is important that you use the proper words in front of Uncle, though. You hope he doesn’t notice when you stumble over some of the rolling ‘r’ sounds.

“Skorion Alysanno bē?” is his next question. What of Alysanne?

It takes you a moment to understand what he is talking about. At first, you wonder if he’s asking you about your great-grandmother, and you have no idea why he would. Then, an image of a doll with violet eyes and silver hair flashes through your mind, ‘perhaps—Marya and Hana, was it?—could do with another friend’, and you think to the three little ladies you used to carry around everywhere until you were made to leave them sitting on the chest at the foot of your bed, then inside the chest, stuck in the dark and left to be forgotten.

There is something about that which makes you terribly, terribly sad.

“I am not allowed to play with dolls.” It is like Septa is speaking through you, though you are soft where she would be stern and hard. “I am too old.”

This makes him freeze, but not like ice. Like something burning hot and angry, only it is shown in the fire of his eyes and the clenching of his fists and nothing else. When he nods, it is as though he is a puppet and someone else is pulling his strings jerkily. “Se zaldrīzesse? Kipagon vasīr gūrēntō daor?” And dragons? Have you learned to ride yet?

You shake your head. “I am too young.”

Too young, too old… No matter what, I am never exactly right as I am.

Normally, you can ignore the twisting of your tummy when you think about how ’Nyra had claimed Syrax already when she was your age. But now, with your thoughts turning over and over about all the things that Uncle wants to ask that you cannot give a good answer to, it only makes you feel worse.

At that, he stands and holds out his hand. You make no move to grab onto it—you just look up at him, confused.

“Well?” he asks, brow lifting. “Do you want to learn?”

“To ride?” You frown. “How?”

He rolls his eyes. “By riding a dragon, silly girl. As it happens, I’ve claimed one of my own. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

“You’ll… you’ll let me ride Caraxes?” Your breath comes out funny, in rhythm with the skipping beat of your heart.

“Not alone. But you ought to know what it feels like to take flight before you claim your own mighty beast.” He mutters something under his breath, too low for you to hear. It sounds frustrated, and quite possibly rude. Then, he lifts his eyes back to you and shakes the arm he has held out. “Are you coming, then? Or will I be going to the Dragonpit alone?”

You take his hand.

“Are you sure he will like me?” you ask Uncle, biting your lip as he pulls you closer and closer to the entrance of the Dragonpit.

As always, it is a big, frightening hulk of stone, with columns that look like they’ve been standing tall since the beginning of time. A hundred of you wouldn’t be enough to match its height. When ’Nyra takes you to see Syrax, sometimes you try to count how many of you would be needed to reach the top, but you always lose track after ten. You know from far away that the dome of it arcs high, high above, though from where you are, you cannot see it. A dark black hole looms between the two main pillars, seeming larger the longer you stare into it. From within, you can hear the growls and shrieks of a dragon, maybe two, maybe three—Syrax and Caraxes, and perhaps others, for it seems too much noise to only be the pair inside.

“He does as I command,” he says. “You will not be harmed.”

Uncle Daemon tugs you forward, into the blackness. Dark turns to dim light.

There, not far from the entry, stands Caraxes. That he is out and not hiding away in one of the dens already makes this a much different visit than usual, for Syrax is not often found in the open like this. It has been a long time since you saw him properly, though you know from stories that Uncle used to take you to visit him when you were a baby, then when you were little. Papa never let him take you riding, though. You wonder how he got permission now.

The dragon has a long, long neck, almost the same amount of long as his body. It makes him look amusing, though you will never laugh at him, for he is also fearsome. Jagged spikes jut out along ridges that go all the way from his shoulders to his head, turning into large horns above each eye. His teeth are sharp, and there is more than one row of them, which you can see when he opens his mouth to make a hooting noise in your direction. He is deep red in colour, scales glittering black and orange in the torch flame that shines across his form, darker around his mouth. You don’t know if it is how he usually looks, or if it is blood. You hope he has already eaten.

“Come along.” Uncle seems annoyed by your slowness. He lets go of your hand and pushes his palm between your shoulder blades, forcing you forward. “We’ve not got all day.”

One of the robed men, the Dragonkeepers, moves in step with you, gaze switching nervously from you to your uncle. “Dārilaros ñuhys! Avy māzīlē gīmīloty daor—se aōha tala—” My Prince! We did not know to expect you—and your niece—

Uncle waves him off impatiently, glaring. “Īlon henujās! Avy baelagon ajorrāeloty daor.” Leave us! We do not require your assistance.

The Keeper bows, edging backward. You try to turn your head to see where he came from, where he has gone, but the strength of Uncle’s hand pushing you on and the way his body blocks your view prevents you from glimpsing anything properly.

Caraxes makes an odd sort of whistle-hoot noise when his head bends before you, his giant nostrils flaring as he scents his visitor. You try to keep your heart beating slow and steady. If he smells fear, he might attack.

“Calm, calm,” Uncle is murmuring, though you don’t know if he’s saying it in the Common Tongue or in High Valyrian. “That’s it…”

The dragon nudges you softly, snout pressing against you in a way that you find familiar. Syrax does the same when you go to see her. It brings a smile to your face, and you are laying your hands on his scaled flesh to stroke him before you can remember why you were ever afraid in the first place. He allows you to pat him for a few moments. Then, he seems to grow bored, turning away at the sound of distant echoing roars. His claws skitter on the stone.

Uncle Daemon takes hold of your shoulders and steers you to the side, along Caraxes’s body. “Iōrās,” he calls out. Stand.

Caraxes shifts his weight with a grumble, unfolding the wing closest to you all the way out. You look on, fascinated. Uncle prods you with his foot.

“Well?” he asks. You glance up. He appears to be waiting for something. When you offer no response, he jerks his head toward the dragon and says, “I cannot mount him for you. Climb up.”

“By myself?”

His expression makes you think he finds you dim-witted. “I will follow. There are some things you must do yourself, little girl.”

There is something about it—‘little girl’—that makes you feel better, somehow, as though he is reminding you that he knows you are only small, that he knows he is not asking too much of you. It helps you to feel brave. When you step onto Caraxes’s wing, you know he is right behind you. For how thin wings look, they are surprisingly strong, because it is easier than you thought to make your way up and up to where the saddle is buckled. There is enough room for you to slip onto the very front, behind the horn, as you wait for Uncle to settle behind you. Because you don’t have a riding habit yet, you must gather your skirts to either side to make sure your knees are covered.

Uncle’s body is warm, his arms folding around you to hold onto the grips either side of the horn. There are no reins like ’Nyra used to have when she was younger for Syrax, but that makes sense. Not only is Uncle old, but Caraxes’s neck is so, so long that you don’t think reins would really work anyway.

His chin comes to rest beside your head. “Ready?”

I have been ready for my whole life, you want to say.

You grab onto his hands and close your eyes, feeling the way his legs bracket you in and his chest presses firm against your back, like a shield. “Yeah.”

“Sōvēs!” Fly!

Your brain rattles and your limbs shake as Caraxes lunges forward, faster, faster, through the entry of the Dragonpit and out into the open air, faster, toward the edge, and then—

He—

Drops—

And you are flying.

Your belly swoops low, but your heart is in your throat and there are tears in your eyes because this, this is all you ever wanted and never even knew you could have, not really. Wind rushes in your ears, drowning out all other noise, and your legs feel impossibly cold, stockings doing little to protect you from the speed and height, but the sky is bright and blue and the sun shines golden and it bathes you in light, white, freedom. Beneath your heels, you can feel the heat of the dragon, the flex of his muscles as he takes you on and on and on.

Laughter bubbles up, up, up and out of your throat, given to the air, heard by none but felt so deep in your bones, no, past your bones, to the very very centre of you where you are something truer and greater than just a Princess, just a girl. Like magic. Like fire. You fling your arms out wide, forearms resting on your uncle’s, and you cannot hear his own laughter, but you can feel it in the way his skin thrums against yours, and oh, no one has ever understood you as much as he does now, in this moment. He knows. He knows.

There is no direction, no goal, no end point. You fly across the city you have lived in all your life, and even the Keep looks like a dollhouse, like Papa’s miniature that he tends to in his rooms. The streets look like string winding together and apart and around houses the size of sand grains, fading in and out among the clouds. You fly across open fields where there is so, so much space, more than you ever thought could be real, and more green than has ever been in one place at one time. You fly across trees packed so tightly together that you cannot see the ground below their tops, forests of leaves so dark that even the sun cannot make them glow in the daylight. The air tastes like salt and then earth and then something sweeter, purer, more real than books or hymns or dances.

It may be minutes. It may be hours. It may be days afterward, but one of the things you have learned is that everything good must come to an end.

The Dragonpit draws closer, closer, closer. With each drag onward, bits of who you are, who you must be, return to you. The Princess. The girl. The lonely soul crying out for someone, anyone. They burrow their way inside your blood where they have been made to belong.

Caraxes slows, and the world seeps back in. You can hear Uncle’s voice again. “Ninkiot!” Land!

The shock of the thud as the dragon hits ground jolts you forward, but Uncle Daemon’s arms are firm around you. Sand and dust fling up all around you from the damage Caraxes has done to the stone ground below. ’Nyra says it is because they are very heavy creatures, and stone isn’t as hard to something so strong, but like paper. Your teeth clack together painfully and your eyes feel suddenly too tight for your skull for a moment, and then it is over.

Uncle ignores the Keepers yelling from below. “Paerī, paerī…” Slow, slow…

Caraxes growls as he follows the command, snapping his teeth at the Keepers who come forth to grab at the buckles wrapping under his wings to restrain him.

“Kelītīs.” Halt. The dragon lumbers to a stop, hooting and shaking his head like a hound might. Your whole body wobbles with the movement, making you giggle. Uncle chuckles, slapping the exposed side of his mount with a smile. “Sȳres taobus.” Good boy.

“Thank you, Uncle!” It comes out in a breathless rush. You twist yourself to the side as best you can so that you are able to show him just how grateful you are. You are sure your eyes shine bright and wild. He smiles as he takes in your expression. “Thank you, thank you!” you say.

“You had fun?” His palm strokes along your back in a comforting rhythm.

“Yeah!”

Words escape you. There is no way to describe what it means to you. All you can do is lean into him, wind your arms around his waist and hug him as tight as you can, which is not very much at all. Still, it makes him grip you back, his breath puffing hot through your hair all the way to your scalp, the firm imprint of lips falling there like ’Nyra’s do when she kisses you goodnight.

He releases you with a grunt, patting just above your rear. “Go on, then,” he tells you, nodding toward Caraxes’s flattened wing. “Get down there. I’ll be a moment longer.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Dismounting is not the same as climbing up; you try to plant your feet and walk your way down, but you feel yourself tipping forward when you try. Eventually—and not without Uncle laughing at you as you figure it out—you learn to sit on your bottom and almost slide your way down, using your legs to slow your speed. It is terribly fun. You nearly try walking back up so that you can do it all over again, but then you think about how you are putting all your weight on Caraxes’s arm, and what it would feel like if someone was stepping all over your arm like that. It wouldn’t be fair to the dragon to do something so unkind when he had taken you on such a lovely trip in the sky.

You stand up, jumping just before you reach the joint of his hand. In your excitement, you do not see how close Caraxes’s tail is, how easy it would be to tangle one’s skirts on the ridged tip.

What happens after comes in flashes. A sharp, scorching pain up your arm. A feeling of wet bursting across your skin. Deep, deep red, spilling across the stone. A throbbing that goes straight to your bone, beating in time with the sound of the sobs that burst from your chest, no, lower, somewhere where pain lives. Panicked whistling noises. A vision of wide-eyed, fearful Uncle Daemon, a bumpy wheelhouse ride and a soothing melody vibrating from the person holding you so, so tight.

The next thing you know, there is more pain, there is a needle, and a maester, and Papa and Alicent and Lord Otto, and you are bundled up on Uncle’s lap while the tug-tug of thread goes in and out of your skin.

“… she tripped, brother,” Uncle is saying, keeping his words low even though you can tell he is angry. “It’s not like she was maimed dragonriding, for fuck’s sake—”

Lord Otto sounds far away from his place near the door. “It was wildly irresponsible of you, Prince Daemon. She is but a child—”

“How dare you disobey me!” Papa stands above Uncle, growling, teeth gritting with fury. “I told you she was too young, and you took her anyway!”

Alicent places her hand on his arm, trying to pull him away. “Husband, perhaps—”

“Can you all shut up,” Uncle snaps, hand cupped over your head and turning your face into his neck so that you cannot see, you cannot see. “Do you really think now is the time to—”

“Kepus,” you cry, and you feel the pressure of a hand that is not Uncle’s on your back, a yes, my girl, but you did not ask for Papa, you asked for kepus, Uncle, you want the soft melody back and the quiet, so you shrug it away and press your nose closer to the man in front of you, the sting-pull hurt of something cold and wet splashing over your arm bringing even more tears.

“Sh, precious, you’re alright,” Uncle murmurs, and you can feel his voice as well as hear it, tingling through your skin. “The maester is nearly finished.”

“Hurts.” The tug-sting is over, but it is followed by a press-sting as the bandage is wrapped around and around.

“I know.” His hand keeps your face turned into him, solid against the back of your skull. “Drējī usōven, dōnītsos.” I am sorry, sweetling.

“Not your fault,” you tell him, or maybe you only think it, or maybe you say it over and over again on repeat as he carries you to your rooms, puts you to bed, hums you to sleep.

Septa is terribly angry when she learns that you have been sneaking off.

“No more of that, young madam.” Her stare feels like a leaden weight on your chest, disapproval washing over you like the waves of Blackwater Bay. “I shall be accompanying you to all your extracurriculars for the foreseeable future.” As she turns back to her knitting, she shakes her head, muttering, “Wilful, disobedient girl!” You think if Papa were not there, she would have struck you.

“Your uncle is a wretched influence,” he tells you. His eyes search yours like he is trying to find some sort of agreement from you, but you cannot obey him, not in this. It is the first time you have ever gone against something he has said, and it makes you feel terribly naughty. “He injured you—”

“No!” you protest. “I fell over, I promise! I was not watching where I was going, and I tripped—”

“That matters not.” His tone is forbidding. “He never should have taken you without permission—”

“I just wanted to fly.” You cannot explain it to him; the need that you feel now that you know what it is like to leave who you are behind and join the skies, to feel the strength and the heat of a dragon below you and know you are just as powerful as he. He wouldn’t understand. He’d ridden Balerion for less than a year, and never again did he seek out dragon-flight. “Uncle showed me,” you say. “I wanted to, Papa. Please.”

He sighs, goes silent for a time. When he lifts his head to watch you again, something sad and yet amused plays upon his expression. “You look so like your mother when you make that face.”

It is not the first time he has said so, and you know it won’t be the last. Still, you smile, because little girls who have lost their mothers are supposed to smile when people tell them how alike she is to the woman who has died. Sometimes, you feel like a ghost of her, like you aren’t really meant to exist as yourself.

“When you are bigger, you can claim a dragon. I swear it.” Papa takes your hand, the one that is not attached to your injured arm. “But you will need to give your old Papa some time, for his heart cannot take all this stress.”

He winks, and you giggle. Still, you cannot help asking. “Why?”

Why was ’Nyra allowed at my age and not me? Am I not good enough? Not Targaryen enough?

All that stops you from speaking these things aloud is that, deep down, you know it is not that you are not Targaryen enough. It might be that, for the first time, Papa has seen that you are too Targaryen.

“You are my little girl,” Papa says, and you think you can almost see a tremble to his lips. He must have been very worried, more than you realised. “My little Aemma. The thought of losing you… I cannot bear it.”

So, you hug him and tell him that you will not try it again, not yet, and you feel the anger and the worry and the fear flee him as he relaxes bit by bit. In your head, though, you are thinking about a time—somewhere far in the future, or perhaps nearer than you know—when you can be a dragonrider too.

Septa is true to her word. Most of the time, you are made to stay in your chambers, even though the wound on your arm isn’t all that large and the maesters say that it will not scar over too terribly. “The Prince conveyed you here swiftly, Princess,” they tell you as they clean and redress the ragged cut. In all, it is only the size of two gold coins put side-by-side. “You are very fortunate, indeed!”

You do not feel fortunate. Septa’s eyes remain fixed on you, so sharp that the hairs on the back of your neck stay upright. She watches you as you sound out your letters, as you embroider more dragon sigils, as you practice the hymns she has made you learn. She watches ’Nyra with a stern face as she sits in to visit with you in the afternoons—not even your sister is allowed to bend the rules of your punishment. Still, it is better than spending each day entirely with Septa and Septa alone.

Uncle comes in the evenings. That first night after you cut open your arm, he voiced the notes to an old song you think you can remember from when you were really little. Every night since, though, he comes to read you a story in High Valyrian and kiss you on the cheek and say goodnight. You think he might feel guilty about you hurting yourself, so you make sure to give him a very tight hug every time he arrives to your rooms. Sometimes, you see him in the day when he drops ’Nyra to your door, their conversation low and their heads bent close together. If he wasn’t Uncle and she wasn’t ’Nyra, it would look like they were courting, which is when a lord and lady spend time together to see if they are a good fit to be married. You know better.

But, one day, ’Nyra does not visit in the afternoon. Uncle does not come to read you a story or kiss you goodnight. It feels like you have faded from the world, like you only exist in these chambers and nowhere else. But you wait. You wait. You go to bed wide-eyed, trying to stay awake in case she wishes to see you off before you sleep, in case he is just running very late. You are not successful.

