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jellys-compendium · 4 months

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Red Handed

A König x f!Reader Oneshot

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Summary: After your poor performance on one of your squad's training exercises, you've been punished by fulfilling laundry duty for the entire facility for a month. It's a thankless job, but maybe it will help you figure out who the hell has been stealing your panties. Cw: smut (pwp), mutual pining, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, panty kink, panty sniffing, pet names, size difference/size kink, mask kink, semi-public sex, masturbation, mutual pining, König is a bit of a pervert but he's also awkward, shy and sweet and eats pussy like a champ. Word Count: 3k A/n: This fic is for a dear friend of mine. I hope you enjoy it!

It’s 5:12 AM on a quiet Sunday morning, and mostly everyone in the compound is fast asleep.

Normally, you would be too. But rather than enjoying that sweet extra few hours to sleep in on the one day you have off, you instead find yourself with your teeth grit and cursing under your breath as you haul the last enormous load of laundry into the KorTac facility’s laundry room.

“This is your punishment,” Your superior officer’s words replay in your mind like a broken record.

“For your abysmal performance in the last training exercise, you’ll be assigned laundry duty for the entire facility for the month.”

Sheesh, what an asshole. While you understand that this is how it goes in any military faction, it’s not like the man had to assign you to laundry duty for the whole damn month.

Your comrades had of course taken full advantage of the situation, flinging their dirty socks and other unmentionables at you with childish glee as you passed by their bunks with the laundry bin. Of course, you had returned every little quip with one of your own.

“Thanks mom!”

“No problem, least favorite child.”

“Can you get my boxers smelling like roses when you’re done? My girlfriend would love that.”

“Sure, but I don’t think your hand is all that picky.”

The banter had been amicably scathing for the most part, but admittedly there had been some days where the teasing had frayed your nerves. Unfortunately, that group of lovable meatheads really struggled on picking up on when you’ve had enough. Luckily for you, on those days salvation had come in the form of one very unlikely character.

König. The charmingly awkward 6ft10 giant that could snap a man’s spine over his knee without breaking a sweat.

“That’s enough teasing from you all. Let her do her job in peace.”

As you load the huge pile of laundry into the washing machines, your mind begins its usual circling around thoughts of König. You like him. A lot.

You’ve liked him from the moment you first laid eyes on him nearly a year ago. There’s just something about his dorky personality, coupled with his awkward charm and humongous presence that makes your heart pound excitedly in your chest. Absolutely every single person in the facility knows about your crush too. Well… everyone except König.

König is a bit of a weird and mysterious person. Sometimes he does and says things that don’t really make a lot of sense. You’ve also come to discover that König is pretty secretive about his past, never giving anyone too many details about where he comes from or who he really is.

But the strangest thing about König is that he always has his face covered, even when he’s off duty. As the two of you developed a closer friendship over time, you’d mustered the courage to ask him about the mask one day, but König had simply let out a nervous little laugh and said,

“Ah. I’m sorry, I’m just a bit shy, häschen.”

Also, yes, häschen. The huge Austrian man you had a not so secret crush on had given you an affectionate little nickname. A nickname that he only used whenever the two of you were alone.

“You’re always so busy and energetic! Like a cu—ah—clever little rabbit, ja?”

Your heart squeezes in your chest. God, you are so down bad for that man. Too bad that when it comes to your feelings, König is about as perceptive as a bag full of hammers. You can’t quite figure out if he genuinely is that oblivious to your advances or if it’s his way of letting you down gently. For fear of it being the latter, you had decided to not push it and see where things go.

Still, that doesn’t mean you’re not secretly sinking your fingers into your pussy every other night, his name a silent whisper on your lips and his innocent little nickname an echo in your brain.

Häschen.

A tremor travels up your spine, and your thighs squeeze together as a rush of heat courses through your body. Right. Ignoring that.

Refocusing on your task, you finish filling up one of the many washing machines, slide out the tray, and pour in the detergent and softener before setting it to cycle. Then, you proceed to fill in the next one and the next until finally you get to your own pile of laundry.

As you start to sort your clothes, you realize that you’re running low on underwear again. It’s so weird.

In the last few months you’d noticed that some of your panties had gone missing. Originally you’d thought that it was just a fluke—maybe one of your not so perceptive comrades accidentally dropping one or two behind the machines? But since you yourself had taken over laundry duty, you realized that this isn’t the case. Another pair had gone missing and from right under your nose.

You had been especially annoyed when you discovered that it was your favorite comfy but lacy little pair too. Either this is a joke in poor taste, or you have a pervert on your hands. Regardless of which one it is, it’s the last thing you need right now.