A muffled crackling noise and the feeling of something rough against your cheek is what wakes you in the morning, the sun casting weak rays through your balcony. You lift your head from the pillow; blink the crust from your eyes. Looking down, you take in what has disturbed you. A note.

It does not say who it is from, but you know. You know.

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#terms of endearment │ daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x you #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd #hotd fanfiction #asoiaf #asoiaf fanfiction #a song of ice and fire #a song of ice and fire fanfiction #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #matt smith #dance of dragons #house targaryen #fire and blood

[kiss-theggoat]

Familiar

Ghostface (Billy Loomis) x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Summary: You've been having a shameful relationship with a certain Woodsboro slasher. One night, during a particularly passionate encounter, you discover who it actually is you’ve been spending time with.

Warnings: Smut, you don’t know you’re fucking Billy so I guess elements of non-con

“Guys come on! So what if I’m a virgin, I mean it’s normal!” Randy sat on the concrete ledge, fighting for his life against the vultures that are Stu and Billy. They cackled and fist bumped, turning back towards Randy to listen to him dig himself deeper into the virginity hole.

You overheard this conversation as you walked towards the group, lunch tray in hand and backpack slung over one shoulder, making it ache. Stu and Tatum sat furthest to the right, as usual, on top of eachother, kissing and touching, Tatum sitting on his lap. Then Sydney to their left, then Billy beside her, chewing on some apple slices Syd had brought. Randy sat furthest to the right, a few feet away from Billy. You strode over, plopping down between Billy and Randy. “What’s everyone arguing about?” You asked with a smile, also silently questioning if your school chicken sandwich would give you salmonella.

Stu laughed, tossing a chocolate in his mouth. “We just figured out that ol’ stunner Randy Meeks here is a virgin.” He threw a candy towards Randy, making him swat it away and flip Stu off. You were conflicted. You could take Randy’s side and say you were too, but that’d be a lie. If you said you weren’t a virgin, then everyone would ask who you’d slept with, because you told Syd and Tatum that you were a virgin. They’d know it happened recently, and you couldn’t exactly tell them you’d been meeting with a certain ghost-faced serial killer.

You shrugged. “Me too.” With a sneer, you peeled the bun back to reveal a questionably pink looking breaded piece of chicken. “You want this?” You held the burger out to Stu, who snatched it up and began to scarf it down like he hadn’t eaten in a month, which left you with a few bland, soggy french fries.

“A-HA!” Randy pointed an accusatory finger at Billy. “Told you! Totally normal to be a virgin. Just cause you're used to seeing movies where every single teenager is having sex doesn’t mean that-“

“It’s not the movies, Spielberg.” Billy interrupted. “Most of the people I know - in this school - aren’t virgins.”

You made eye contact with Billy, just now realizing that he was staring you down, deep brown eyes burning holes into yours. Trying to play off how nervous you were around him, you rolled your eyes. “What’s the big deal, Billy? Being a virgin isn’t embarrassing.”

Billy dropped the apple slice he was eating, leaning closer to you. Something in his eyes looked right through you. It looked like he knew all of your secrets, every little thing you’ve done in the dark. You tensed and backed up, biting half of your cardboard-like fry. “What?” You asked defensively, trying to get him to back off.

He didn’t say a word for a few seconds, staring at you with the same blank expression. “You’re really a virgin, huh?”

Did he know? How could he possibly know? Did EVERYONE know? You started to panic internally, but kept it cool on the outside. “Yes! I don’t know what the big deal is. Just because I haven’t found someone yet doesn’t mean I’m a loser or something.”

“Yeah right! You’re a total loser!” Stu yelled, finishing your sandwich. “I can’t believe a hottie like you is a virgin! Maybe you and Randy can fuck, get it over with.” He wiggled his eyebrows at you. You threw a fry at him, but it missed him, unlike Tatum’s slap on the chest, “Ugh, Stu don’t be gross.” She whined.

Randy’s face was bright red. You always thought he might have a little thing for you, but you’d pretty much had your eyes on Billy ever since high school started. You were glad to be his friend, but when he started dating one of your best friends, Syd, you couldn’t help but be consumed completely with jealousy. She knew you’d had a crush on him a little bit, and still dated him. You convinced her you were over it. Girl code, y’know?

“I’m not rushing to not be a virgin. I’m fine with it.” You said matter-of-factly and ate another fry. Billy scoffed, leaning back against his hands, which earned him a glare from both you and Sydney. You had no clue why he was being so rude about this, he couldn’t know. The bell rang out, signaling both the terrible start of your Algebra class and the blissful end of this conversation. “See you guys later.” You mumbled, taking your tray with you as you left.

The alarm clock beside you read 12:36 AM. You had been reading next to your lamp at your desk for a while, procrastinating your homework long enough to where it hopefully disappeared. With a yawn and an ache behind your eyes you decided it was bedtime. As you stood up to turn your lamp off, you jumped at the sound of your phone ringing. Your body had an immediate response, like Pavlov’s dogs. A phone call late at night usually meant a visit from your favorite ghost.

You picked up the line. “Hello?” You asked, a small smile tugging at your lips as you mindlessly chewed on your fingernail.

“Hi pretty girl…” his sultry voice had you hot in your cool bedroom, cheeks turning pink. “Your blinds are closed. I thought I told you to keep those open.”

“Sorry.” You said softly. “It was hot today…” you walked towards your curtains and moved them to the side, standing in the window.

A hearty chuckle sounded from over the line. “There she is…wearing my favorite shirt…good girl…”

You looked down at the tank top you had on, pink, simple, but low cut and revealing. Perfect for bed and, apparently, Ghostface. With it, you wore a pair of plain black lounge shorts that fit loose around your thighs.

“I’m in a hurry tonight, princess so get to it.” He said quickly, “Is the window unlocked like I told you?”

You nodded, big enough for him to see from his usual spot in the yard. You decided to listen to the man, getting to work. You set the phone down for just a second, quickly taking your shirt off. You had no bra, so he had a full unobstructed view of your tits he loved so much. You picked up the phone again and heard a small groan from him. “Attagirl…”

You shimmied your shorts off your legs, pleased that you had worn panties he liked, your girliest ones, purple with a little gemstone heart on the waistband.

“It’s almost like you knew I was coming, pretty girl.”

You bit your lip, leaning in closer to the window. “Come inside already…” You whispered needily, voice almost trembling from your desperation.

One minute your yard was empty, normal. The picture of suburban bliss. The next, it was overtaken by the shadow of a brutal, ruthless killer, threatening aura filling the whole yard. He should scare you, but your body had a visceral reaction to him. Face hot, skin tingling, panties wet. You wanted him every single night like you’d never wanted anything before, and seeing him was like lighting a fire in your chest. It was borderline humiliating how bad you needed him.

You slid the window open, screen discarded weeks ago, and you waited with vibrating skin. You watched his gloved hands grip the window sill, strong arms pulling him up into your childhood bedroom. Maybe that was part of the appeal. He was so forbidden, having a secret relationship in your home with a man like him was so hot to you.

There he stood in all his glory, black boots heavy on your white rug. He was on you in seconds, hands wandering, grabbing your tits hard with one, the other pushing your panties down. “So wet already.” He growled. His voice close-up was weird, but something you’d gotten used to. You knew he was using a voice changer, it crackled very once in a while and you could hear another voice in tandem with his deep, modulated one. His real voice. You couldn’t hear it well enough to know who it was, but you liked hearing it anyway.

You nodded, breathless, backing up to your bed while pulling him at the bicep with you. You laid back, and he slid your panties off the rest of the way, slipping them into his back pocket. That made your face flame red. The fact that he wanted to keep your wet panties was insane to you, made you feel hot, made you feel wanted. It made you feel like he needed you as bad as you needed him.

“Please…” you whined, pulling on his cloak as he stepped between your legs.

“Needy, huh? Such a pretty girl shouldn’t be acting like such a slut.” He snapped, but you could hear the smirk in his voice. His gloved hands trailed up the smooth skin of your inner thighs, stopping at the apex to admire the way you looked in the low warm light of your bedroom.

He slid his glove off, something he’s never done before. You looked down quickly at his hand, but a firm grip on your jaw slammed you back down to the bed. “No peeking, princess.”

You nodded, finally feeling his skin on yours. His touch felt so much better than the rough material of his gloves. Based on the glance you got, his hands were big, but smooth. Something you didn’t expect from him. You expected rough and dirty hands, not soft and manicured fingers.

All of your pensive thoughts were scrambled when you felt his finger push inside of you, quite easily with how wet you were at this point. He groaned at the feeling of your warm insides, eager to be inside you. A second finger slid in beside the first, curling upwards against the soft spot he knew got a reaction from you. You tensed, legs spreading further with a whine at his touch.

Warmth spread over your legs and belly, up to your chest and face. His fingers squelched as he fucked them into you, curled upwards at every right moment. Your bedsheets felt so soft against your hands as you gripped onto them, eyes closed and mouth open, wanton moans escaping you. While you weren’t focused, he slid a hand underneath his cloak, palming himself through his jeans.

He grumbled something softly, something you didn’t hear.

“Huh?” You asked, that small word the only thing you could muster between moans.

“Wanna taste you.” He said louder, grinding his hips into his hand. “You're gonna be a good girl and keep your eyes shut, okay?” He asked, but you felt a threatening undertone present in his words. You nodded quickly, but whined when his fingers left you. You felt yourself clench around nothing,feeling empty without him inside you.

You shut your eyes tightly, hearing him move to the window to shut the curtain. Your hands were clammy as they pressed over your eyes, you had to make sure you wouldn’t peek. You wanted to see what he looked like, but didn’t want to end up in the paper as the newest Ghostface victim.

For a minute, you waited, then suddenly, an eruption of pleasure as you felt his mouth on you, tongue running up your clit, hands pressing your thighs down against the bed. Without even thinking about it, your hands flew down to grip his hair. He didn’t seem to mind. You tried to gather what little information you could from the feeling. He felt sweaty, but his hair was soft, a little bit longer. But that’s all you could gather. You scrunched your face to emphasize the fact that your eyes were closed.

He sucked your clit into his mouth as two large fingers pushed inside of you. You let out a loud moan, mouth hanging open and back arching up off of the bed. “Holy shit…” you moaned, tightening your grip on his hair. He groaned, squeezing your thighs tight with his bare hands, to your delight, both gloves were off. He was becoming way more comfortable with you.

You felt yourself get close, you felt tingles on your thighs and up your waist, all the way up to your arms. Your whole body felt like it was on fire, you felt so good and you couldn’t think straight. At that moment, you wanted to see him. You needed to know who he was. Desperately, you wanted to kiss him.

“I’m…I…” you whined.

“You’re gonna cum?” He asked, voice breathy with small pants. You tensed up. His voice changer wasn’t on. He sounded so familiar but you couldn’t put your finger on it. It was bugging you, but you couldn’t focus on it too long as your orgasm overtook your body, gushing over his fingers and legs trembling as a damn near shriek left your mouth. You felt like you couldn’t see, your ears were ringing and you felt like you had just been beat up. You decided to look. You had to. His voice. You knew him.

You opened your eyes to see the man you’d been fucking the last few weeks. His lips and chin glistening with your cum, face flushed and soft pants escaping his plumped lips, hair sweaty and tousled from your pulling, falling in front of those gorgeous brown eyes.

You couldn’t believe it. You stared in shock. “….B-Billy?”

#slasher x reader #slashers #horror movies #ghostface #ghostface fanfiction #slasher x y/n #horror fanfiction #scream #scream fanfic #billy loomis x y/n

[cherrydreamer]

Billy's not entirely sure how it happened, how he got himself involved in all this mess.

Part of him wishes he'd never knocked on Max's door that afternoon, that he hadn't listened to that twist in the gut that told him something was wrong when she didn't answer, a twist that became a sickening swoop when he walked in and noticed her bedroom window wide open, and the little shit nowhere to be seen.

He almost wishes he'd never gone out to find her, desperate to drag her back before Neil and Susan came home. Because if he hadn't gone out, maybe he'd never have stumbled onto the fucked up scene in the Junkyard; King Steve with a nail bat ripped straight from Billy's nightmares and an attitude ripped straight from Billy's wet dreams, standing in between a bunch of monsters and a school bus full of kids.

Billy probably should've turned tail there and then. But he didn't. Instead he stayed. He got himself involved. Like an idiot.

And then, even more idiotically, he stayed involved. Through fight after fight. Weird, crazy bullshit after weird, crazy bullshit. Until it's months later and it's all kicking off again and this time it's been a long one, a big one, building and building over days, and Steve and Billy have been there for damn near every single long, dark, terrifying hour, and Billy can see that Steve is tired. Entirely fucking exhausted. He's fighting it of course, downing coffees and sodas until he's practically vibrating, but it's not long before even that stops working, and he's leaning against surfaces whenever he stands, or his head is drooping to his chest when he sits down, jerking up instantly the moment that anyone makes a sound. 

And Billy watches him for a while, waits until he's mid-droop and then says, quite sharply, "Just take a fucking nap, Harrington, get your beauty sleep." 

And maybe it's kinda funny, the way that Steve immediately jolts up, springing right into a defensive stance, eyes darting right over to where the kids are huddled together, putting together another plan that's gonna lead them all right into the heart of the danger, and add a few more sprinkles of silver into Steve's glorious head of hair.

Maybe. But Billy's not laughing. 

Steve just glares at him, sitting back down on the couch and shaking his head when Billy's words finally sink in, "I'm fine, man. I'm good. Just got a headache, ok?"

"No wonder," Billy says, "Every one of those brats is a fucking migraine trigger. Surprised you ain't had an aneurysm already."

Steve snorts out a laugh, smiling that soft, slightly crooked smile of his that means he's actually amused, but then his face drops, mouth setting into a firm line. "Nah, it's nothing, I'm fine," he insists, "Everyone's tired. Just gotta-" he slices his hand through the air, "-gotta power on through."

He swishes his hand again, mouthing 'power on' in a way that only reinforces Billy's belief that Harrington is teetering right on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

"I mean it," Billy says, taking advantage of Steve's still outstretched hand to tug him to his feet, only for Steve to stagger and fall into him, his free hand ending up splayed right over the exposed skin of Billy's chest, their faces perilously close, and Billy swallows, his skin burning under the gentle pressure of Steve's finger tips, a hot flush that spreads up his neck, rising right to the  tips of his ears.

It takes a moment before he can find the words to finish his sentence.

"Go sleep," he manages eventually. 

"I'm fine," Steve steps back, swaying a little, and Billy fixes him with a hard stare.

"No, Harrington you're not. You're clearly not. Hell, you're exhausted, look at you, you can barely stand up. And you're gonna be no fucking good to any of us if you're dead on your feet when the monster shit hits the fan again."

It's harsh. Maybe too harsh. Because there's a moment when Steve Harrington finally lets his mask slip, and Billy can see the flood of emotions clouding his face. A mix of fear and guilt and worry and resignation. But then Steve smiles that tight, too-big smile again, and says, half joking and half serious,

"I can't, OK? Cause someone's gotta keep their eye on the little shits. Stop 'em from running off and doing something stupid. I gotta-" he stifles a yawn, words almost incomprehensible as he tries to talk through it, "-gotta look after 'em."

And this time Billy's a bit more gentle when he pushes. 

He taps his fingers lightly on Steve's wrist, and softens his voice and leans in, "And who looks after you, huh?" 

It has Steve blinking, eyes going wider than Billy's ever seen even in Steve's most Bambi-like moments. His lips round into an 'oh!' of surprise, and Billy forces himself not to stare at them. Instead, he pushes forward with his argument, "Seriously, it'll be OK. I'll keep an eye on the gremlins." He grins, "Promise I won't get them wet."

Steve clearly doesn't get the reference, judging by the way his head tilts to the side like some kind of confused labrador puppy, but Billy can see the moment that his resolve finally cracks. Maybe Billy's finally earned his stripes or his boy scout badges or whatever you call the kind of trust that killing a few monster dogs will get you, or maybe Steve really is just that tired. Whatever the reason, Steve takes in a deep, slightly shaky breath. And then he nods. 

"Yeah, I…I can do that. Ten minutes, just lemme take the edge off, then I'll be alright." 

"Sounds like a plan, Harrington."

Steve doesn't have to know that Billy follows him up, five minutes later. He doesn't have to know that Billy stands by the bedroom door, arms folded as he leans against the wall, leaving a dirty boot print on Mrs. Harrington's chintz wallpaper and not budging from his post, even when the kids finally get their heads outta their asses and come storming up the stairs half an hour later, insisting that they need to fill Steve in on their latest plan. 

He doesn't have to know that Billy bares his teeth and growls when Mike sarcastically asks if he's a guard dog now, or that Billy has a whole list of colourful and imaginative consequences that he threatens the kids with if they don't get the hell away from the door and quieten the fuck down, now.

He doesn't have to know that Billy looks in on him an hour later, just to make sure he's OK. That he rearranges the sheets from where they've fallen away from Steve's shoulder. That he watches, just for a minute, as Steve's chest rises and falls peacefully. That he smiles to himself and murmurs, "Sweet dreams, Steve," before resuming his guard duty.

And he definitely doesn't have to know that, for once, Billy's actually kinda glad he got himself involved in all this.

#harringrove #just a little something #steve deserves someone to bully him into a little self care #and who better than billy? #cherrywrites

[destiny-smasher]

Here's an excerpt from Chapter 5 of my Nemona x Penny fanfic,

Super Effective on a Single Brick Brain

---

“Aww~” Nemona cooed her appreciation. Penny didn't always think to offer stuff like that, so Nemona was grateful to be pleasantly surprised in this case. She felt compelled to reach out, grab Penny's opposing arm, and squeeze her friend against her side affectionately. “Thanks, bestie, that's really sweet of you!”