Sighing, you reach down and are about to finish filling up the last drum with your dirty clothes when you realize that you had forgotten to add one of your favorite hoodies to the pile.

“Shit.” You whisper under your breath. It’s going to be a bit of a trek to head back to your room and get it, but you really love that hoodie and the thought of being wrapped all nice and warm in it once it’s out of the dryer is too enticing to ignore.

Leaving your laundry to sit in the open machine, you make your way back through the dimly lit hallways of the KorTac training facility. It’s too early for even your superiors to be up, so you’re not that worried about being caught padding through the hallways with bare feet and without your uniform.

As you pass by König’s room, your eyes can’t help but linger on the door. He hasn’t come back from his contract yet. It’s been almost two weeks since you’ve seen him and you miss the big guy.

Even though König hasn’t shown any signs that he’s interested in you beyond being just friends, you still miss seeing him in the mornings. Exchanging some amicable and encouraging words before heading off to your first drill is one of the highlights of your day. Maybe he’s not into you, or maybe he’s just that shy. König’s true intentions are really just as mysterious as the face he hides.

Finally reaching your room, you make a grab for the hoodie that you’ve forgotten at the foot of your bed. Once you have it safely tucked under your arm, you quietly slip back out into the hallway and jog back towards the laundry room. You’d prefer to have your laundry duty done before your comrades wake up and start harassing you for clean clothes.

You slow your gait as you reach the laundry room, but as you silently reach for the door you detect the softest little sound resonating from behind the door.

Is someone there? Seriously, at five in the morning? But then strikes you. Maybe this is the culprit behind your missing panties!

‘Caught you red handed you, jerk.’ You think as you slowly wrap your fingers around the doorknob and turn it. Once the latch is free, you silently push it open just a crack and peek inside. What you see has your jaw nearly hitting the floor.

It’s…König.

Your eyes sweep across König’s unmistakable, enormous frame as he leans over the washing machine you had left open, his mask pushed up to the bridge of his nose, giving you a teasing glimpse of his lips, chin, and jaw as he presses a bundled wad of red fabric against his face.

Wait…holy shit are those your fucking panties?

A deep groan escapes König’s lips, his huge body tensing as his left hand travels down. You nearly choke on your own spit when he starts to palm at the raging hard on pressing severely against his fly.

Whoa…is that a third leg in his pants or…

Your eyes are glued to König’s hand as it travels up and down his clothed length, his body shudders gorgeously as he moves back to lean against one of the dryers. The sight of the pink swipe of his tongue darting out to lick at your panties has you practically gushing between your legs.

Then, another soft sound, this time a desperate little groan of your name wisps through the air as König’s hips start to roll against his hand. The tiniest little wet spot forms on his pants where the head of his cock rests.

“You taste so good, mein häschen.”

Then, his thick fingers move towards his belt.

Oh.

You bite your lip, debating on what you should do. The intoxicating thrill that bubbles in your tummy at the thought of watching König stroke his cock to the scent of your pussy is outrageously tempting. But…this is a messy situation. You really shouldn’t be spying on him. But then again, he really shouldn’t be stealing your panties and using them to jerk off.

Fuck. But König wants you too, doesn’t he? He’s pent up and desperate, straining against his pants and you can help him with that.

Stealing your resolve, you drop your hoodie, enter the laundry room and then slowly close and lock the door behind you.

Another hot groan escapes König’s mouth. He opens his eyes, those blue pools all glassy and love drunk until they fall on you. The moment his brain registers that you’re in the room with him, König’s entire body jolts as if he’d been hooked up to a car battery.

“Scheisse!”

The mountainous man drops your panties like they’d bitten him, his mask falling back into place as his blue eyes widen into saucers filled to the brim with panic.

“Ah—uh—G-guten morgen! I s-see that you’re still on laundry duty.”

König hips shift. He’s clearly trying to hide the massive tree trunk in his pants from your line of sight. A cheeky little grin spreads across your lips.

‘Yeah, good luck with that, big boy.’

“I am.” You confirm, making your way towards him. König’s eyes follow you like a hawk, the subtle quick rise and fall of his chest the only sign that he’s still flustered.

Stopping at the discarded panties on the floor, you reach down and pluck them between your fingers. The dark, wet stripe of where König’s tongue had been is clear for you both to see. The heat that pools in your gut as a response nearly has you jumping the man’s bones.

“What were you doing with my panties?” You softly ask, your gaze meeting König’s before lowering down to his cock.

The man freezes up like a statue.

“I—uh—I…”

He’s speechless, and you’re going to take advantage of that. Stepping forward, you close the distance between yourself and König. Once you’re close enough, you place your hand on the throbbing dick trapped in his pants.