Penny she sure looked bashful at the gesture, in a good way (probably?).

“Aheh, 'B-Bestie'... ?” Penny puffed a laugh that Nemona didn't understand how to read.

And suddenly, after this recent incident, Nemona was strangely self-aware and nervous about whether she was reading Penny correctly or not.

“Wh-... Like, yea, 'Bestie', you-... ” Nemona cleared her throat, one hand on her elbow, the other tugging at a stray lock of her ponytail. “We've really been hanging out a lot lately, and... -”

“I thought a certain Champion was your 'Bestie?'” Penny theorized, flashing Nemona a raised brow. But it came with a smile. And Nemona felt sure enough she understood Penny's body language to at least tell that Penny was happy to have been associated with the title. But then that playfulness waned a little, and Penny added, “Your 'Rival for Life' and everything... right?”

Something about Penny's expression, the way her hands were fidgeting together, and the tone of her voice... Was she jealous? But, that didn't make any sense – Penny didn't have a specific interest in Pokémon battling, she only did it for practical reasons, like self-defense and stuff. Why would she be jealous of Nemona's Rival? “I mean,” Penny added, when Nemona non-responsive, “I know how excited you get about seeing them. It's been that way since the beginning, eh? So... I'd think they're your Bestie...” 'Noooo, I don't like this! I don't like seeing her sad like this! She's underselling herself again.'

“I-... I can have multiple 'Besties,'” Nemona defended, but found herself spitting out the additional, “but, like, you have spent way more time with me these days...” She nudged her hip against Penny's side as she did so. And again like that Bide move - storing its energy before smacking you upside the head - Nemona was coming to the realization of this fact as she said the words aloud. Two years or so back, when they'd first become Amigas Oficiales, they only ever hung out when it was with Nemona's Rival. And then, slowly, they'd start hanging out here and there, just the two of them, always because Nemona would pine for someone familiar, who understood her and her, well, quirks. By the time Nemona graduated, she realized Penny had been one of the top people she wanted there to witness it, right alongside her Rival, her family, and even Arven. By the summer they'd just experienced, though, they were hanging out practically every day, especially on the weekends.

Nemona had spent way more time with Penny, in total, than she ever had with her Rival. Confronted with this realization was throwing her for a loop – she'd always been so certain that battling was the end-all-be-all, the pinnacle of what any kind of relationship could be for her. But Penny was making her question that seemingly ultimate truth, and it was kind of frightening...

“And you,” Penny retorted, stiffly bumping her hip into Nemona's thigh, “have been spending way less time battling Pokémon these days...”

“H-Have I? You think?” Nemona tapped at her cheek sheepishly as she wondered if that was really true. Was she slipping? Losing her edge? Abandoning battling, her number one love?

She had been dedicating a lot of time to training, exercise... Going out on hikes and some camping trips, always... with Penny... The past summer in particular really had seen a huge spike in the time they'd spent together, huh? And when she was hanging out with Penny, Nemona had less reasons to be battling Pokémon, since Penny wasn't specifically into that. She'd still spectate and all when Nemona would inevitably lock eyes with a passersby – because, of course you knew what happened when Nemona's gaze met a strangers out on the road... (Battles, jeje.)

--

You can read the full fic over here. (will be updating every week for the next while until it's finished!)

#pokemon #nemopen #nemona #penny #pokemon nemona #pokemon penny #yuri #wlw #Pokemon sv #pokemon scarvi #fanfic #fanfiction #pokeshipping #pokemon scarlet and violet

[jmrothwell]

I didn't know you wore glasses and I'm thinking normal and platonic thoughts about you right now I swear for Julie/anyone because she is so cute with glasses

Julie isn’t pacing. Pacing was a back and forth type of walk. And that is not what Julie is doing. She just has to make sure they had snacks, that everything at the table was ok, and that no one is awkwardly hovering at the door. 

So what if she’d walked the same circular path a few times now. It still isn’t pacing. No matter what Carlos and Flynn say. 

“Why are you so nervous anyway?” Flynn asks, as she pulls her own notes out of her bookbag. “It’s not like we don’t hang out with Luke and Reggie every single day.”

“Yeah, at school.”  Julie bites back her groan. She doesn’t go into the anxiety of them being at her house for the first time. Doesn't need Flynn making some quip about Julie not getting this nervous for her. If only she knew. 

The doorbell rings then

Julie jumps in spite of herself and Flynn’s knowing smile though stunning is uncalled for at the moment. As is the way her body decides to forget how to breathe when she opens the front door to Luke and Reggie’s beaming smiles. 

RIght, so suggesting a study session in the privacy of her own home might not have been the brightest idea. At least at a library or coffee shop there could be other people to distract her. However sitting at the table she doesn’t really have anywhere to look except at the other three. 

Or her notes. She’ll just look at her notes, nose glued to the book.

That plan lasts only as long as it takes for Reggie to crack a joke that has all three of them fighting to not spit out their drinks. He’d definitely purposefully timed it that way. And Julie’s mind wanders as she watches the way Reggie proudly smirks as Luke openly chuckles and Flynn tries to stifle her own laughter to try and lecture him.

“One sec. I’ll be right back.” Julie says after another half an hour of studying, quickly trotting upstairs to swap out her contacts for her glasses. She was really trying to avoid it, especially given who is over. But for some reason her contacts won’t stop bothering her today. 

It’s not that she hates how she looks in glasses. But there’s a reason she usually only wears them around the house. 

She could always just go blind, but she wouldn’t be able to read her notes let alone Luke’s without her glasses. And seeing as this was supposed to be a group study session that really wouldn’t do anyone any good.  So with a sigh she put her glasses on and walked back to the dining table as if nothing had changed.

If she didn’t make it a big deal, maybe they wouldn't. 

“Right,” She says, settling back into her chair. “We were about to start reviewing Ohm’s law, yeah?”

She is answered by silence and tries to not cringe against it. She glances up over her frames and forces herself not to flinch with how Luke and Reggie are gawking at her. Finding it much easier to look at Flynn, who is laughing behind her hand staring at the other two. 

Though that isn’t quite the reaction she was expecting out of her either. Normally Flynn got quite defensive on her behalf. 

“What?” Julie finally asks, the suspense of the silence eating away at her.

Flynn’s smile grows, as Luke slightly shakes his head. A move Julie’s only seen him do when he’s trying to clear his head of wandering thoughts. 

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.” Luke finally says after he clears his throat. 

Julie mentally braces, uncertain of what exactly either of them will say next. Nothing could have prepared her for what tumbles out of Reggie’s mouth though.

“And I’m thinking normal and platonic thoughts about you right now. I swear.”

In the seconds it takes for her brain to fully process what he said, Luke’s weight shifts and Reggie hisses, turning to the other boy with betrayed confusion, leaning down to reach under the table. Flynn’s silent laughter is beginning to pour out of her. 

“She gives off the most adorable librarian vibes, right?” Flynn says between giggles moving to rest her chin in her hand and turning to gaze in Julie’s direction again. “Super cute.”

Reggie snaps and points at Flynn. “Yes! That.”

Julie ducks her quickly heating face. She’d heard Flynn compliment her and her glasses before but didn’t ever dare think of it as more than a friend complimenting and building up their friend. But, Flynn’s never used that particular phrasing before. Coupled with everything else, Julie’s too busy questioning everything now. 

“Jules?”

Julie glances up over her frames, hoping they’re all close enough that she won’t be able to see them clearly. Unfortunately they’re all just far enough away to only be the slightest bit of hazy. They’re concerned glances still readable.

“What is–I don’t–what?” Julie stammers before settling on. “You think I'm cute?”

“Yuh-huh” Reggie huffs out with a fervent nod. Luke nodding along beside him, mouth open but seemingly at a loss for words, for once.

“Like I said, super cute.” Flynn confidently says sweeping some of her braids back over her shoulder. 

“Thanks.” Julie says, fixing her glasses, and oh, Reggie and Luke have both gone pink, though it’s more noticeable on Reggie.

She closes her notes and pushes her study material to the side. They’ll have plenty of time to study later. Right now, they should probably talk about something else. “So, totally platonic thoughts, huh?”

#julie and the phantoms #finally had the brain power to get this idea out of my head #though at one point I did contemplate a greater polyphantoms polycule story with Kayla somehow in the mix #thank you Canoe Crew with the brand new Kayla thoughts XD #lukexreggiexjuliexflynn #don't know if it's more of a two triangles intersecting or an all four of them together thing

[iiratix]

(┛✧Д✧))┛ fem reader as yae miko part 2

She and the team reunited with bam and they begin react to the top of the tower together 🤝

She meet him before when he still known as viole

🤔 (its up to you she already know his true identity is bam or not)

Love triangle ❤ (khun-reader-bam)

Romantic & one-shot

Rivalry or... Slavery?

Where two regulars over the moon over one sly fox, unaware of the mere fact she had known of their adorable crush.

She knows.

It was a mistake, it was an accident. Everything that occurs, that rebellion, that happened at this split second. Baam for once, regretted going out to fulfill his mission. She knows.

The familiar outfit, the way her hair ornaments created the faintest ring. It filled his senses, filled the void in Baam's mind. She knows.

There's no doubt that Y/n is aware of Baam identity. Standing right up ahead of him, looking down at him with squinted eyes. She knows.

The question of all; if she was paying attention, why didn't he say a single thing? It brought anxiety to Baam, the trembling in his fingertips and the way he subconsciously lowered his head, too clear to read, too obvious for him to know. The same kind of action, that becomes a habit whenever he turns to a stuttering, embarrassed or nervous mess in front of her. Baam was crushed, having no defenses or walls to match his facade.

"I…" Baam anticipated what she wanted to say.. Will she show her gratitude in knowing he's been alive this entire time? Will she ask the reason for his departure? Or will she get straight to the point and ask why is he in an organization such as FUG?

"I cannot believe my eyes." His bangs got in the way, but Baam was more than aware to notice. That is Y/n looking at him with the usual kind of puzzling smile.

"...What an eyesore to witness."

"—!!"

Baam raised his head, perplexed. An eyesore? Him? Of all the people out there, he would never have guessed there would be a day where Y/n would call him an eyesore. Because, if he reconsidered, he would always be called a breath of fresh air, someone she adored and who could refresh her mind with his presence. So, why? Why the sudden change of mind?

Why was she looking at him with disapproval and disappointment?

Baam wouldn't mind, if others would look at him with an unusual feeling of hostility. It was a different story, however, a different kind of story when it came to her. Y/n wasn't someone who showed her displeasure clearly, she would hide it behind mocking smiles and venomous comments. On the other hand, when she blatantly shows it all, the emotions she expresses mean she doesn't take things lightly.

It shows how betrayed Y/n L/n was. The head priestess showed an insignificant number of emotions at once, pouring out the emotions she was holding back.

"Viole, wasn't it? It somehow fits you and your ragged appearance. I wonder from which waste did you come from?" Y/n didn't mean to hide it. She boldly stated it, she showed her dissatisfaction with the path that Baam had taken. The path he must take, whether he likes it or not.

"It was such a regretful meaning for both you and me. Shame, truly. I expected a lot more coming from you. Have you stooped so low in a matter of 9 years?" Behind that malicious comment, lies a message for him. Not Viole, not the slayer, but Baam.

"...I don't underst—"

"Oh please, I may look like a fool to you, but Aguero and the others are possibly bigger fools than I am. Do you expect me to believe there's no dead body found despite the fact a regular… No, an irregular has been announced dead?" Y/n giggle, hand moving faintly in front of her lips.

Baam cannot tell what to say. Everything, every single word and syllable stuck in his throat. He cannot argue, he was stupefied, he was done for. The threat, the one thing that refrain him from meeting with them all, is because he’s afraid. Afraid of what the FUG may do to his friends.

“...I do not understand your choice, and I never wish to know.” Y/n turned around, walking off, away from his presence. Baam didn’t like any of this. The way she turned around, facing her back brought back unpleasant memories. Don’t leave. Stay. Baam for once warded off FUG's threat, trying to catch up to the figure.

“Y/–!!”A lightning bolt struck where he took a step, losing an inch of his figure. Bam staggered back, his eyes wide, confused by the familiar lightning. But, as he reflexively raised his head, he finally met an unfamiliar pair of eyes. She held a spear in her hand, her braided hair in the wind. The same style of clothing, the same type of power, and the aura they emitted.

And behind her, stood a pair of blonde haired twins, glaring scornfully at Baam, before they set out to follow Y/n from behind. It was as if they were her loyal followers, who were ready to help and support her. Likewise, the figure blocking Baam's path, stopping him on the spot, giving a warning that this was Y/n's own will, and he couldn't make up her mind.

In fact, Baam was not given the choice to decide. Not when Y/n is more than aware — He’s easy to be manipulated.

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○

It has been a year, a year after that encounter and not once had she felt the slightest bit regretful. Y/n found it a bit refreshing? It's complicated to describe, or maybe her personality is much more complex than most people know. To put it simply, she may or may not regret one thing, namely the lack of information from the notorious dangerous organization that caused chaos in the tower.

Y/n chuckled, leaning back in her chair, hands resting on the armrests and legs crossed to the sides. “I see, you have recruited another regular? I hope he is capable in his field, Aguero." A sneer on the other end of the phone was enough to answer her comment.

Khun watched the black sphere in silence, the one thing that kept the two relationships. A long-distance communications. How to put it? He was sure that day, he was absolutely confident that Y/n would entirely oblige his decision and come up with a solution. A solution he had predicted, whereas she will traverse the tower along with the others. Quite the exception for both Khun and Rachel.

And here she was, somewhere else, out of sight of others. Creating another group of their own, consisting of people outside their league. A bunch of deviant people who came from outside the tower and might as well be out of this world. Khun had no idea how exactly she had come across this kind of talented and otherworldly people. What he noted was a plausible reason that this sneaky fox had more connections than he expected.

Khun was distraught, restless by the distance. Unlike the others, they truthfully informed their condition and whereabouts, completely opposite of Y/n who remained closed and isolated. "Ah, before I long forgotten." Khun tapped his finger on the oak table, humming, indicating he was listening to what Khun had to say. "Pass my message to Rachel."

His finger hung, stilled by the air, frowning deeply at the mention of the freckled woman. "...What is it?"

"It has been quite some time since we've met. I do hope in the upcoming future, I could come and visit you myself. If that time truly comes, let us enjoy our moment of leisure and talk to our heart's content." Khun frowned deeply after hearing that. He didn't mind delivering this message, but somehow, the thought of Y/n's assumption that Rachel was an acquaintance left a bitter taste on his tongue.

"Are you sure it's for her and not for me?"

"Certainly. We've wasted most of our time conversing and exchanging information, no? have to say, it's a daily thing between the two of us. I've told you many times, no need to be ashamed. Admit it, You're hopeless without me." Khun rolled his eyes, the end of his lips curled up.

"I'd rather say you're the one who's tied to me." The laughter that rang by his ear always was a melody, his own personal kind of music record. One that he wants to replay over and over again. Till the end of time.

"Shame, if I were too attached to you, I would've been sticking close by your side at this second." Khun rested his head on his hands, listening intently to what she had to say. "But, it seems like it is only something you daydream of."

"Who knows."

"I know." Y/n smiled sweetly, taking the exact hint of what he meant secretly. She wondered what she was going to do about it. In fact, she could use it to his advantage.

Y/n turned her gaze to the figure standing in the doorway, a blonde figure with long hair in a braid, with a towel slung over his shoulders. Indicating the fact that he had finished his training session, he lifted his head, pointed indirectly outside the room, trying to draw her attention elsewhere.

"...Ah, Aguero. I'll talk to you tomorrow, it seems like I have another duty to perform." There was silence, the bluenette didn't say a word about why. Instead, he was curious, this task he had mentioned so many times; what exactly is it?

"Y/n, one of these day you need to tell us about your exac—"

"Farewell, tell others I've done pretty well." Y/n hung up the call, abruptly cutting his words off. "He's a curious person, isn't he?" He asked his leader, noticing how her ears twitched at what he said.

"...For sure. Now, what seems to be the problem?"

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○

A pant escaped through one lips, the way they rushed out to take a sharp corner, adrenaline pumping in through their blood cells. They seem to be running away from something. This is something that speaks of threat and danger toward the said person.

"Caught you."

"—?!"

A mighty roar of electricity rumbled, assailing the desperate figure. The hood fell down from their head, body tumbling forward as they laid face first on the ground. A groan was evident from the way they lay pitifully.

"I'll give you a round of applause for your courageousness." A sound that echoed down the empty hallway, the click of a heel, added a bit of horror.

"In fact, you are still as naive as ever. Do you really think you can outrun a fox in a hunting game?" In the darkness, a lock of a bright pink hue immediately appeared, the priestess gown filled with the elegant drawing of a sakura tree and lastly, dark eyes, staring in front of the fallen victim.

"And I always pray for your downfall….Rachel." Initiative, the freckled woman lifted her head, bit the inside of her lips and gritted her teeth. Y/n lifted her head, amused. That one look of hatred and vengeance, uniting the dim—bad eye color, daring to glare at its prey without knowing the hunting hierarchy.

Y/n sighed, shaking her head in obvious disappointment. She stopped right in front of Rachel, who remained on the ground, just like she should have started. A Verify Kagura materialized, hovering above her hand, the bells adorning the catalyst shining brightly. It means only one and nothing more. Meaning, her Sesshou Sakura had surrounded Rachel's body in a triangular shape, ready to strike another purplish lightning bolt.