König inhales sharply, steading himself against the dryer with his powerful hands. The wet little patch on his pants grows, and you feel him shyly push his cock against your hand just a little bit harder.

Cute.

Licking your lips, you start to palm him, the heat and size of König’s cock makes your heart race and your pussy throb. Being this close to him, you realize that the tip of your head barely even reaches the height of his clavicle.

Fuck, he’s so huge and powerful. This man could absolutely bend you into whatever shape he wants. You’ve seen him in action many times before and you know full well that König is not a force to be messed with. And yet here he is, complete and total putty in your hands.

Then with a coquettish little wink, you reach for König’s pocket and slowly stuff your panties inside.

“You know,” You whisper. “If you want to lick my pussy, König, all you have to do is ask.”

Before you even realize that’s happening, König’s massive arms encircle your waist and haul you into the air with absolutely no effort at all.

Gasping in surprise, your breath is stolen from your lungs as König turns you both around, and after another quick flurry of movement you find yourself pinned against the top of one of the dryers. Pinned, secured, and at the utter mercy of König’s incredible strength.

Your pussy practically weeps.

“Can I then?”

You try and catch your breath, eyes locking with König’s blue ones. You realize that König no longer has a look of startled panic. Instead, those eyes of his are hooded, lust filled, and they are staring directly at you.

“W-what?”

König’s scorching fingers brush against the band of your pajama shorts, teasingly grazing the sensitive skin of your navel.

“Can I eat your cunt, leibling?”

You shudder, heat pooling between your thighs at the hungry growl following König’s words.

“Yes.”

Your shorts and panties are off you faster than you can blink. And you watch—totally breathless—as König lifts his mask up just enough to reveal his mouth before diving his lips and tongue between the folds of your pussy.

Your body arches, crying out softly as König’s stubbled chin and cheeks scratch pleasurably against your skin. His tongue immediately flexes then flicks against your clit before diving back down to your entrance to lap at your taste.

“Fuck,” König groans sensually, his hands snaking around your hips to grip and pull you closer—burying his face deeper into you.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to taste you.”

You gasp as König’s fingers dig roughly into your flesh, his hot moans vibrating against your clit. Your hips will be decorated with bruises later no doubt, and that thought makes you purr with unabashed ecstasy.

“M-more!” You beg, your hips rutting against König’s mouth. “König, please don’t stop.”

“You want more?” König hums. “Gut. I’ll give you more.”

Those blue eyes flash to yours, and your pussy practically melts as he dives back down to tongue at your cunt—but not before giving you a little cheeky grin first.

God, he’s such a dork. An adorable, massive dork. And you are so head over heels for him.

Your thoughts scatter as König sucks and licks and laps at your flesh. His lips circling and sucking at your clit, his tongue caressing your folds, his breath hot as he whispers hushed praise against your skin in his native language. He feels so good.

And you want to touch him. You’re so desperate to touch him. But you have to admit, there is something so incredibly sexy about having a man—this man—go down on you while he’s wearing his mask. You don’t even know what he really looks like, but at this moment you realize that you don’t even care.

“König,” You pant, thighs trembling as you get closer to your climax.

“Mmm. You’re close, leibling.”

A statement, not a question.

“Y-yes.” You keen, arching up as he circles your clit once more.

König groans then sucks at your clit, rolling the engorged bud against his tongue as his right hand comes up to your cunt. You groan as he works to drench his fingers with the slick between your folds.

“Need to have something inside you, ja?” He probes your entrance with his thick fingers. “Want to squeeze down on me as you come?”

“Please!” You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as that powerful wave of pleasure crests—on the verge of crashing and pulsing through your body like a storm.

“Yes! König, pleeeease!”

And as König’s sinks two of his thick fingers inside you, you feel him smile against your cunt.

“That’s my good girl. Come on my fingers, häschen.”

König pumps his thick digits deeper inside you, stroking along your walls and lapping at your clit with such force that your body has no choice but to succumb to your orgasm with a ferocity that has you seeing stars.

Your release rips a high pitched cry from your throat as your back arches and you writhe against König’s hands and mouth. You can faintly hear him curse under his breath, moaning brokenly as he pulls his fingers out of your pussy and laps up every drop of your release like a man starved.

“That’s it.” He whispers with reverence. “So pretty when you come in my hands, leibling.”

König takes his time helping you ride out your high, his mouth not leaving you until the last of your pleased little shivers leaves your body. Then, he pulls away, licking his lips as he lets his mask fall back down again.

“König,” You mewl, the thrumming pleasure in your body still burning strong as you reach for the front of his pants.

“I want your cock.”

The massive man groans, his blue eyes shutting tight in an effort to restrain himself. You palm at him, desperately wanting to feel the weight of his body on yours. You want to know what it feels like to be filled up to the brim with him.

But König shakes his head.

“We’ll have time for that later.”

“But—”

The feeling of König’s fingers pressing up against your pussy once more interrupts your sentence.

“You’re very small here, leibling.” König coos. “We’ll have to take our time preparing you to take my cock.”

A debaucherous little shudder courses through your body at his words. Patience is a virtue they say. But right now, it feels a little more like torture.

You’re about to argue with König, when suddenly a resounding knock bangs against the laundry room’s door. Your bodies freeze like a deer in headlights as you both hear one of your superiors angrily calling your name.

“Hey! Are you in there? What is this hoodie doing out here and why is the door locked? Open this door immediately!”

You and König stare at one another.

Shit. Caught red handed for the second time today.

divider source

#call of duty #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #konig #konig x reader #konig x you #konig call of duty #konig smut #cod smut #jellywrites

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artethyst · 2 months

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~ Shadows Bathed In Moonlight ~ Pt.1

Azriel x Youngest Archeron Sister! Reader/OC

“Azriel we have been over this,” Rhysand brought a hand to his face, slim digits ghosting across his jaw in deep thought. “It is out of my hands- you are forbidden from telling her. Do you understand?”

“Even you cannot forbid me from such a thing,” he let out a dark chuckle is disbelief. “Tell me, High Lord, why is it that two of my brothers have found their mate- free to accept the bond, and it is I left alone- in the dark? As usual.” The Shadowsinger’s voice dripped with venom, an uncharacteristic snarl on his face as his primal instincts took over, having no outlet for such scathing carnal desires- having been barred from even spending time with his Mate.

“Azriel, you know it is not the same.”

“How is it not the same?”

“She is still coming to terms with what happened to her- her powers are still out of control-”

“Then let me help her!”

“That is Cassian’s job.”

The two men became silent as a soft rap on the door signified them of a presence- her presence, Azriel noted, her soothing scent of fresh lillies and the first rain of spring overwhelming him as her angelically golden head poked through the door nervously.

He felt his lips tug at the corner at the sight of her, Rhysand giving him a warning look at the almost unnoticeable gesture.

Azriel. The familiar voice was strained. Leave us.

“I…I apologise for interrupting,” came her gentle voice, twinkling blue eyes apologetic as Azriel was forced to tear his own away, the golden thread that only he could see taunting him in glittering ocean of her iris.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” came the Shadowsinger’s smooth reply, bowing in such a way Rhysand knew his infamous patience had been worn thin. “High Lord.”

Azriel had not ventured far, his shadows, uncharacteristically disobedient, willing him to stay close enough to her- his Mate in an onyx haze of longing he was beginning to suffocate under.

He watched Rhysand leave first, jaw ticking as the male rounded the corner, anticipating his sister-in-law to follow in tow, her gossamer gown and its iridescent scintillation billowing around her like a halo.

He heard her gasp as one of them curled itself around her pointed ear, cursing beneath his breath, only to hear her giggle- a liberating sound that might have exalted him from the depths of his own hell, an angelic noise that could have him repenting on his knees just to hear a single note of.

“Azzie…” she smiled up at him, as he remained still- as though he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t- he had. “Your shadows are loose again!”

Only for you- ever for you, he wanted to say, words turning to ash quicker than the breath was stolen from his lungs at the sight of her.

He wished he could ask Feyre to immortalise the moment as she stood- tendrils of him dancing across her unblemished skin, their dark illimitability neither scaring nor disgusting her as her rosy cheeks widened, their vaporous talons ardently skimming over her guiltlessness.

“S-Sorry,” was all that came out, low and stuttered, his bronzed countenance flushing at his own weakness- thanking the mother Cassian was not around to tease him for it.

“Do you think they like me?” She teased, unaware of the true weight of her words, “they never seem to latch on to anyone else…” She trailed off as he called them back, unable to stomach the sight of her- so close and yet so far from him, in such a cruel display of fate.

“It is hard for anything not to.” He mused gently, not missing the way her rosebud lips parted, the saccharine scent of her own innate longing drifting up to him in taunting waves of arousal.

“Azriel-” She had not used his name- called him that for such a long time, her fair face falling as he stormed away, wondering what she had done- had said for him to treat her so callously.

Her hand was splayed out in a fruitless attempt to stop him from abandoning her and prevent him from vanishing entirely- a frustrating habit he adopted had as of recent, baring its ugly, wilted head whenever their conversations has begun to blossom beyond anything other than formality.

In the few years she had known him he had never acted in such a way, making her slowly retreat back into the self-loathing girl he had once culled from her self inflicted cage. His own heart lurched as he felt her through the unclaimed bond- suffering, again, because of him.