"Does it hurt? You poor, poor, poor thing. What should I do? Spare you mercy?" Y/n laughed faintly, hands swinging in front of her lips, head tilted to the side. "Shame, you don't deserve such a thing." She smiled contentedly, her arms crossed under her chest.

"Now, while the others are busy in an all-out war, what should I do with you?"

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○

There was the sound of hurried footsteps, the pounding of heels on the floor and shoes hitting the concrete. From afar, everyone could see a certain flash of pink and brown, with pink in front and brown behind.

"Y/n—!!"

"Do not follow me."

Ignoring her warnings, Baam continued to follow Y/n like a stray puppy. This fox seems to be in big trouble, what problems might you ask? Of course, getting tackled down from the obvious explanation.

Y/n already aware of the reason. Rather she immediately figures it out on the spot with a couple of threats and manipulating here and there. But, she wouldn't dare to spill it to Baam. Because she really enjoyed the situation at hand, where he seemed desperate to clean up his past mistakes and even his name, he was eaten up by his self-conscious guilt.

Ah, Baam must've forgotten of her sadistic tendencies.

"Ah…" However, today's victim alone isn't Baam entirely. There's more guests in this fox daily shenanigans. Y/n fastening up her pace, practically running at her normal speed, which is abnormal in the eyes of a regular. Only an irregular could've caught her at this point, and luck certainly bloomed on Baam side for once.

"Aguero~"

Khun perked up, hearing a familiar call from his name. He turned his head around, facing the direction on where exactly he had heard of it. However, what he sees is a bundle of fluffed up pink, using his head a leverage to leap up the air. As he is about to comment, or prefer to call it, criticizing her action. Baam crashes right into him, falling to catch Y/n who has transformed into a fox and uses Khun as a way to escape. The two tumbling down the ground, in a domino effect, with Khun falling first thing first and Baam following shortly after.

The two boys grunt in pain, looking ahead at each other. One look in annoyance and the other look rather apologetic. Y/n snicker at the sight, giggling in her fox form and watched it all happen, giddy-ly. Hence, they switched attention to the girl they oh-so-dearly-loved, ignoring the fact she enjoyed playing around with them. Khun and Baam falling in love with her is just a cherry on top.

"Dear me, if you were so attracted to one another, you should've stop chasing after m—"

"...Form…"

"Pardon me?"

Khun pointed toward her direction, eliciting a noise of confusion. "Baam tried to say… You show your fox form at last." Y/n sit there by the concrete floor, carefully taking his words into account, tails swishing from left to right and squinted eyes stare at the two. That's when the realization gnawed on her like daylight.

"Oh."

Y/n is sure she won't be hearing the last of it. However, she is certain, as long as they're whipped put for her, she'll find a way to get this into her own advantage. The two might be a rival to one another, but for Y/n Guiji? They're two undeniably loveable fools that she could command around.

#tower of god #kami no tou #tog #tower of god x reader #twenty fifth baam #25th baam #baam #baam x reader #khun aguero agnis #khun aa #khun #khun x reader #genshin impact x tower of god #genshin impact #genshin impact yae #genshin impact yae miko #genshin yae #yae miko #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #female reader #𝙸𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚡™

[rhapsodyred-writes]

For any three of your characters, please!

How would they react to a sweater that was hand sewn by their partner? It's really nicely done, but the partner has bandages cause... they're not really good at it.

on their fingers, I mean.

For Christmas too!

Sure! Hope you like it!

Salem has never had anything handmade. So when you present him with your hand-sewn sweater, made with love, he freezes. At first he wants to focus on how this was clearly not a professional job, but he's been trying hard not to give into those mean tendencies. That would also mean being far too picky - it's a good sweater, and you obviously put a lot of time and effort into it, but...

"Show me your hands." His tone is gentle but firm, and you watch a crease form between his brows when you show him your hands, complete with bandaged fingers.

They didn't bleed much, your poor little fingers. But you did accidentally stab yourself enough times to warrant bandages - plus they acted as a kind of defense to keep your fingers from being stabbed again.

Salem sighs, and you watch his eyes fade from their usual dark brown shade to a light pink as he uses his healing magic on you. Underneath the bandages, your fingers feel warm and just a little tingly.

Once he's done, he pulls you close against him.

Thank you, my love," He murmurs, his voice rumbling in his chest. "It's a wonderful gift. All I ask is that you take better care not to hurt yourself next time. You are more important to me than any craft gift."

-

Fenway blinks at you, and carefully takes the sweater from your hands. She's silent for what feels like much longer than it actually is as she examines it - not for perfection, but for detail. She wants to make sure that she doesn't miss a single detail of your gift. She wants to know it inside and out, since you spent so much time and energy to make it for her.

When she looks up at you, you could swear there are tears in her eyes.

"Y-You r-really made this f-f-for me?"

You nod, and show her your bandaged fingers. To your surprise, she laughs.

It's a laugh of surprise, and quickly stifled.

"I'm s-s-sorry, I'm n-not laughing at y-you!" She seems horrified by the sound that had escaped her.

You assure her that it's okay, and though she seems hesitant to believe you, she stops apologizing.

Holding the sweater close to her, Fenway smiles shyly. "I w-was just laughing b-because that s-seems like s-something I'd do."

You have seen her with bandaged fingers more than once, and once that connection is made, it's not hard to find the humour in the situation. You're both a little clumsy and that's alright.

-

At first, Tsuragi doesn't react outwardly to your gift. You know how they are about fashion and sewing, and you're sure they'd notice all your mistakes (though you're pretty sure you didn't leave many). You wait for them to react, and every second you wait, the more nervous you become for their judgement. It's not just about giving them a gift anymore - at some point it became about gaining their approval.

Finally they look up from the sweater to you.

At this point, you're ready for them to point out any flaw in your work, and you brace yourself-

"Darling, you didn't have to make me anything."

You'd worked yourself up for no reason. You open your mouth to justify your choice to gift them something hand made, but they don't give you a chance to speak.

"I'm not going to critique a gift, darling. I can tell that you put a lot of love into it, and I appreciate that." They smile gently at you, and extend a hand to you. It's only natural to place your hand in theirs, and as soon as you have, Tsu's hand closes around it.

"I thought so!" Their tone almost sounds triumphant, or it would if they didn't seem so sad about all the bandages. "Honey, you know the thought is what counts with gifts, right?" When you nod, they continue. "Good. All I'll say is that you should use a thimble next time, alright?"

#hello anon #thanks for the ask! #red answers #red writes #salem #fenway #tsuragi #my ocs #my writing

[n0-eyedtaissa]

"are you trying to get us in trouble?" for clementine 👀

In Clementine's defense, the Pogues were a little too good at keeping secrets. She couldn't really blame them for that, though, because she had some secrets of her own. The difference is, she never let her friends get into trouble over the secrets that she was keeping.

Sure, she knew about John B. and Sarah, how they died in the storm at the beginning of summer and the Pogues were still holding onto whatever hope was left that they could still be alive. That was all she know, though. Clementine didn't know that Rafe was really the one who killed Sheriff Peterkin, that his dad blamed John B. and that was the reason he and Sarah were driven into the storm in the first place. She didn't know that the Chateau was still considered an active crime scene, that Shoupe's deputies were still patrolling the property to make sure that no pesky Pogues ripped through the sun-bleached caution tape crossed over the front door of the old marsh house.

That would've been nice to know.

Clementine finds this out the hard way, when her Pogues all convince her that a rescue mission for some old papers that John B.'s dad had written, some sort of scholarly articles he was in the process of publishing about the Royal Merchant and Denmark Tanny. Apparently John B. and Sarah's dads worked together to find it and the partnership was subject to an intense power imbalance due to the fact that Ward Cameron had all of the money that Big John needed in order to get his project off the ground.

"There must have been some sort of agreement, don't you think? A written contract, NDA's?" Pope asked the rest of the Pogues as they crouched in the overgrown brush line around the now-abandoned property.

"NDA's? Jeez, Pope, what do you think Ward is, some super-spy?" JJ tries to feign nonchalance, acting like he wasn't deeply uncomfortable being at the Chateau when John B. wasn't. Out of everywhere in the Outer Banks, the Chateau was the only place that truly felt like home to JJ. He and John B grew up having week-long sleepovers, swimming all day until their skin was red and tight-feeling from the sun and the salt, eating off-brand lucky charms for all meals and watching every old movie that Big John had a copy of. There was a certain warmth that the old marsh house exuded, a light that had gone out. 

Clementine didn't know John B, but she likes to think that she was familiar with what JJ was feeling. She knew what it was like to know someone who was missing, the stress that comes with not knowing what really happened to them and wondering about the likelihood of them returning home unscathed. 

“I dunno, JJ, remember what Phoebe said?” Kiara raises an eyebrow. She would never believe a single word out of Ward Cameron’s mouth, even though her parents rubbed elbows with him at the country club and thought he was a good man who contributed to the community. 

Phoebe Deluca was Rafe Cameron’s only ex-girlfriend, the only person who had ever seen what happened underneath the surface of their perfect Kook ecosystem. Word on the street was that the two got into a bad car accident and Phoebe was the one who was blamed, all because Ward Cameron tried to pay her family to be quiet. 

“I wouldn’t put anything past him...” Kiara says, ripping the ribbon of caution tape away from the threshold so she could duck her head inside the never-locked front door. 

“So what do we look for?” JJ asks, his nervous hands finding his hair so he can rake his fingers through the salt-tangled waves. 

“File cabinets, lock boxes, anything that looks super official. If there’s any sort of contract or legally binding document that both Ward and Big John signed, you know he’s gonna have it here. John B’s dad was a low-grade hoarder.” Pope is the first person to head inside the empty Chateau, a level of courage and forthcomingness that seemed out of character for him (but in a good way). 

JJ and Kiara are right on his heels, but Clementine stays put. “I’m uh, gonna stay put and keep watch.” She nods curtly and sits down on the front step, a grossly familiar feeling settling deep in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t know John B, so she felt like it was wrong for her to go into a stranger’s house and rifle through his things to find something that she knew absolutely nothing about. It reminded her of the days after Kimber first disappeared, how the cops sat Clementine down to ask hundreds of complicated questions while the rest of the officers dug through Kimber’s bedroom and pulled out odds and ends they deemed useful evidence. It was invasive then and it was invasive now. Clementine didn't have to know John B to know that. 

“Give us the signal if you see anything, Clam” JJ nods and pats Clementine on the head before heading inside, despite the pull in his gut that was telling him not to. 

“And what’s the signal?!” Clementine called out after the Pogues but they had already begun their descent into the familiar, yet uncertain territory. 

She sits there on the front step of the Chateau for quite awhile. Maybe it was longer than she thought, maybe shorter. Time seemed to compress itself when you were focusing on the little things around you. Clementine’s ears aren't attuned to the little sounds, the squeak of the screen door and the whistle of wind in the trees. Every small sound sets Clementine off, making her whip her head around to find the source of the noise, no matter how small. 

It’s probably a good thing that she’s paying so much attention to everything around her, or else she wouldn't have heard the crunching sound of gravel under tires. Clementine pops her head up, cranes her neck around just enough to see the front bumper of a Kildere County Sheriff Department squad car sticking out from behind the surf shack. 

“Guys!” Clementine whisper-shouts, trying to catch the attention of her friends without calling attention to whichever deputy was now on patrol. She pops her head up high enough to see a stocky, thick-necked older man getting out of the squad car, his brow furrowed as he began to look around. “JJ what the hell was the signal?!” 

Clementine feels the panic brewing as she ducks down the best she can to stay out of the officer’s line of sight. She crawls towards the screen door and tries to open it as silently as possible, hoping that the officer wasn’t keeping his ears out. Clementine keeps crawling on her hands and knees, opening the front door and crawling through the threshold of the Chateau, trying to avoid being seen in any of the windows. 

“Guys!” She hisses again, growing both frustrated and concerned. 

Kiara pops her head out front one of the few doorways. “What are you whispering about out here?”

JJ pops his head out from what looked like John B’s old bedroom. “What, you finally want to pull your weight around here?” He chuckles, too loud for Clementine’s liking now that there was a deputy poking around the property. 

“Cops” She whisper-shouts, hoping that now her friends would take the situation more seriously. “Patrolling, walking around” 

“Could you see who it was?” Kiara asks as she drops to the floor, trying to stay calm enough to figure out an escape plan.

“Uh, very stereotypically cop-looking, dark hair, no neck, angry face...?”

“Oh shit, it’s Thomas...”

“Why didn’t you use the freakin’ signal?” JJ drops his voice in order to whisper back. 

“We never established a signal!”Clem hisses, shoving his shoulder. 

“Guys we gotta go...” Pope comes around the corner looking panicked, just as the front doorknob started rattling. 

“With haste, please!” Clementine begs as her and the rest of the Pogues crawled towards the back of the house to put some distance between themselves and Deputy Thomas before they could get caught.”

“There’s a door to the laundry room that’ll take us outside” Kiara devises a plan and the Pogues take off crawling, trying to go low and slow so that the old bones of the Chateau wouldn’t creak so badly. “JJ you’re fast, you go and create a distraction.” 

“Are you trying to get us in trouble?” Clementine questions. The plan sounds too broad and easy to go off without a hitch. 

“Yeah, do we really want the basis of our plan to rely on JJ’s ability to make a distraction so we can get away?” Pope rolls his eyes. 

JJ huffs. “Honestly I can’t believe you guys are doubting my skills at a time like this! Out of everything that I’ve done for you guys!” JJ could launch into a long-winded missive at a moments notice but clearly this wasn’t the time. 

“Just....get to distracting already, will you? I’m getting splinters in my knees” Clementine complains

“Ungrateful...” JJ shakes his head, pushing himself up to his knees so he can make a mad dash towards the door. “All of you, absolutely ungrateful!” 

#omfg thank you for the req! #ive missed these guys #obx oc: clementine adams

[nmojello260cmu]

Blog #4

12/9/2022

Hello Reader!

This blog will probably be the last one for this semester, as we are finally nearing the end of it. We were finally going to have our final pitching for our last activity. With so many presentations, proposals, and defense cases we were having the past few weeks, we were a wreck. Sleepless nights were every night and this particular pitch snuck up on us real good. It was a good thing that we had already prepared our test product and PowerPoint weeks prior. We took the commentaries and critiques from the panelist before and applied them to improve our presentation. For our test product, it was Rachael who found a tailor to sew Hawid for us at a very cheap price. Remember when I said that nursing students had a very annoying problem with flyaway hair? The video below is proof of our daily struggles.

Above is one of my groupmates, Angela, while riding the motorrela for our classes. She seemed to have mistaken the amount of gel she put on her hair and put too little. Hence, little strands of baby hair escaped and ruined her neat look. I often have this problem too, but I usually mitigate it by reapplying more gel or wax by the hour. Which was really inconvenient and time-wasting. Rachael showed us the test product the tailor made with our designs and a reference from Google in mind. (The blue one is from Google and the green one is our test product.)

It turned out pretty well, all things considered. We just had to convince the panelists of that as well.

We were nervous but we had to do what we had to do. So in we went.

... It went really well. We only had about 5 minutes to briefly explain the product, show the panelists what it's about, how it attracts the market, and how much it costs...and we did it! With 2 minutes to spare! Our instructor was pleased and complimented us for being thorough in our PowerPoint (which was primarily created by Paula and the rest of us making small edits). I couldn't be prouder of our team. In that final pitching, I learned and realized a lot of things. Making a product, selling it, and actually making a profit off of it is no easy task. What is more, attracting investors to actually believe in the potential of your idea. And we actually did all that! It was a very surreal feeling. Before, I wouldn't know the word "start-up", now, I understand what it means to put your idea and your ambition into the eyes of the public. I know how to "sell" my idea to our market and make it enticing for our investors. I know a bit about how to calculate costs and budget so that we won't go into debt. I know what factors to think about in order to make my start-up journey smoother. I know now the importance of choosing your teammates right, of them having the same vision and drive and willingness to cooperate to see our idea to reality. Of each one being able to contribute meaningfully every step of the way. Before, I wouldn't have spared a single glance towards Entrepreneurship, because I really didn't understand it. Now, I am curious and got to experience a little taste of the exhausting but fun journey that it could be. It's truly an honor to have learned this subject.

(Here's a picture of our group, after our final pitch.)

[missduplicities]

Chapter 52 (pt. 1)

The first month of dating Taehyung wasn’t as different as just being his friend. They still saw each other at lunch breaks, after school or work, and hung out with the rest of the guys. The only different thing was that they could (and totally would) hold their hands in public and occasionally hug. They were both too shy to kiss in front of the others, fortunately, they found time and places to do it in private. All their friends were pretty comfortable with them around; of all of them, the one who seemed to be having more fun with the whole situation was James, who kept making them blush with silly jokes and light-hearted comments. Yoongi had a hard time at first, mostly because Taehyung was all clingy at the studio with Eunha, cutting her productivity by at least 30% which they couldn’t afford. Jimin and Sooah tried to persuade them more than once a week to have a double date with them, and even though they loved their best friends, Eunha and Taehyung tried to get as much alone time as possible.

Thanks to Midori, the news that the mysterious quiet guy had a girlfriend had spread throughout the school. In her defense, she was tired of explaining to girls how a) she wasn’t dating him and b) he wasn’t single. However, some rumors said that he was dating a famous idol and they had to keep it a secret, which was why there were no signs of her on his social media. Taehyung didn’t care, he liked not being followed around anymore. What they didn’t know is that, on his private account, he had no problem sharing his life with Eunha.