He had been the one to make her feel like she was home- that he might have even been it. Yet the retreating coils of his own darkness reminded her that he could never love her.

That she would never be enough for a man such as he.

And as her soul cried for him in a manner she had yet to recognise, his own howled back in a melancholic crescendo as he cursed the Mother for always deafening his heart’s symphony.

#acotar x oc #acotar fic #fanfic #acotar #azriel #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #azriel x oc #azriel x archeron sister #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x original character #azriel x reader

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bit-odd-innit · 1 year

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“Sometimes,” Gareth drawls. He’s sitting behind his kit, twirling a drumstick in his fingers, thoughtful. “Sometimes I think this town really is cursed.” “Dude.” Jeff warns. “Let me finish. I think this town is cursed, and Eddie’s a part of it—” “Dude!” “Let me finish! Town’s cursed, Eddie’s involved, but he’s not the source. He’s a victim.”

Jeff and Francis exchange a look. ”And the true source.” He rises, getting on a roll. “The true source is hiding in plain sight, something—”

He cuts his eyes at them. “—or someone no one would expect. The true source...” He whirls his drumstick with a dramatic flourish then snaps his arm to its full extension and points outward, into the wild blue yonder that is the world beyond his parents’ garage. “...is Him.”

Him, being: Steve Harrington, parked at the end of the driveway. Steve Harrington, opening the passenger side door of his rich boy Beemer. Steve Harrington, who drove Eddie to band practice. Who’s shouldering Eddie’s gig bag. Who’s helping Eddie out of the car.

Jeff and Francis watch for a moment in silence, then turn back to Gareth in sync.

”An interesting theory.” ”Elaborate.”

“Consider the facts, boys!” He holds his drumstick to his mouth to pantomime smoking a pipe. It doesn’t really work but he’s committed to it now. “Prior to The Unfortunate Occurences Which Shan’t Be Named...”

Francis crosses himself backwards. Jeff looks down, shielding his eyes and murmuring, “That Which Shan’t Be Named.” It’s the only way they can cope with what happened last spring. It’s that or face the reality that their friend almost died horribly; that he was hunted for sport by a town that still looks at him sideways, still has not acknowledged any wrongdoing; that there’s a gap in Eddie’s retelling of What Really Happened he can’t or won’t explain, and in that gap Eddie was almost destroyed, was so brutalized he was hospitalized for a month and semi-comatose for half of it. That Eddie is different now. Wounded. Skittish. Not small, never small. But smaller.

That’s too much, man. So they make it a Bit.

“...Our darling Edward would have never associated with the likes of that.”

(That is currently smoothing down the collar of Eddie’s new battle jacket, nose wrinkling as the stubborn curl of the denim refuses to lay flat.)

”A jock? Hah! A jock and a yuppie? Hah and hah a-gain! But now, in the hereafter of...” He falters. “Certain Events...he has emerged unscathed—” “He is not unscathed,” Jeff corrects. “He is extremely scathed,” Francis adds. “Mentally, physically and emotionally scathed.”

“He’s scathed to shit dude.” “He has emerged unscathed,” Gareth barrels on, shooting them a look that says this is supposed to be a monologue. “But for one critical difference. Not only does he tolerate this...interloper’s existence, but he actively seeks out his company! I daresay he enjoys it! Thrives on it! Our jester is holding court in the empty kingdom of a fallen king!”

Francis laughs but Jeff frowns. “That’s a little mean.”

“Ah, but is it untrue?”

“Still.”

“Fine, sorry, jeez.”

(The fallen king is now holding the jester’s collar down with one hand and furiously rubbing at it with his fist, scowling like the fabric personally offended him. “You should have let me iron this,” he huffs, and the way Eddie watches Steve is so cartoonishly fond Gareth half expects a menagerie of woodland creatures to scamper out of the brush and sing a song about it.)

Satisfied, Jeff gets back on board. He hums, his mouth a grim line, voice dropping to the bottom of his register. “And you suspect the Dark Arts?”

“What other explanation could there be?” Gareth lifts his steepled fingers to his mouth, forgetting he is still holding the drumstick, and tips it forward so it doesn’t go right up his nose. He glowers in the pair’s general direction. “What do we truly know about this Hair-ington? What secrets does that follicle fortress hold? What Black Magic does this strapping sorcerer wield that has so bewitched our beloved bro?” Francis snorts. “The black magic is that Steve’s hot, and Eddie wants to kiss him.”

Gareth and Jeff stare at him, slack-jawed. Francis shrugs.

“Look I’m not into the guy but let’s call a spade a spade.”

Gareth shifts his weight to one leg, his theatrics flushing out of him. “I’m running out of steam on this, can we just talk about Eddie’s stupid crush on Steve Harrington?”

“Oh my god PLEASE.” “I have been WAITING for someone to bring it up” “I’ve never seen him like this. He is gone. He is smitten.”

“I’d go so far as to say he is straight up besotted my dude!” “Cupid’s arrow flew true and it got him right between the fucking eyes.”

It’s not the first time Eddie’s had a crush, or the most embarrassing. It’s not even that the guys are worried about what would happen if they roasted Eddie to his face—Eddie can dish it out as well as he can take it, mostly. But whatever Eddie has with Steve feels…untouchable. The first time Steve dropped him off Gareth tested the waters with something light, something along the lines of, “you think he’s gonna give you his letterman jacket?” Instead of laughing it off, Eddie dimmed, and he answered, quietly, “Steve’s just a friend.” The subject hasn’t been broached since.

But perhaps Eddie just can’t see the forest for the trees. Because from the band’s perspective…

“Oh my God are you KIDDING me?”

“What?”

“Steve just did The Move!”

“What move?”

“THE Move! You know.” Gareth presses together his palms, one slightly higher so he can curl his fingers over the ones on his opposite hand. He affects a bright, breathy voice and coos: “Hee hee oh wow your hands are soooo small compared to mine. Hee hee hoo my hands are so big and strong just like me, I could do a billion push ups, probably, and ohhhh wow! Now we’re holding hands! How did that happen! Hee hee hoo hoo ha ha ha!”

Francis chuckles knowingly. “Total Hot Guy Move.”

“A classic!”

“Is that what you think Steve Harrington sounds like?” Jeff asks.

As if on cue, Steve shifts his hand so his fingers fill the spaces between Eddie’s, and then those fingers are folding over, and then the two of them are just…holding hands, in the middle of the street. Staring at each other. Smiling.

Henderson seems just as fed up with this song and dance as the rest of them because he launches from his post in Steve’s back seat, halves himself over the center console and absolutely lays on the horn.

(That’s the other thing they don’t talk about, how clingy Dustin’s gotten. How he trails Eddie like a little shadow, like he’s been stitched to the sole of Eddie’s shoe. Like if he doesn’t have eyes on Eddie at all times he’s going to disappear.)

It snaps them out of their spell because then Steve is barking for him to, “quit it, this is a residential neighborhood!!!” and Henderson is punching out the tune to “Ride of the Valkyries” and Eddie is laughing, really laughing, his head thrown back and his eyes closed as he loses himself to a debilitating, full body cackle and for one brief, horrible moment Gareth thinks he might start crying.

Because there had been a time—Mayish, Juneish—when they didn’t know if they would get Eddie back. That part of him, the core of him, the writhing nucleus of his Eddie-ness, had been tamped down for good. And then Steve showed up. And then Steve kept showing up. And then slowly, surely, Eddie came back. Eddie’s here. Eddie’s late to band practice.

Gareth’s driveway has an incline so it takes Eddie a minute to reach them (Eddie’s working with a physical therapist to build up his quad strength Eddie’s missing sections of his internal organs Eddie almost died and he didn’t and they will never know how or why and Gareth swallows down another knot of emotion lodged at the base of his throat). When he’s at the top he bobs his chin at them and pumps his eyebrows, sheepish but unapologetic. He glances over his shoulder, flicks a salute at Henderson and Steve, beams when Steve answers with a fluttery trill of his fingers. He turns, moves to set up.

“Hey, Munson!”

Steve’s halfway in the car, forearm draped over the open driver’s side door, one foot propped on the seat. For a beat he doesn’t move, the corner of his lower lip pinched beneath the top row of his teeth. Then his tongue falls out of his mouth, he makes a little “Bleh!” noise like a B-movie vampire, and he throws the horns.

He does it wrong. He sticks his thumb out instead of tucking it beneath his middle and ring fingers. He isn’t saying rock on, he’s saying something else, cause Gareth knows a little ASL and in ASL that sign means—

Later Eddie will say his knee gave out, that he’s still figuring out how to maneuver his “busted ass body.” They let him have it, but Gareth and Jeff and Francis know the truth. Steve Harrington told Eddie Munson he loves him, and Eddie swooned. “You fellas ready to rock?” Eddie asks as he hooks up to his amp. Gareth gets behind his drum kit, counts them in, and the band plays on.

#steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #corroded coffin #my fanfic

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ervotica · 4 months

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warnings; major character death (but not rly!!), r and liam are tethered like violet & xaden, not a real fic or anything jus a daydream i've been having about my angel liam. shhh ik it doesn't make sense but idgaf it was fun.

liam who survived.

liam who's been healing in aretia since fighting the venin, since his close call with death; liam who's been too weak to do anything, really, until deigh finally started to heal, too.

you, who's dragon and his are mated. and losing him and deigh nearly cost you both your lives, too.

the second you step through the threshold of the riorson house, the bond that's left a gaping wound in your heart in its absence seems to ignite, clicking back into place in your head.

you can feel him.

your heart leaps into your throat; xaden winces when you turn on your heel to watch him, panic etched into every crevice of your expression.