 

“Good morning,” he said on the phone. It was now a habit to call every morning before going to classes and work.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she happily said. He felt the warm-fuzzy feeling in his chest every time she called him that. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” he said with the biggest smile on his face. “How are you?”

“I’m great, still in bed,” she said in her morning voice. Taehyung would never admit it, but that was one of the main reasons he called her at this time.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” he asked, lowkey jealous that she wasn’t waiting for the subway like he was.

“I have the morning off,” she explained. “We’re recording another live session today. I’m excited, I’ll be Production Assistant,”

“Until what time are you free?” he asked, already planning on skipping classes to see her.

“My call is at 4 pm,”

“Want to eat together?” he asked, getting excited all of a sudden. “I finish my lessons at 1,”

“We both know that’s a lie,” she laughed. “It’s Wednesday, you have classes all day,”

“Oh, you know my schedule?”

“Of course I do,”

“That’s pretty attractive, you know?” Eunha laughed a little too loud, getting nervous for some reason. “I’m doing well at school, so it won’t be harmful if I skip a couple of classes,”

“As much as I’d love to see your pretty face today, I don’t think it’s a good idea,”

“Why?” he whined, making her laugh again.

“Because you have to be responsible,” she explained. “I have the day off tomorrow, we can meet after your lessons,”

“I promised Seokjin-hyung I’d help him choose some furniture for the place,”

“Can I join you?”

“Sure! Yeah! That’s an excellent idea! Yeah!”

“Alright, see you tomorrow then,”

“I miss you,”

“Me too,”

“Wait! What about tonight? After the shooting,”

“I’ll have dinner with Yoongi, Han, and the production team,”

“Alright,” he gloomily said. “The subway is here, I have to go,” “I’ll call you later, alright?” she said a bit worried, feeling the sadness in his voice. “Take care,”

“Yeah, you too,”

Right after hanging up, feeling a bit down, Taehyung got into the subway heading to school. In his best attempt of distracting himself, he went through his unread messages, knowing he wouldn’t catch up any time soon.

 

Jimin: I can’t

Jimin: I’m with Sooah

Jimin: But tomorrow we can go to the salon or something, my roots are showing a lot

Taehyung: sure whatever

 

Mum: Be kind to her, she’s doing her best

Mum: Are you coming home for Christmas this year?

Taehyung: idk yet

 

Seokjinnie-Hyung: I can’t take care of Yeontan tomorrow though

Seokjinnie-Hyung: But Hobi said he can

Taehyung: alright tnx

 

Hobi-hyung: Taehyungah

Hobi-hyung: hyung told me about babysitting tannie tomorrow but I’m meeting my sister tomorrow

Hobi-hyung: can’t Namjoonie take care of him?

Taehyung: dw

Taehyung: I’ll ask him

 

Princess: Don’t take it personal, honestly. I’m just busy lately

Princess: When are you coming home? I have news

 

Joon: Taehyung hi! Hobi told me about yeontan

Joon: I’m free tomorrow morning, but I have classes at 3:15pm

Joon: I can take him somewhere else at that time

Taehyung: thanks!

Taehyung: I can pick him up then

 

Midori: That was not in the manga though

Midori: Which is why it took us by surprise

Midori: Not even JK saw it coming

Midori: I forgot my jacket at your place, I think it’s on the living room. Can you bring it tomorrow?

Taehyung: yeah

 

Hobi: Did you talk to Namjoon?

Taehyung: Yeah, he said he can

Hobi: awesome!

Taehyung: say hi to noona

Hobi: of course

 

“Excuse me?” Taehyung was interrupted by a girl who was most definitely a foreigner. She seemed nervous, so he decided to remove his headphones to hear whatever she had to say. “Is Yonsei far from here?”

“Sorry?” Taehyung asked. He wasn’t sure he had heard correctly, since her accent was a bit difficult to comprehend.

“Yonsei,” she repeated, pointing at Midori’s varsity jacket that he was holding in his hands. “Is it far from here?”

“Not very far, no,” he said, a bit annoyed now that people were starting to look their way. It wasn’t usual for people to speak on the public transportation.

“Do you speak English?” she asked in her native language. He shook his head no, even though he could get through a conversation with someone, just to push her away. This didn’t work, now the girl was typing on her phone’s translation app. “I need to get to Yonsei University,” a robotic voice said from her phone.

“Shh!” an old lady nearby threw them some dirty looks.

“I’m going there,” he said in his best English. “Just follow me but don’t speak,”

“Ok, that’s rude,” the oblivious girl said with a frown, but still decided to trust him. After some stops, Taehyung was ready to get off, almost forgetting that the girl was supposed to follow him. “Hey, wait!”

“This way,” he said, looking at his watch without stopping.

“Do you study here?” the girl asked. “I’m transferring for next term. I’m from Germany, have you ever been there?”

“Uhm… no,” he uncomfortably said.

“I’m Johanna, by the way. What’s your name?”

“Taehyung,” he said, rushing his feet to the gates.

“Tae...?” she asked, struggling to pronounce it.

“Do you have an English name?”

“No,”

“You should,” she was struggling to keep up with his pace. “What about Jim? Or Daniel,”

“That’s Yonsei,” he cut her, pointing to the building. “See you,”

“Wait! Can’t you show me around?”

“I have class,” he didn’t stop walking, leaving her behind. “There are maps everywhere,”

He actually started jogging to get away from her; she was making him nervous. By the time he arrived to his classroom, he was greeted by Midori, who was waiting outside.

“What’s the hurry?” she asked. “Class starts in 10 minutes,”

“Really?” he asked out of breath. “I thought I was late. Here, it was in Jungkook’s room,”

“Thanks,” Midori said with a smirk on her face, putting on the jacket already.

“It seems like he wanted to wear it all week,” Taehyung said, still catching his breath. “It looks ridiculously small on him,”

“He looks ridiculously hot, you mean?”

“Gross, shut up,”

They finally walked to the classroom together, sitting next to each other. They only shared two lessons: Aesthetics of Moving Images and History of Art. They were preparing for an exam on the first subject, which was Midori’s personally favorite since it was more practical. Taehyung liked the latter better; he was enjoying theorical lessons a lot lately.

“Are you taking notes?” Midori asked in a whisper, he only nodded. “Can I copy them later?” he nodded again. “Thanks, good night,” she put her hoodie up and fell asleep on top of her books, apparently too tired to try paying attention.

Once the lesson ended, Taehyung walked to Midori’s place to wake her up. She rubbed her eyes and got to her feet, automatically checking her phone for work updates.

“Jungkook says hi,” she told Taehyung without taking her eyes from her phone.

“You have another lesson, right?”

“No, I have training,” Midori pointed at her gym bag on the floor. “After that, I’m leaving for work,”

“Cool,”

“You?”

“I have two more lessons,” he said, checking his watch. “Then a two-hour seminary,”

“Gross,”

“Yeah,”

“So no Exploration of Eunha’s Anatomy today?”

“Shut up,” he said, instantly blushing.

“Don’t get sad, I’m sure you can take that lesson any other day,” Midori grinned as she walked out of the room. “I have to change and head to the pool, see you then,”

“Yeah,” Taehyung stalled, packing his books and putting on his jacket. He still had thirty minutes left until his next lesson, so he headed to the library to hide for a while. On his way there, he caught up with his messages again.

 

Eunha: I went to the coffee shop and James wasn’t there

Eunha: He’s supposed to be there, right?

Taehyung: Yeah, it’s Wednesday

Eunha: Do you think something happened?

Taehyung: Maybe he had the day off

Taehyung: Or he was sent to the store

Eunha: Should I text him?

Taehyung: I can text him

Eunha: Thanks <3 let me know

 

Taehyung: hey, are you at work?

James: Hi

James: No, I called in sick

Taehyung: Are you alright? What happened?

 

Taehyung: He’s sick

Eunha: Does he need something? Where is he?

 

James: I’m good, it’s just a cold

James: Well I have fever but I’m good

Taehyung: Do you need medicine?

 

Taehyung: He has fever

Eunha: Poor baby

Eunha: I should get him some warm food

Eunha: Do you know where he lives?

Taehyung: Yeah, in the dorms

 

James: Yeah, I went to the doctor already

James: He says I need to rest

Taehyung: Alright, do that

Taehyung: Let me know if I can do anything, ok?

James: Thanks!

 

Eunha: I have some free time, should I go?

Taehyung: I don’t know if you’ll make it

Taehyung: Can’t you send Han?

Eunha: I’m not supposed to ask him to do personal favors

Taehyung: Why not?

Eunha: Not professional

Taehyung: Yoongi asked you stuff like that all the time

Eunha: Exactly, I don’t want to do that

Taehyung: Well, James said he’s okay so don’t worry too much

 

Eunha didn’t say anything else, which was a bit unnerving for him. He was constantly worried about saying the wrong stuff. Feeling a bit down, he walked to the library and sat on the floor next to a big bookshelf. He put on his headphones and listened to his jazz playlist. He wondered whether he should text Eunha again, but he didn’t want to seem too needy. Still, he missed her. Several thoughts crossed his mind, mostly about dropping out of school again to spend her days with her. Of course, that was impulsive and unlikely, but he still felt this urge to stop everything just to be with her. Now he was adequately sad. Screw it, he thought as he ran out of the library just to call her.

“Hello?” she seemed surprised to get his call. “Is something wrong?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I miss you. A lot,”

“You scared me,” she sighed. “I miss you, too,”

“I really miss you; I don’t want to be here, I want to be with you,”

“Taehyung,” she giggled. “Please don’t skip classes, you’re doing well at school. We’ll see each other tomorrow, honey,”

An electric shock ran through his whole body and his heart started beating fast. She seemed more comfortable calling him pet names now, and he loved it.

“I really need to kiss you right now,” he honestly said. “I can just skip one class and meet you somewhere and give you a kiss, then I’ll leave, I promise,”

“Great now I’m blushing in the middle of the supermarket and I can’t move, thank you very much,”

“Which supermarket?”

“Taehyung!” she laughed. “Please don’t come, we need to be responsible,”

“Alright,” he sighed. “I should go to class then,”

“Good boy,” his heart skipped a beat again. “I miss you a lot, too. But I’ll get to see your pretty face tomorrow, right?”

“I love you,” he didn’t know exactly why he had said that. He was sure he felt that way about her, but it was the first time the words had come out of his mouth. It seems like she was in shock or something, since she didn’t say anything for the longest 30 seconds. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that like this,”

“I love you, too,” she sincerely said.

“You do?”

“Yes,” it was clear she was smiling. “Make sure to say it to my face next time you see me,”

“I will,” he smiled, more relieved now. “Have a good day, love”

“You too,”

 

Taehyung didn’t remember much from the rest of the day. He automatically walked to his next class, forgetting two of his books in the library. He didn’t seem to care, though. Even though he showed up to his class, he couldn’t pay much attention so he just waited until the professor let them go and made his way to his last class of the day before the seminary.

 

Eunha: I’m already with Yoongi

Eunha: The shooting starts soon, so I will be busy

Eunha: I love you

Taehyung: I love you, too

Taehyung: Say hi to Yoongi from me

 

Taehyung felt dizzy in the best of ways. It was like he had just gained a superpower called expressing your feelings. For many years, he had felt a lot but never expressed them. With Eunha, he was doing a lot of firsts.

[blondrichclosetwitch]

“It’s all over now. “ I suppose that’s some sort of defense

“I don’t know if I could ever go without”—what? Spying on me every single second?

“I like to sing a song which is called the “Master Song” and it’s about the Trinity. Leave that for the scholars: it’s about three people.”—Leonard Cohen

“He borrows as only genius borrows, fusing and refashioning in the carnal glow of an imagination tempered by the heartbreaking devastation of inescapable isolation.”

“ The tune – – incorporating possessiveness, isolation, and extreme compromise – – down shifts on the upswing and reaches its destination examining the dynamics of power.”

“ in other words, it’s about the entangling triangle, the ends and outings so often associated with the way in which masters become slaves and slaves become masters, as tangible as wounds, as exhilarating and terrible as any power relationship. You. Me. Her. But, who is she and, more precisely, how has this Master undone her so discourteously? Images of combat and conflict strengthen a concurrent set of images involving sickness as well as an almost autistic isolation. Master. Prisoner. Holy Ghost. The trinity of which Cohen speaks. A trio of voices at Cross purposes. Forced by circumstance to abandon his own true calling, the Prisoner shunned Her perfectly. traditionally, the troubadour, at career’s close, is said to renounce love and recant love poetry before taking up residence in a monastery.”

Now your love is a secret all over the block.

Freak is a song that I had to take off all of my playlists in June 2017, because just hearing the chords would make my nervous system shut down. What I was shown was there was a harem in California when Jakk & Blond were, including the Tarot Reader & the PornStar, who had been one of my best friends in New York before she vanished from sight. I was shown them driving Jakk far away into the desert with the Brooklyn entourage where they filled him with drugs & fucked him senseless before shooting him up with heroin to die. Anytime this played, those pictures would fill my mind. What I didn’t understand at the time was that being bound meant any picture could be put in my mind aka the scene when I was in a session when I was shown that they used a knife on Jakk sexually back in May, which was the initial image that corrupted my nervous system.

We danced in graveyards***Stella said the ritual that the TR did to invoke and bind the baby to me and Blond was done with two of her coven(yes I know who you are) in April 2016, in a graveyard.

Black-winged roses that safely changed their color —the TR had told me about keeping roses right before I went to Italy (Sept 17, 2016). These were the first roses I ever bought, and this is how they looked when I got back from Italy, and I was told they were symbolic of Jakk, myself & the baby: bloodless, colorless, the Living Dead. When I knew people were breaking into my house, I started carrying them on the subway with me, because I was so mentally fragile and scared to death that they would steal them.

“Doesn’t take much to rip us into pieces.”

And in this recording, which was done in Buffalo 5 years to the day that we terminated our baby, an experience that had already haunted me before they decided to fuck with the spirit of an unborn, she sings:

“How can I reach you?

No, I feel you in my head.

How can I reach you?

You’re still in my head.

How can I reach you?

Though I know you’re in my head.”

Those who are bound never know they are bound. But if you start to pay attention to your actions…your sadness…your descent into the abyss…you may realize that it’s not you who’s driving the car.

#give me myself again

[sapphic-luthor]

have we ever talked about how visibly hurt lena was when she realised she had disappointed supergirl

#this is like . very sad to me #at this point she only knows supergirl as 'the woman who judges me based on my name' by her own admission in s2 #but that kind of guilt and hurt in her eyes gives away that she clearly doesn't Really think that about supergirl #or if she does then she desperately hopes that's the not the case-- this is the hurt of somebody who thinks; i've let her down #and why would you care if you've let someone down unless you really hoped that they believed in you? #like this is . lena's cornered and outnumbered and they really fucked this whole situation up #because she was defensive and nervous and had every single right to be because she had been trying to save her friend #and then the whole deo and mon el and imra and supergirl and alex and people she otherwise 'trusted' sat her down and grilled her #and this is like a bad interrogation. she didn't do anything wrong and she knew that but #i think she kind of hoped that supergirl might stick up for her here; just a bit #might say 'hey let's hear her out; this is her best friend and she was just trying to help' #and honestly i think kara was pretty close to leaning that way anyway #and then as soon as lena had to admit she used kryptonite..... #and she KNEW. in this scene when she has to tell them she used it she delays and delays and pauses so much before admission #because she knows what it's going to do. #she knows it will cement her as a threat in the eyes of the woman she so desperately hoped would believe in her against all odds #but that was kara. kara was the one who would go to war with the world on the belief that lena was good. not supergirl. #and that's why so much of lena's s5 anger is reasonable to me #anyway! #supercorp #lena #kara #mine #one of these is way worse quality than the other but pls look away i cannot help it

[wkemeup]

Delicate Edges (7)

series summary: Trapped under a mountain of debt to the Hydra club, it is only in moments when Bucky walks into your flower shop that you forget the cruelty of the biker clubs of this town. But a war is brewing. And Bucky will stop at nothing to keep you safe. (Biker!AU) pairing: Bucky x reader chapter word count: 8k chapter warnings: hydra sighting, hint: the woman in the header is not Y/n 😬, bucky is protective af

series masterlist / series playlist

“So, what are the chances Bucky sics the 107 on me for turning you against him?”

You could practically see the grimace on Wanda’s face through the phone; the lines forming around her nose, brows pressed down, lips pinched into a tight frown. She was pacing inside her apartment, the squeak of old wooden floors crying under every step. She’d been racked with guilt since you told her the truth behind the rumors.

“None, Wanda,” you reassured for the third time that evening. You slipped the key into the lock at the front of your shop, tugging on the door to make sure it was secure. “I told you... the 107 isn’t Hydra. They’re not like that.”

The keychain Bucky had given you tapped against the glass and you brushed your fingers against the plastic affectionately; edges that were both sharp enough to puncture but not enough to cut you. Offense and shield in the same breath. Quiet in its defense.

Wanda sighed. “It’s just tough to get used to. The whole town is convinced the 107 is just as bad as the Hydra club, if not worse. The things they whisper about what Bucky and his friends have done...”

“The power of folklore in a small town,” you agreed solemnly, weaving your way through the locals on the sidewalk as you followed the setting sun over the horizon.

“But you’re all right?” Wanda asked tentatively.

You smiled, though it carried such weight it struggled to touch your eyes. But it did. It lifted despite the heaviness there. “Yes, Wanda. I promise.”

Between the static of the speaker, you could hear Pietro’s faint voice rambling in Sokovian. The two of them were bustling around the small kitchen inside their shared apartment, bickering with one another through hushed tones you weren’t meant to hear. It only made you laugh.

“Sorry,” Wanda groaned, “my brother is useless in the kitchen today. We’ll talk later, okay? Before Tuesday.”

You knew the inflection in her tone, the strain as she sobered her voice. There was only four days left before the Hydra club was due for their next visit. The two of you had a routine, a set plan that helped you get through the night and sleep despite the lingering echo of engines following you through the shadows. You’d been doing it for years now, ever since your parents passed. It was what kept you going when the darkness felt like it was closing in around you.

“Of course,” you replied quietly, quickening your pace as the crowd began to thin.

After you hung up, you gave yourself thirty seconds to give into the panic. Thirty seconds to feel it rush into your skin, tingling and restless like ants crawling under the surface. To give into the pounding of your heartbeat and the short rasps of breath. To lose yourself in the fear of Rumlow emerging from the dark edges of your shop and Rollins’ hands inching too close to your hips. It was only four days away and you’d almost forgotten. How was that possible? Rumlow had been inside your shop less than twelve hours ago, reminding you just how dangerous he really was.

Thirty seconds.

But then you spotted a figure along the horizon, standing alone at the center of the sidewalk just behind the red X marked on the concrete. Your anxiety slipped away like water through your fingers as Bucky came into a view, a single hand raised in the air as he waved at you. Any trace of Rumlow was washed from your mind because Bucky Barnes was waiting for you on the border – that sweet smile upon his face, nervous sway of his weight on his heels. The Hydra club did not exist when Bucky was with you.

When you were close enough, Bucky extended his hand for you. There was no hesitation as you took it with ease, surprised at how familiar it felt as his fingers intertwined to yours. He squeezed against your grip lightly, nudging your side as you fell in line with him. God—you'd missed him.

“You sleep all right?” he asked, guiding you down the empty sidewalk on the path of the Centenarian.

“Better than I had all week.” You had spent too many nights in the last week laid awake and staring at the ceiling, listening to his voicemails over and over again – trying to find the game twisted into his words, the monster hiding under the grieving ache in his tone.

You knew now that there was never any monster to find. Bucky was not the man you’d heard campfire stories about or hushed warnings through the gossip of your town. He was not ‘the Rumlow of the east’ as Wanda had once called him. He was a good man. A wonderful man, really. You slept soundly after you had managed to convince him to return home last night, the trace of his lips burning warm against your temples.

Bucky hummed, a slow smile spreading upon his mouth. He leaned over and kissed the crown of your head without missing a step.

To your right, you spotted a few kids in schoolyard uniforms playing soccer in the open field with a half-deflated ball and makeshift goal posts. They froze as they spotted Bucky approaching, laughter dying sharply in the air. You recognized the look in their eyes, the stillness they carried. Fear clung like sweat on their skin – children, terrified of the loving man whose hand was wrapped tightly in your own.

You glanced up at Bucky and he appeared to be intentionally keeping his gaze forward as if he didn’t notice the children at all, but you could see the strain in his jaw. The muscle seemed to ache in his effort to not let their fear affect him, to not allow the burden of disgust and terror sink into his chest. It must have pained him to allow these children to carry such fear.

“Why don’t you let the town know the real you?” you asked quietly after the children were out of earshot. You heard the faint tap of the ball as they resumed their game.

Bucky swallowed, offering you a strained smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “It would show our hand to Hydra. They keep out of the east because they believe we’ll retaliate if they press the border. In some twisted way, they respect our hold on this side of town. If the people knew we were nothing more than a biker club, Hydra would walk right over us. I have to keep up the mask.”

“But you get into fights, don’t you? I remember the fight in the diner by the border before the line was drawn. The whole place was destroyed.” You’d seen the articles in the papers the following morning – vandalism wrecked through the family-owned diner. Bullet holes were found in the upholstery.

Bucky nodded. “It’s unavoidable sometimes. Most of us are former military so we know how to handle ourselves if we need to. But we’re not going out looking for a fight.”

“What happens if someone from the Hydra club were to show up over here?” you asked slowly, hoping Bucky might not catch the waver of fear in your voice. You had hoped the east side would be a safe haven, somewhere Rumlow and Hydra could not touch you, somewhere you could pretend if only for a moment that the shackles on your ankles did not chafe into your skin. But Bucky crossed the border almost daily for the past month. What was stopping Rumlow from doing the same?

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Bucky replied, a heavy sigh in his voice. “They haven’t tried yet. Doesn’t mean they won’t. But I imagine it would get ugly. We couldn’t let it slide, not without risking the border completely. I’d have to get my hands dirty.” He paused, drawing in a shaky breath. “Does that scare you?”

You studied the lines along Bucky’s brow, the worry etched into his face. Perhaps, it was the way he spoke of the clubs and the inevitable violence attached to it with such reluctance that answered the question for you. Bucky at his core was not a violent man. He was not cruel and vindictive. When his hands were bloodied, it was only ever in defense.

Wasn’t that what he’d said to you last night?

It was self-defense. It’s only ever been self-defense.

“Not in the way you think,” you said honestly. “I’m not afraid of you. But I worry, knowing the responsibility on your shoulders. I know there will be days my fear of what could happen to you will ruin me.”

Bucky nodded, taking in your answer. He brought your hand to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss against your knuckles. Warm and sweet, gentle in his touch. “Then I’ll do my best to keep out of trouble.”

“I’m not sure that’s a promise you can keep.” You smiled as you said it, almost teasing, but there was a heaviness in your tone that Bucky caught onto instantly. He frowned, though he didn’t argue the point. You both knew what Rumlow and the Hydra club were capable of. Trouble was inevitable.

“This is it,” Bucky said after a few blocks. Your hand was aching from how tight you’d been gripping his; a dull, comforting pain.

The Centenarian stood at the end of the road; a series of bikes parked out along the street – one lined up after the other. Even from the sidewalk, you could hear the faint melody of a Fleetwood Mac song through the windows and someone shouting over the chorus to turn it down. Bucky chuckled to himself, guiding you up the path to the entrance.

You took in a breath, trying to ground yourself to the steadiness in Bucky’s hand. He wanted you to meet the club – to dismiss any doubts you still carried, the lingering aftermath of rumors that had wielded a tight grip into your mind. They’d blinded you to the man you knew Bucky to be – muddled every good part of him because you could not reconcile the legend to the man.

It would take time to reverse the gut-wrenching association you held to the 107 club, the instinct to panic when their name was reared. Bucky had promised that giving faces and names to the anonymous members of the club you’d only heard rumors about would help fracture the uncertainty you felt. Even watching the ease that slipped through Bucky’s shoulders as he set a hand on the knob and opened the door was enough to break the image of the big, bad biker club. He was coming home. And if Bucky’s defenses were down, so were yours.

There was little time to react before a blur raced across the room and skidded to an abrupt stop in front of you; cheesy grin wide upon his face, brunette hair mopped on the top of his head. He looked barely drinking age as he sharply pulled something from the pocket of his apron and offered it to you.

“You must be Y/n! I’m Peter. French fry?”

You stared at him; lips slightly agape. Slowly you turned to Bucky. “Is he serious?”

Bucky nodded rather reluctantly. Peter gestured to the pocket where he seemed to have lined the fabric in a silicone material, almost as if his apron had been transformed into wearable Tupperware. He grinned, rather proud of himself for the innovation. Bucky rolled his eyes despite the laugh under his breath.

“Well in that case.” You took the fry and popped it into your mouth, surprised it was still warm from the fryer. “Thanks, Peter.”

He beamed as his cheeks flushed pink. Just as quickly as he came, he rushed back to the table he’d been bussing before you arrived. Bucky led you over to the bar, towards the man standing behind it with a towel draped over his collar; long sleeve t-shirt clinging tight to the muscles of his broad shoulders.

“This is Sam,” Bucky said with a bit of a scowl upon his features.

“The pain in the ass who saved Bucky’s life,” you said as you extended a hand to him, recognizing the name from Bucky’s story of his last encounter with Hydra and the reason for the scar along his ribs. Sam raised an eyebrow, a satisfied smirk pressing high against his cheeks as he shook your hand.

“I like her,” Sam said to Bucky. He winked at you and swiftly placed an empty glass on the bar and filled it with whatever was on tap. He slid it in front of you and gave you a short nod to take it. You smiled, raising it to him in thanks before you took a sip.

“You got one for me, too, or...?” Bucky huffed, sinking into the barstool beside you. Sam rolled his eyes and filled Bucky’s all the way to the rim. It splashed over onto Bucky’s fingers as he grabbed the glass and he shot Sam a warning glare. Sam winked at you instead and you pressed a hand over your mouth to hide your laughter.

“Stark and Barton are over there by the jukebox,” Bucky explained, pointing to the men bickering over the controls. “Barton was banned a few months back for playing My Heart Will Go On one too many times. Turned the whole bar into a damn karaoke joint. Guaranteed Stark’s trying to prevent him from DJing.”

“Bets are on Barton for Cher,” Sam said casually as he cleaned the inside of a glass, throwing a confident look over his shoulder.

“I’ll take Stark for AC/DC,” Bucky replied, handing Sam a five-dollar bill. The two of them seemed to always be caught in a battle of wills, even in the simplest of conversations. It reminded you of Wanda and Pietro. Sibling rivalry. The knowledge that it had been Sam to rush across the border in search of Bucky that night made their fighting all the more endearing.

Then, If I Could Turn Back Time started playing through the speakers and Stark threw his hands up in defeat, stalking away begrudgingly. Sam pumped a closed fist into the air while Bucky dropped his head to the bar. You grinned, rubbing slow circles between Bucky’s shoulder blades, soothing him as if he’d suffered a real loss.

“You’ll find they’re all rather dramatic around here,” a low, sultry voice said behind you. You turned to find a red headed woman leaning against the wall by the dartboard, a vase of nearly wilted roses beside her. Braids were woven through her hair, pulling the strands away from her face – the fiery red in startling contrast to the black she was dressed in from head to toe. She stepped forward, a soft smile breaking through the hardened exterior. “I’m Natasha.”

You told her your name and she only seemed to smile wider.

“Oh, I know. This one hasn’t shut up about you all month.” Natasha smirked.

Bucky eyes were wide, a flush of pink in his cheeks when you looked at him for confirmation. He avoided your gaze, his jaw clenching as he stared down Natasha, though she appeared completely unfazed. You grinned at him, touching your fingertips to the heat on his skin. He melted under the touch, the hardened look on his face slipping away as he turned his head just slightly and pressed his lips to your fingers.

“So, you’re the one brightening up this dump?” a man approached from the kitchen. Bucky leaned to your ear and whispered his name. Steve. The giant, former shrimp; Bucky’s best friend. He tapped his finger to the dried carnation hung upside-down on the wall behind him. Bucky swallowed nervously to your left, shifting in his seat. “This is from the first hoard of flowers he dragged in here. Preserved the thing himself.”

You looked to Bucky, any trace of teasing falling from your features. He smiling shyly at you before he shot a glare at Steve. His friends had a terrible habit of embarrassing him, but you were grateful for it – the ease in which they greeted you, the comfort they brought that somehow felt familiar. This group of people – they weren’t just a club. They weren’t a business or a shady gang the way Hydra was. They were a family.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Y/n,” Steve said and you could hear the sincerity in his voice. You longed to know the things Bucky had said about you to allow for such kindness in their eyes. Maybe you could entice Bucky into telling you later.

***

Bucky hadn’t known relief like this in years. To be surrounded by his friends in the shitty old bar he loved, sitting next to the woman who made his heart skip several beats too many any time you looked at him. Your head leaned against his shoulder, grinning as you watched Natasha trying to teach Peter how to dance. They’d moved the tables out of the way to make room.

Your drink was nearly gone; his own was finished a half hour earlier. Bucky tapped his fingers against the bar, the weight of the last week still weighing upon him. There was one thing he still hadn’t amended – one regret he wished he could change.

“Hey, so, um,” Bucky started, the nerves evident in his voice. You lifted your head, turning to face him. You must have sensed his anxiety because your hand settled against his thigh, thumb brushing over the rips in his jeans. He shivered under the touch, trying to let it comfort him rather than rush straight to his head, among other things.

“In case it wasn’t abundantly clear,” he continued, “the reason I left the festival last week is because—”

“You saw someone from the Hydra club, didn’t you?” The realization seemed to drown into your features. He nodded slowly and it only worsened – eyes widening, panic into your veins. Your grip on his thigh tightened. “God, Bucky. If they caught you, you could have—”

“I know,” Bucky replied calmly. He knew the risks.

You shook your head, unwilling to accept his answer. “Why would you—Why would you risk that?”

Bucky smiled sadly at you, an ache somewhere lost between the realization he would do just about anything for you and the blatant disregard for his own safety in the process. You stared at him, worry slipping into devastation upon your features. Perhaps this was the fear you’d warned him of earlier. The fear you held for him.

“Don’t be reckless like that for me,” you said slowly; your voice low, determined. “I don’t want any part in it. At least now that I know about all this, we can be cautious, okay? No more needless crossing into the west. Let me come to you.”

Bucky pouted, shifting himself away from the heaviness of the conversation. “I’d like to argue your definition of ‘needless’...”

You swatted his arm. “I’m serious, Bucky! If Hydra were to catch you because you were walking to my shop... If something happened to you because you were coming to see me... I’d... I’d...”

Something in Bucky broke when your voice began to waver. You clamped down on your teeth, looking away from him as your eyes glossed over.

“Hey, come on now, honey. No tears,” Bucky begged as he tugged you into his arms. You came willingly, falling against him as if you might sink into him entirely. His arms surrounded you, the heat of your body pulled flush against his. “We’ll be careful, alright? I promise. Nothing’s gonna happen to me.”

You nodded against his chest; your fingers gripped tight into his jacket. No part of him was glad to see your fear for him rushing to the surface, but it was a comfort to know you still cared for him – even after the hell that the last week had been where you’d believed him to be a monster no worse than the Hydra scum on the west. You still cared. Cared enough to cry for him, to hold him this tightly in the middle of a dingy bar, unbothered by the wandering eyes of his friends.

Bucky caught a glance of the clock and sighed. He’d promised last night to take you on a real date, to show you more pieces of himself that weren’t obstructed by the walls he’d built to protect his town from the men who would burn it to the ground.

“We should head out if we want to make it in time,” Bucky said. “But we don’t have to go if—”

“No, let’s go,” you replied, pressing out a smile as you reluctantly pulled away from his embrace. You set your hand against his cheek, touching him with the kind of tenderness that could break his heart. No one had dared treat him like he was something worth preserving before, like his body was meant to be soothed and eased instead of bloodied and bruised.

You let your hand fall to the side as you stood. Peter bounced over to offer you another fry before you left and Bucky was grateful for the genuine smile that returned to your face as you accepted it. The rest of the club rushed over to say goodbye before you left; Natasha lingering a little longer than the rest as she offered a rare embrace. Bucky could sense your surprise, the loss of words for how easily his family accepted you without question. It warmed you, eased you. Bucky ruffled the hair on Peter’s head as he followed you to the door.

Once outside, you spotted the long line of bikes propped up on the side of the road; all with similar qualities but still distinctly different from one another. They all carried the same silver paint marking the 107 club along the engine.

“Which one’s yours?” you asked, gesturing to the bikes. The way Bucky’s heart swelled at the simple question, he wondered whether he might survive the day he finally asked you to ride with him – if your eyes would light up like that again, if you’d love the feeling of the open air the way he did. It carried a freedom in it, a silence and a security. He hoped you might find a comfort in the open road with your arms wrapped tight around his stomach. He shivered at the thought.

“This one. Here.” Bucky slid his hand over the bike at the end of the line; fingertips brushing down the motor, sliding over the leathered seat and the metal structure underneath. He touched it as if it were a living beast.

Bucky watched as you slowly followed his hands, gently tracing along the bike in the same path.

“It means a lot to you.” It wasn’t a question. You knew him well enough now to know the answer.

He nodded. “Steve and I bought our bikes the day we got home from our last tour overseas. First real decision that was entirely our own, you know? No orders. No chain of command. Pretty sure I drove that thing down to the fumes a few too many times, but it was worth it.”

Bucky sighed, fond memories circling like faded images floating around his mind. “It’s seen a lot. Used to be parked out here by itself most nights back when I spent my nights fixing up the Centenarian. Over time, more came. Steve’s was the first. Bastard wouldn’t let me build my bar in peace. Then Sam’s. Natasha. Tony. Barton. Peter’s still trying to get a handle on the throttle.”

You laughed, smiling wide at him as your fingertips danced along the seams of the leather. Bucky swallowed, studying how delicately you touched it. His heart stammered inside his chest.

“We should keep going,” Bucky said reluctantly. “Don’t want to miss the show, huh?”

You reached for his hand before he had the chance to offer it and Bucky swore he’d never be able to let go again.

***

Bucky brought you to the old theater on the edge of town. It was a little run down, like most of the things around these parts, but it had character. Still had the traditional seats from the forties, even if they were stiff as all hell. Still had the old popcorn machine that left a vague burnt aftertaste, but it was home. You lit up as it came into view, excitement drawing over your features enough to allow Bucky to forget the tears you’d shed for him just moments earlier.

“My mom used to bring me here as a kid,” Bucky explained as he raised a pair of tickets from his pockets he’d purchased earlier in the day. The attendant nodded nervously at him, quickly stepping aside to let him through. The kid trembled as he passed, recognizing the head of the 107, and Bucky pretended he didn’t notice.

“It’s cute,” you remarked, drawing Bucky’s mind away from the scared teenager. “I like seeing these parts of you.”