"where is he?" you're quiet, brows pushing a crease into your forehead when xaden reaches for your hands, holding you steady. your whole body thrums with nervous energy.

"i need you to understand that i couldn't tell you. for both of your safety-" he starts.

"xaden, i don't care," you cut him short with a scathing glare. "where is he?"

you ground yourself, focusing every ounce of energy into the newly reinstated bond; you imagine reaching through the tether that runs between the two of you, and you speak through it.

"liam?"

his voice fills your ears, deep and gravelly but unmistakably him, and tears crowd your vision, catching on your itching waterline.

"hi, my girl."

you rush to turn the corner down to the vast hallway, and a disheveled mop of blond you're all too familiar with draws your gaze.

you're frozen, muscles locked tight where you stand, fixated by the sight of the boy you've been grieving, aching for, standing just a few feet away.

his arms outstretch and he takes a step towards you, and you break. a sob seizes you, arms curling around yourself in some semblance of self soothing.

"come here," he croaks. "c'mere, baby."

you rush in a surge of frenzied limbs, colliding with his chest with an audible thump; he stumbles back a step, but plants himself to accommodate you clinging, white-knuckled, to his midriff.

the way you squeeze him makes his heart ache, the guilt of hiding from you slapping him in the face full force. your balmy cheek rubs against his shoulder, nose scrunching in the way he's always found terribly endearing- except the silent sobs that wrack your body contort your features, and you tremble under his touch.

"why would you do that?" you whisper, but even through the bite of your words, your iron grip never lets up. you're terrified that he'll disappear from beneath you. "it almost killed us, liam."

he pulls back to look at you and your chin plants against his chest to gaze up at him through heavy lashes, weighed down and kissing at the corners. his thumb catches a stray tear, brushing it across the length of your cheekbone before he leans down to press a kiss between your brows.

"i'm sorry," he murmurs. "i know i should've told you." his thick bicep wraps around the back of your neck, anchoring you to his chest.

"i kept tryin' to get her to eat and she wouldn't, li. and the bond was so weak. it nearly took us both down with you."

"shh, shh," he soothes. "i'm so sorry, my girl."

you slap feebly at his chest, no real force behind it as you sniffle, swollen eyes watching his every move.

"you ever do some shit like this again and i'll kill you myself, mairi."

dimples crater at the centre of his cheeks, his eyes crinkling when he laughs down at you, deep and earnest.

"i love you so much."

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chronicowboy · 1 year

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Eddie doesn't even bother waiting for the ambulance to come to a complete halt before he's jumping out of the cab, leaving the keys in the ignition and the engine rumbling. He barely hears the click of the handbrake over the blood rushing in his ears, but he couldn't give less of a fuck about a runaway ambulance when the doors open.

As Chim rolls the gurney out, Hen, shaky and ragged, shouts,

"Switch!"

Eddie doesn't think. He doesn't make a conscious decision. His body just knows what to do.

Its instinct to interlock his fingers and push all of his body weight into Buck's chest. Its instinct to climb onto the rail of the gurney, so Chim and Hen can push him along as he keeps up chest compressions. Its instinct to ignore the tears burning at the corners of his eyes and whisper broken pleas to Buck's broken heart.

Its an instinct as natural as Eddie's desire to protect Christopher from every miniscule bit of pain the world throws at him. Its an instinct as natural as Eddie's urge to throw himself up an electrified ladder for Buck. Its an instinct as natural as breathing.

So, Eddie pushes.

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

Thinks about a stupid pink and yellow heart with a smiley face and it imagines it under his hands as the first rib breaks.

"Come on, Buck," he hisses. "Don't you dare do this to me."

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

Buck kept the blood sealed in Eddie's body when a bullet tore through his shoulder, the least he can do to return the favour is keep Buck's heart beating.

He'd do it for the rest of his life if he had to.

If Buck trusted him with it, wanted him to have it, Eddie would hold Buck's heart close for eternity.

Given the choice, Eddie would carry that heart with him forever.

Its another instinct that hits him then. One he can't satisfy, but the urge is there all the same.

The urge to rip Buck's heart from his chest and tear open his own ribcage so he can nestle Buck's heart right next to his.

It'd be safe there.

Eddie would make sure of it.

And if it just so happened that Buck's heart refusing to beat stopped Eddie's too, well then, so be it.