He felt the heat flush to his face – damn skin betraying him to shades of pink again. It made you smile though as you brushed your fingers over his cheeks, easing his embarrassment in place of your tenderness. He turned his head just slightly and pressed his lips against the tips of your fingers. You sighed at that and it made Bucky wish he’d brought you just about anywhere else – longing to hear the sounds you might make if he peppered his lips further along your skin.

“You want something to eat, doll?” Bucky asked despite himself. It was all he could do to keep from whisking you off to the bathroom and locking the door behind you. Not here. Not where he couldn’t worship you properly.

You grinned, nodding quickly and muttering something about extra butter when Bucky’s blood suddenly ran cold. He froze as his gaze locked on the concession stand and the woman watching him from the distance. Arms draped out along the counter, a wicked smirk upon her red stained lips. She waved her fingers at him – slow, deliberate. A unlit cigarette hung from between her lips, the flame of a lighter dancing between her fingerips.

Dot.

“Why don’t you grab us some seats?” Bucky said quietly into your ear, lingering a kiss to your cheek. He kept a smile pressed to his lips despite the sudden rush of panic lighting like ice inside his veins. You looked back at him; brows furrowed.

“Okay,” you replied hesitantly. Even despite his attempt to shield you, you still picked up on his distress. Your hand slid along his arm, trying to soothe the tension from his muscle before you gave him a short nod and turned into the theater. It was only after you disappeared behind the door that Bucky gritted his teeth and crossed the lobby to the concession stand.

He leaned against the empty side of the counter, standing only a foot away from Dot, from the woman who sold him out to Hydra and left him for dead. The two of them stared out into the lobby as if there was no history between them, as if they hadn’t once shared a bed and she hadn’t left him to the dogs. To anyone else, they might look like strangers waiting patiently for their theater snacks. Few would be able to see the way Bucky dug his nails into his palms – the pain stinging enough to draw specks of blood to his skin.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to be on this side of town now that you’re running with Hydra,” Bucky grumbled, his voice burning as if it were made of gravel.

“What are you gonna do about it, sugar? Sic Peter Parker on me?” Dot drawled in her sweet tea and honeyed accent; a voice made of charm and grace until she bared her teeth and showed off the barbed wire underneath. Her eyes flickered over to him, waiting for a reaction.

He wasn’t going to do a damned thing against her and the fact that she could still read him like a book made his stomach sick with anger.

“That’s what I thought,” she grinned, shoulders swaying confidently as she leaned into her stance. “Men like you play by a certain set of rules. Even after everything I did to you, you wouldn’t lay a hand against me. Why? Because I’m a woman?" She frowned, playing with the unlit cigarette between her fingers. "Frankly, I find that a bit demeaning.”

Bucky scoffed. “There's plenty I’d like to do to you.”

“Oh, I bet there is.” Dot winked at him, her red lips drawn between her teeth.

Bucky clenched his jaw so tight he was sure it might lock into place permanently, determined to not give her even an inch. He couldn’t allow her to see the effect she had on him – the panic she induced into his body; the pulsing of an old scar burning against his ribs. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

She’d already taken so much from him. His trust. His dignity. Nearly his life. He would not give her anything else. It had cost him too much to rebuild those pieces of himself in the wake of her betrayal. It wasn’t until he met you that he even wanted to try again – to be vulnerable enough with another person, to put fragments of his heart into your hands. You carried more of him than you realized.

“So...” Dot began, a devious grin curling her lips “the florist, huh?”

The color drained from Bucky’s face, stomach sinking through his feet and cracking into the old hardwood floors, barreling down into the depths of the dirt and concrete below. He turned to her, the steel he’d induced to his features washing away in seconds.

“Don’t, Dot. Please.” His voice wavered, his pulse rising. She rolled her eyes.

“Why? You going to beg for her?” Dot asked dismissively, a terrible laugh on her breath.

“Yes.”

A flash of surprised flickered behind her dark eyes. She hadn’t expected him to entertain the question, let alone answer so quickly, so desperately. He would have gotten onto his knees if she’d asked him to. The very thought of you being anywhere near Hydra’s radar was crippling. His nails punctured into his palms.

“What do you want, Dot?” Bucky growled, fighting to keep his anger contained. Whatever money she thought he had was attributed entirely to the rumors. But for as vindictive and cruel as Dot could be, she was just as clever. She knew who Bucky was under the mask, knew that he was not the monster the town made him out to be; couldn’t be – because the man he’d been painted as would not have bothered to cross the border to enemy territory to save a woman who clearly never loved him in the first place.

And still – she never told Rumlow. Even amongst the rumors of protection fees and swindling local businesses out of their own profits, she did not say a word to Rumlow of the man she once knew Bucky to be, a man who would stand is stark contrast to the rumors, one that rang with such dissonance it could not possibly be true.

Perhaps she was hoarding the information for herself – waiting, like a panther in the weeds, to strike when the moment suited her. Her only motive was her own advancement, her own power. She didn’t care for Rumlow any more than she had cared for Bucky. And Bucky had just handed her a weakness that could render him to his knees.

“Dot, please,” Bucky tried again when she did not respond. He turned the full of his body to face her, the hardened mask upon his features slipping as her gaze shifted to the theater where you’d disappeared inside. “What do you want?”

A smirk coated the red of her lips. “Who says I want anything from you?”

Rage coiled into Bucky’s stomach. He was going to break a cardinal rule of his own twisted moral code if she didn’t step out of his line of sight soon. His hands were itching for something to grab onto and she was hanging an anvil over his head, holding the fraying rope between her manicured fingers. It was going to crush him.

“I don’t want her caught up in Hydra shit,” Bucky warned, his voice low, threatening. “Keep her out of this, Dot. I’m serious.”

Dot pursed her lips, turning away from Bucky’s stare to face the crowd again. Something like satisfaction lifted her features, as if he’d walked into the trap she’d laid for him, his ankle suspending him high into the tree line.

“It’s a little late for that, Barnes.”

Bucky blinked; his lungs suddenly short of air. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugged as her tongue coated over her lips as if she were centering on her prey. “Your pretty florist has secrets of her own. Let’s just say the 107 isn’t the only club she’s in bed with.”

Bucky stilled, his heart racing. He should have known better than to expect any straight answers from a woman like Dot. She’d traded a year of his life with her, his loyalty and affection, for power to the highest bidder. Perhaps she was just pulling his strings in an effort to put a wall between you. Maybe she was just playing games with him. All she’d ever down was play games with him.

But something about the pleased smirk upon her features told Bucky that this time, to spin a lie was less effective than the simple cruelty of the truth. And Dot aimed where it hurt, and pulled the trigger twice.

“See you around, sugar.” Dot’s fingertips grazed along Bucky’s shoulder. He flinched at the touch and it only seemed to fuel whatever ego boost she’d been after by confronting him.

Slowly, she slid the cigarette between her lips and while holding his gaze, brought the flame to the edge and drew in a steady inhale. Smoke puffed into his face as she released a breath. Then, she winked at him - as if she hadn't just dismantled the last thread of security he'd felt on this side of the border, the last ounce of comfort untouched by the danger of the mask he wore of the feared criminal.

He waited with his hands gripped into white knuckled locks against the counter as she left without another word, heels clicking on the old hardwood floors. Heads turned as she passed by, following the low sway of her lips and the flirtatious wave she sent towards the group of college boys huddled in the corner. The very moment the door closed behind her, Bucky carefully rushed into the theater in search of you.

You were waiting for him in an aisle near the door, lighting up at you caught sight of him. You gestured to the seat beside you, quickly making room for him, but as soon as Bucky stepped under the low glow of the dimmed lights, your face fell.

“What’s wrong?”

“We need to go, sweetheart,” he said quietly, offering his hand. His voice was heavy, thick. With remorse, with guilt. “I’m sorry.”

You nodded, quickly following him without hesitation. His hand squeezed yours, harder than he meant to, but he was unable to stomach the feeling that you might be pulled out of his grasp at any given moment. If Dot was confident enough to walk across the border, there was no telling what Rumlow or any of his goons might do. Bucky didn’t know whether she was sent on reconnaissance, if she was there to fulfill a purpose or send a message. Hell, he didn’t know if Rumlow even had a clue she’d planned on confronting him at all.

But he knew one thing – that Dot would take any opportunity to drag him through the mud. She’d tell Rumlow about you if it meant gaining leverage for herself. Bucky had been a fool to have shown his hand so easily, to believe that if he begged, Dot might show a glimpse of the humanity he once believed she had. Whatever mess you were in with Hydra, Dot would make it worse just to spite him.

“You’re hurting me, Buck,” you whispered, tapping against his hand. He glanced down at the white knuckled grip he held against you and quickly released your hand with a frantic apology. You shook your head, chasing him back, slipping your aching hand back into his. “Hey, I didn’t say to let go.”

You smiled at him, teasing, because you felt his distress and wanted to alleviate it. But Bucky couldn’t release the strain inside his chest until he knew the truth. He couldn’t protect you if he didn’t know what he was up against. And if it was Hydra... he’d burn them all to the ground if he had to.

He waited until you were safe inside the Centenarian before he spoke again. Holding your hand, he guided you through the near empty bar and past the cheering smiles of his family, leading you into the back office. Sam and Steve both narrowed their gaze as he passed, his head low, though they did not chase after him. Bucky closed the office door swiftly behind you, leaning his back against it. AC/DC was playing from the jukebox, the high strum of an electric guitar filtering muffled through the walls.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” There was no hint annoyance in your voice. Only concern.

Bucky swallowed as he released your hand. He rubbed his aching palm against his thigh. “The woman I told you about—the one that set me up the night I was stabbed...”

You nodded slowly, arms folding protectively across your chest. A chill swept in from the vent above your head, though the goosebumps littering your skin had been there long before the breeze ghosted over you.

“She was at the theater,” Bucky explained, his voice thick with tension.

Your arms dropped. “What? Are you okay?”

Bucky nodded, stepping away from your attempt to embrace him, to comfort him. He needed his strength about him if he was going to have this conversation. He’d fall to putty in your arms otherwise.

“She recognized you,” Bucky said slowly, watching your face for a reaction. “Made it sound like you were wrapped up in Hydra business.”

You stilled, frozen, as if caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic, paralyzed under the high beams. Then slowly, almost painfully, you sank into the chair in front of the desk as if your legs had simply given out, arms wrapped tightly around your chest, and Bucky knew Dot hadn’t been playing games with him. The weight of it was too heavy on your shoulders. You looked like you might collapse under the strain of it when your hands began to shake.

He’d recognized that before – the trembling in your body just before the tears came. His stomach lurched as he knelt in front of you, his hand settling against your knee.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispered, soothing his hand along your thigh. “Whatever it is, I promise I’ll take care of you. I’ll keep you safe. But I need you to tell me the truth, honey. Please. Let me help you.”

You were quiet for a long while; the crackling hum of the air conditioner and your muffled, shallow breaths the only sounds filtering the room. Bucky did his best to wait patiently for you to speak, his hand coaxing gentle circles on your thigh, but his heart was pounding so violently he was certain you could hear the damn thing through his chest.

“I was going to tell you. I swear I was,” you finally confessed, your voice barely a broken whimper, the heat of shame weighing on every word, and Bucky was certain in that moment he was going to wipe Brock Rumlow from the face of existence. He was going to cut that monster into pieces and live up to the stories of the feared leader of the 107.

When you looked at him again, your eyes were red – swollen and puffy. Tears tracked along your cheeks. It ruined him. Shattered him.

Bucky gingerly reached out and wiped the tears with the edge of his thumb. “It’s all right, honey. You can tell me now. I’m right here.”

You sniffled, nodding, trying to gather the courage to speak. A heavy silence passed - minutes, maybe, before you finally whispered, “I... I owe them money. A lot of money.”

It wasn't often you said the words aloud, but once you started, the rest spilled like the cracks in a floodgate splintering through frayed edges.

You told him about your mother first. Bucky listened quietly as you detailed the pile of medical bills on the kitchen table your father could not crawl out from under. Your mother had fought the cancer the best she could but sometimes the world was cruel and unjust. In a moment of weakness, your father had sold his soul to Hydra in exchange for the loan to pay off the medical bills and get your mother the experimental treatment she needed. It hadn’t worked.

Your father died a few months after your mother. His grief had taken him in the end and he’d left the store – and the mountain of debt – to you. To his daughter with the flowers in her hair and pretty, pastel dresses. The daughter who had loved her parents so fiercely she would not abandon the shop they built from the ground up, who would take on this impossible burden on her own. Such loving kindness warped and twisted by the darkness Hydra carried. His sweet girl facing demons all on her own.

Bucky sank onto his heels. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard of the Hydra club taking deals with desperate people and charging interest beyond what anyone could hope to pay. It wasn’t about the money. It was never about the money with those assholes. Hydra fed on power, on control. They got off on it.

“When do they come next?” Bucky asked his voice burning in his chest. Sandpaper in his throat. But you held your breath, looking away from him. You did not answer and Bucky could feel you closing yourself off, retreating back to the only security you’d known. Bucky slid his hands over your thighs, hoping to draw the tension straight from your bones. “Honey, please. Don’t shut me out. Not now. Don’t carry this alone.”

“This isn’t your responsibility, Bucky,” you whispered, a tear sliding down over your jaw. “You couldn’t have known when we met and—and you don’t have to take this on, okay? I’m not asking you to do that. I would never ask that of you. You have the east to protect and—”

“I don’t care about that. I only care about you.” Bucky hands fell against your sides, drawing the chair closer to him. His knees were sore from the tiny bristles in the rug, but it didn’t matter – not when you looked at him like that, like you didn’t quite believe him. He’d show his weakness for you a hundred times over if it would make you understand that he’d trade half the town to keep you safe. He’d get on his knees for you, beg for you.

A sad smile pressed on your lips, one that did not touch your eyes. “I’ll be fine, Bucky. I always am.”

You were used to that, weren’t you? You’d been alone for too long. Left behind to deal with a burden no one should ever have to bear. First your mother, then your father. You’d learned how to take on the worst this town could offer on your own. Standing strong in the face of monsters lurking in the shadows of your shop. His brave girl. His beautiful, brave girl.

“We’ll figure this out, all right?” Bucky promised. His hand slid up against your hair, holding you steady as he pressed his lips to your forehead. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re not alone in this, honey. Not anymore. Not as long as you have me. And... you have me. Okay?”

You nodded, sinking into his arms as he held them open for you. Curled up on the floor of his office, his arms wrapped tight around you. Bucky kept his lips grazed against your skin, focusing on the gentle rise and fall of your breaths until the shame and the panic left your system. He didn’t know how long he spent with you in his arms, but his legs had gone numb. Tingling like static buzzed in his muscle but he’d happily sit in the sensation for hours if you’d let him hold you like this.

“I should get home,” you murmured quietly against his chest and Bucky tightened his grip on you reflexively. You must have sensed his hesitation because you added, “I can’t make my payment if I don’t open the shop in the morning, Bucky.”

“You could stay here, if you want. With me,” Bucky offered instead, a warm flush in his cheeks. “I’ll-- I’ll take the couch. My apartment’s not much but I could keep you safe. I don’t like the idea of you being alone with Rumlow looming over your shoulder.”

You smiled sweetly at him, but it carried a heaviness within its lines. Light traces of genuine appreciation and warmth nestled into your eyes, a lingering stubbornness and pride that had once kept you from crumbling. Your hand grazed the side of his face, brushing gently over the stubble on his jaw as if to soothe him of your own fears, and he knew then what you were about to say. He readied himself, holding his breath, preparing for the anxiety he’d carry until sunrise.

“I’ve done this for years, Bucky. I’ll be all right.” You leaned into him and grazed your lips over the corner of his mouth. “I promise to call if I need you, okay?”

Bucky nodded reluctantly, swallowing his argument behind the lump in his throat. He should have known better than to expect you’d leave behind your shop and the legacy your parents had left for you. It held too much meaning, carried too many memories. You wouldn’t leave it to rot even in the face of danger – of violence and extortion and the dirty fists of vile men. Bucky was torn between his admiration for your bravery and the paralyzing dread that had taken hold of his chest.

“There’s still four days before the payment is due,” you told him, as if that might ease his worry. “There’s still time.”

It wasn’t much. Perhaps that would give him the time to dig through the Centenarian’s records to see if he could help make up the difference. He lived most of his life on fumes – content to fend for himself day by day. Spare change was few and far between and what little he had he’d already spent in your shop. He never once held regrets for the money he spent on your flowers, even less now that he knew the truth of your debt to Hydra.

“Do you trust me?” Bucky asked quietly. He brushed the hair away from your face, drawing a tender line from your temple to your jaw. The way you looked at him, it might have crushed him under the weight of such affection – grateful to be rendered to pieces by you.

“Yes,” you replied, a terrible waver of guilt etched into your tone for the week you’d believed him to be a monster despite your better instincts. Bucky turned his head and pressed his lips to the palm of your hand.

“Trust that I’ll see you through this, okay? I know you’re strong enough, honey. I know you can do this on your own,” he sighed, gently pulling your hand from his cheek and bringing your knuckles to his lips where he kissed each one by one, “but you don’t have to.”

From the clench in your jaw, Bucky knew you couldn’t allow yourself to believe him entirely – at least not yet. It was self-preservation. You were afraid to let him in enough to share the weight of this burden, only for him to pull the carpet out from under you at the last second. You were fighting against it, but it had become the thing that kept you from drowning for so many years. It would take time before your trust of him would outweigh your fears.

But he was ready to fight those waters with you. He’d do whatever it took. He’d run Hydra into the ground himself if it meant alleviating the weight upon your shoulders. He’d go down fighting if he had to.

#bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes

[oddaodd]

· Wailing Teapots ·

Summary: When Tommy begins suspecting of Y/n's true allegiances he goes and questions her in her apartment only to discover a dark secret. (Angst/Fluff)

Warnings: Implications of abuse. (Nothing too graphic but just in case).

Author's note: I'm back! It feels so good to write again! My life has been a bit hectic lately, but I hope I can continue to make time for my writing because it honestly feels like coming back home after the most exhausting of voyages. Anyhow I hope y'all enjoy this and have the loveliest of days. ❤️

·

Three strong knocks on the door stole Y/n’s attention from the live fire burning in her fireplace. With quiet feet she tiptoed to the door and placed her hand on the doorknob and stood still hoping to hear something that could tell her who it was behind the door, but she could only hear her own heartbeat beating violently in her ribcage as she held her breath.

She slightly hated herself for being afraid, but she couldn’t not be afraid, not with all the letters that had been delivered to her home.

“I know you’re in there Y/n”

As soon as she recognized the voice as Tommy’s, she finally breathed again before partly opening the door a weak smile gracing her features when she took in the sight of him. Before she could ask him what he was doing there he pushed the door open and allowed himself inside.

The smile vanished from her face in an instant and she quickly closed the door. There was something different about him, something that made the hairs on her arms stand up in trepidation. His eyes didn’t look like they had done a few nights prior when he took Y/n to the outskirts of town for a walk. The kind of walk in which one shares the kind of conversations that makes people grow closer together, the kind of walk which ends with a gentle kisses and fleeting touches.

“This is a nice place” he commented taking off his peaky cap, not even sparing Y/n a glance as he began walking slowly through the apartment which though small and plain held a considerable amount of expensive yet tasteful looking knick knacks that brightened up the whole place despite the old furniture that had beed there when Y/n first moved in.

“You couldn’t have waited for a formal invitation, could you?” She asked in a light tone still standing by the door, in the hope that it could change Tommy’s odd aura, but he ignored her question all together

“Almost too nice, wouldn’t you agree?” He asked picking up a vase and examining it before finally turning to look at Y/n.

“Tommy?” She asked, not really knowing why was he acting so strange.

“I know I pay you fair wages” he began, putting the vase down fixing his eyes on the fireplace where small traces of burnt paper rested “but I highly doubt you were able to make yourself of such an array of treasures with what I pay you.”

“All of this came with me from America.” She said feeling like she ought to explain herself and though her answer was an honest one, Tommy didn’t seem convinced, nevertheless, he hummed in mocking understanding before clearing his throat .

“Aren’t you gonna offer me tea?”

“Sure…where are my manners?” she said with a nervous laugh before walking to where her stove was and putting a kettle on.

Tommy followed her closely and drew a chair from her flimsy kitchen table before sitting down and taking notice of her shaky hands as she tied around a bit in the kitchen with her back to him as he sat on her favorite chair.

“Wish you had told me you were coming, I would have..”she began as she opened her pantry to put away some bread.

“You’ve been burning letters” he interrupted, not being able to shake off the image of the paper remains.

Y/n stilled for a moment before closing her pantry, thing which he noticed.

“Yeah, I don’t have the room to keep every single letter I get ” Y/n said, a defensiveness lingering softly in her words.

“I agree” Tommy said in a cold tone “specially when you are getting so many of them. Paul tells me he delivers at least 10 a week here” he continued, referring to the mailman who after being questioned by Tommy forgot all about post confidentiality.

“They are my mother’s” Y/n stuttered out.

The teapot then wailed, making her jump slightly before going to remove it from the stove and finally turning around to go and pour Tommy a cup.

“Right” Tommy said, his eyes not leaving Y/n’s figure as she poured the tea.

“Yeah, she’s ever so passionate about plants, been telling me all a-a-about her new greenhouse.” She continued pressured by Tommy’s heavy stare and silence.

Tommy offered a small cynical smile that Y/n didn’t see, she didn’t want to look at him. She felt like crying for she realized just then how suspicious she looked.

The sound of the chair being drawn again teased at Y/N’s ears, forcing her to look up at Tommy who was calmly walking towards her. She had never been afraid of him, but she couldn’t help but back away as he inched closer to her, her eyes widening.

“Who is Clyde Attenborough?” He asked producing another letter from his pocked like the many ones Y/n had been receiving for a while now. Same stamps and everything.

Color drained from her face at the sight of the letter and she found herself unable to produce an answer as her back came in soft contact with her pantry.

“What does he know? He asked.

“Where I live” Y/n whispered sorrowfully as a tear finally slipped down her cheek. Her eyes being for mercy.

“What have you been telling him?”

“Nothing” she answered truly.

“I bet he pays generously to know how the company works”

“I swear im not working for anyone else” Y/n stuttered, finally understanding why Tommy was so suspicious. Being his secretary, she knew plenty about the skeletons the family kept.

“Then why are you crying?” He pressed.

“Because you’re scaring me.”

Her words seemed to have an effect on Tommy for he immediately backed away, throwing the letter on the table, his back to her.

”I’m not gonna hurt you” he stated, beating himself up for corralling Y/n like that. His voice much less menacing than mere seconds ago. “Who is Clyde Attenborough?”

“I haven’t been honest with you” she finally confessed sniffing. To hell with everything.

At this Tommy turned around to look at her an unpleasant mix of emotions swimming in his eyes.

“Im married” she sobbed “Clyde’s my husband”

For the first time in a long time, Tommy was caught off guard.

“I came to Small Heath because I ran away from him, I figured he’d never find me but..” She said taking the letter in her shaky hands as if the thing were to blow off in any given second “I guess I was wrong. I-I don’t know how he found me”

She shifted her teary gaze from the letter to a shocked Tommy “I swear im not passing information” she chuckled sadly, the knot in her throat choking her a little.

Tommy stood glued in the same spot, not knowing what to do. His world had come crashing down when he began suspecting of Y/n’s alliances after Polly suggested he look into it. A pretty American girl, moving to a grey English town, taking up a job that was exhausting at best. It reminded him a little too much of Grace.

Now that he knew the truth , he didn’t feel any better.

“Is he dangerous?” He found himself asking after a few seconds of silence.

Y/n sniffed as she walked to her fireplace “I wouldn’t have left if he wasn’t” she said as she threw the letter into the crackling flames.

“Is he in Birmingham?”

“He keeps writing that he’ll come get me if I don’t go back, but im not sure” she answered.

Tommy fought the urge to go up to her and take her in his arms and instead put his peaky cap back on before heading for the door.

“I’m sorry” he whispered before stepping out of her place, The guilt of intimidating her in her own house gnawing at his insides and the newfound anger her husband created present on his drive home.

The next day Y/n noticed as she peeped out the window two men, both in peaky caps standing at the entrance of her apartment complex.

Three more days passed and Y/n was again surprised tby the sound of three knocks on her door as she read one evening.

“Its me, Y/N” Tommy’s voice flowed through the door shortly after the knocks.

Y/n quickly got off her couch and made her way to open the door. Her eyes falling on Tommy’s apologetic features.

“It’s dealt with” he said in all seriousness. The thick accent she loved so much vibrating through her ears.

As soon as she registered what Tommy had just said she let out a strained breath, her lips turned into a tired smile and a lone tear slipped out her misty eyes.

“Wanna come in?” She asked after a few seconds, feeling happier than she had felt for days.

“Is this a formal invitation?” He asked, a soft smile tugging at his lips, relieved that his antics from a few days prior hadn’t maimed Y/n´s trust.

At his question she just smiled, looking at him lovingly before taking hold of his hand and pulling him into her apartment before pressing her lips to his in a soft yer passionate manner. Without breaking the kiss, Tommy then closed the door.

·

@captivatedbycillianmurphy @peakyxtommy @nyotamalfoy @writeroutoftime @babylooneytoonz @lilymurphy03 @slytherinicequeen

#tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby fluff #tommy shelby angst #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby one shot #tommy shelby oneshot #thomas shelby fluff #thomas shelby angst #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fluff #peaky blinders angst #peaky blinder angst #peaky blinder one shot #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders one shot

[itsallyscorner]

“Move the plans”

Pairing: Florence Pugh x actress!reader (platonic)

Summary: Florence tells you to cancel your plans when she ends up in New York.

Warnings: Nothing really bad. Mentions lactose intolerance? Idk if that’s sensitive to people. Probably some spelling errors.

A/n: Hello darlings! I’m back from my unannounced break. I decided to write a platonic Florence fic because she’s a sweetheart and I loved her as Yelena! Also for those who follow me, don’t worry, I will be working on a sequel to my Tom Holland “Sour” fic!! But for now, please enjoy this fic!😚💕

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

(Loml)

✧───── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *. ☽.* :★. ─────✧

You stood backstage in front of a mirror, looking at your appearance and making sure there were no wrinkles on the dress you wore. Your hairstylist was behind you, fluffing your hair and managing the stray baby hairs on your head. You were currently at NBC Studios in New York City, about to do an interview with the infamous, Jimmy Fallon. Tingles buzzed through your skin as you heard the cheers and music from the stage. Jimmy’s voice can be heard faintly backstage, only adding to your growing excitement.

The sound of heels clicking approached you, it took less than a second for you to feel the warm presence of Florence behind you. The both of you were starring in the upcoming Black Widow movie alongside Scarlett Johansson; after months of working together and spending days hanging out, you and Florence had become very close friends. She was, without a doubt, your favorite person in the world. Since the moment you met her, she had always been the most sweetest and caring person you’ve ever met—and you were proud to say you had her in your corner.

You met Flo’s eyes in the mirror and bright smiles were instantly on your faces. Turning around, you open your arms wide, and wrap them around her. Bear hugs were a must in your friendship with Flo, you both just loved receiving hugs from each other.

“Ahhh! I told you that dress would be perfect for tonight, you look stunning!” She squealed, tightening her arms around you. A day before Jimmy Fallon, you and Flo had been at your place with your stylist, picking out which dress you should wear for the interview. The dress was casual, but the color was so ever vibrant that it made the dress pop.

You pulled out the hug and looked at what she was wearing. Her gorgeous blonde hair was curled into loose locks and her dress was just as vibrant as yours. The pink of her dress and the orange (yellowish?) of yours complimented each other. Which coincidentally enough, was a parallel of your lovely friendship with Florence.

“Me? Flo, you look gorgeous! I’m so obsessed with this look!” You help her twirl, hyping her up as she showed off her outfit. After sneaking in a little mirror selfie and posting it onto Instagram, the two of you were given a five minute warning from one of the crew members. You and Flo were moved to stand behind the curtain, waiting for your cues to walk onto the stage.

While the two of you were getting mic’d up, Florence leaned closer to you.

“Can I be completely honest with you?” She mumbled, her stare remaining on the curtain before her. Your brow raises in curiosity as your head slightly turns to look at her.

“Of course, hun. What’s up?” You ask, your attention on her. She sighs and leans even closer so only you can hear her.

“I feel like I’m about to shit my pants.” She admits, swallowing nervously. Your mouth gapes, “Did you have iced coffee too?”

Flo’s face scrunches up in confusion, “N-no! That was me telling you I was nervous! Did you have iced coffee?” She fully turns to look at you and judging by the look of guilt plastered across your face, you did in fact have iced coffee.

“Maybe?” You answer, though it came out more like a question. Florence rolls her eyes at you.

“(Y/n), how many times do you have to be reminded that you’re lactose intolerant?” She scolded you.

You scoff, holding a hand up at her, “Trust me, I’m reminded every time I sit on a toilet.” You shake your head, trying to refocus the conversation.

“This isn’t about my poor digestive system—why are you nervous?”

She sighs, “I don’t know why I’m so nervous, I’m used to doing interviews and stuff. But I haven’t been on Jimmy Fallon, and there’s an audience out there and I don’t want to mess up or accidentally spoil the movie.”

You place a reassuring hand on her shoulder, “You may be British, but you’re not Tom Holland. You won’t spoil anything.” You start. She quickly shoots you a look that screams, “you’re not helping”. You make a gesture physically telling her that you’re getting to the point.

“You’re going to be fine! I mean you did Jimmy Kimmel right? This shouldn’t be that different, it’s the same thing—just different studios, in different states, and different Jimmy’s.” You point out. She nods along as you continue, “Plus, I’m gonna be up there with you. You won’t be alone.”

With the help of your reassurance and witty little comments, Florence felt her anxiousness simmer down. They weren’t completely gone but the fact that you were gonna be up there together made her relax more. Being part of Marvel had its pros and cons. Sure, the movies are spectacular and the actors are outstanding. Though when it comes to doing promo for said movies, it can be quite stressful. It’s a known fact that Marvel and it’s executives can be quite strict when it comes to interviews with anyone involved in the making of their films—their strictness made sense, although for first time MCU members, it took some getting used to.

Florence smiles at you, “Thank you.”

You playfully nudge her shoulder with yours, “Don’t worry about it.” You say with a kind smile.

The wholesome moment was interrupted by one of the stagehands telling you and Florence that the two of you were on in 15 seconds.

“Our guests tonight are making their big MCU debut in the new Black Widow film, please welcome (Y/n) (L/n) and Florence Pugh!”

⚘

“So in the movie, there’s three of you guys—where’s the other one?” Jimmy asked, motioning his hand to the small space between you and Flo.

“She’s at home I believe.” Florence answered, glancing at you. “She’s busy doing stuff, you know—adult things.” She added.

You took the opportunity to make a joke and said, “Yet here we are promoting her movie.” You roll your eyes playfully. The crowd bursts out laughing, along with Jimmy, who smacked his desk.

“You know, we deserve a raise for this.” Flo considers, going along with your joke. She slightly snorts and nudges your arm with her elbow. “We could take Scarlett’s check and just split it in half for ourselves.”

“Problem solved.” You shrugged, high fiving her.

Another round of laughs fill the room as Jimmy says, “So you’re both taking Scarlett’s money?”

Jokingly, you nod in approval, “By the end of this interview? Definitely.”

Dropping the bit, you shake your head with a grin on your face. “I’m kidding! I’m only joking, I wouldn’t do that to her, even if I were forced to.”

Jimmy moves on as a picture of you, Florence, and Scarlett pops up on the screen. The picture had been posted on your Instagram and was taken while the three of you were filming in between takes. You were taking the selfie while Scarlett and Florence were poking their heads out from behind you making funny faces.

“I can’t imagine how exciting it is to be on a Marvel set, and to even work with one of the first ever heroes in the MCU—that must be insane!” Jimmy exclaims, motioning to another picture of the three of you.

“It’s unbelievable. To work alongside Scarlett and to follow this kind of path that she’s paved in the MCU is an honor. She really was like our older sister behind the scenes, because she was always guiding us and taking care of everyone. She’s the best.” Florence responded while you nodded in agreement.

“I watched the movie last night and one of the things I enjoyed the most was the dynamic the three of you had. You guys were like actual siblings.” Jimmy mentioned, motioning between you and Flo.

Florence giggled before squeezing you into a tight hug, “Yeah, she’s my big sister.” You smiled beamingly, patting her cheek before she let go.

“No, really! She’s like my actual younger sister.” You tell the audience, who “awed” at the hug you both shared. “We spent months on this movie and we spent every single day with each other. By the middle of production, we were basically roommates.”

“Roommates?” Jimmy questioned, leaning his elbows on his desk.

“Because I was always at her house.” Florence answered in a ‘duh’ tone. “I’ve actually grown an attachment to (Y/n), she’s like my comfort blanket. So I need to have her with me at all times. If she’s not with me, I just won’t leave the house.”

“Speaking of your attachment to (Y/n), there’s this video of you that you apparently sent her?” Jimmy gestured at you, “And you posted it on your Instagram and now the whole internet is obsessed with it.”

“Yup, that’s the one.” You confirmed.

“I know there’s probably some people who haven’t seen it, so here’s the video.” The video of Florence popped up on the screen and began to play.

(This fic was based on this TikTok😭)

Jimmy looked at you and Florence in amusement, “Can we get some context?”

Florence waved her hand at the screen and said, “As you can all see, I’m very persistent.”

“This wasn’t your first time sending her these kinds of videos?” Jimmy asked. You shook your head, a feign look of annoyance on your face.

“No, she does this all the time.”

“In my defense, I was unexpectedly flying out to New York for a project. I knew I was gonna be in the city for a few days, so I decided to call (Y/n) and make the most of my trip.” Flo defended herself, slightly pouting.

You leaned your head on her shoulder, “To be fair, it was also our first time seeing each other since we wrapped Black Widow, and we really missed each other.”

“(Y/n), did you have to move any plans?” Jimmy turns to you. Florence does the same.

“You know what, you never told me if you had plans or not.” She squints her eyes at you. Your arms crossed while your body slowly sunk into the couch.

You pretend to fix your lipstick, quickly muttering, “I might’ve moved some plans around.”

Florence’s mouth gapes in shock, her entire body freezing. She grips onto your shoulder, “Wait, you actually moved plans for me?”

“I might’ve rescheduled a lunch with someone, but that doesn’t really matter.” You replied, trying to move on from the topic. Jimmy pointed at you, a giant grin on his face, “You actually moved plans for Florence!”

Florence’s mouth was still wide in shock, “I can’t believe you actually moved plans for me—(Y/n)!” She whined.

“I missed seeing you, so of course I had to move them.” You bashfully explained, the corners of your lips turning upwards. Florence pulled you into a hug.

“Gosh, you really do love me!” She exclaimed.

“I really do!” You said, your arms wrapping around her as well.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

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