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

Another rib breaks.

"I'm sorry," Eddie whispers. "I'm so sorry."

Bobby rattles his stats off to the doctor's swarming around them, but Eddie doesn't hear it anymore than the faint ringing that's been echoing around his head since the lightning threw him to the asphalt.

Its always asphalt, he thinks bitterly. When one of us is hurt and the other can't reach them, its always asphalt sticking to our goddamn skin.

A hand lands on his shoulder, but he shrugs them off.

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

"Sir," the clinical tone raises his hackles, but he doesn't stop pushing. "Sir, let us take over, please."

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

"Please, Buck."

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

Another rib breaks, and Eddie imagines the bone spearing Buck's still heart.

The bile that rises in his throat tastes a lot like bloody words left unsaid.

"Sir!"

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

"Eddie." Its Chimney's voice.

"Eddie, let them take over." Hen.

"Eddie," Bobby calls out. Its the broken voice of his captain that makes his rhythm falter for the first time.

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

"Eddie, stop. That's an order."

A thousand ugly words spill onto his tongue, a thousand scathing comments about dead sons and giving up, but Eddie bites them back and instead:

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

"Buck, please."

He freezes, hands on Buck's chest. He thought...

A thump.

An unsteady, weak thump.

But a thump all the same.

Eddie lets his crew peel him from Buck's limp body, lets the doctors roll him away. He steps forward, goes to follow them, but...

The world begins to turn black as the doors swing shut.

The last thing Eddie hears is Buck's voice echoing in his head,

We don't go past the glass doors.

#sami rambles #ok frrrrrrr im supposed to be working on my coma dream wip but i needed to write about eddie and buck's heart so #here have whatever this is #dont like this half as much as the chris one but oh well #911 spoilers #911 show #911 fox #911 spec #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie #buck x eddie #buddie fic #buck x eddie fic #buddie fanfic #buck x eddie fanfic #911 speculation #911 spec fic

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imagine-darksiders · 2 months

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On the Ropes

Chapter 25 - Uninvited Guests

Montgomery Gator X F!Reader

WARNING:

-Noncon touching, inappropriate behaviour, abuse of authority, implied s/a, self-doubt, mild threat

Summary: Tempers flare, emotions are high and boundaries are tested. You worry, but Monty worries more. He just isn't as good as expressing it as you are.

Sorry this one took so long. A few months ago, my parents made me a partner in their company with a view to take over the whole damn thing when they retire, and I've had to learn how to run a business without a lick of experience in the field, so that's been taking up a lot of my life lately. I'm still finding time to write, but it is harder.

Still! I hope a nice, long, juicy chapter full of angst and fluff and hurt/comfort makes up for the hiatus. Love to the brim. X

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

As ideas go, Monty concludes that his latest might have been best left on the backburner, never to see the light of day. He hardly dares move, locked in place by his own mechanical parts as he stares down at you on the sofa, and you in turn, gawk up at him, your eyes still wet and shining with tears.

And for all his artificial intelligence, for all the state-of-the-art programming slapped into his circuitry, the most eloquent response he can conjure up in the face of his own blunder is a weak, faltering, “Uh…”

But what else could best encapsulate the jarring realisation that he’s been caught? He hadn’t really fathomed being caught at all, hadn’t even considered what he might do if he was caught.

Well, too little too late now, he supposes. There’s no way he can simply duck back through your open window and feign ignorance when you inevitably return to the Plex to confront him…

…. Could he…?

… No, no. Definitely not.

Closely observing your expression, the gator’s proverbial stomach sinks as your face begins to lose all aspects of shock and instead turns towards something more closely akin to anger, unpleasant in its familiarity, and Monty realises he’s running out of time to come up with a believable excuse to explain away his presence here, as if a 'good' excuse even exists.

Brows scrunching together, your jaw creaks shut, teeth meeting with an audible ‘click,’ that pulls an involuntary flinch from the gator’s tail.

He can handle Mick being angry with him. He can handle Andy and that exec, the staff and guests and all of their cross words and scathing looks.

Yet for some reason that he dare not examine, the very notion of you pointing your wrath at him fills Monty with a dread so palpable, he’d swear the coolant in his hydraulics freezes solid. The irony of the revelation doesn’t escape him. Until now, he’s spent so long being angry at everyone around him without sparing much thought as to how it must feel to be on the receiving end.

Beyond the threatening wave of apprehension cresting over him, he can still hear the sizzle of water against a hot stove-top somewhere nearby – the very culprit that had landed you on the floor, and him here in the first place - and in his eagerness to set things right again, Monty latches onto the one task he’s at least semi-certain he can’t mess up.

He doesn’t break eye-contact with you, not until he’s edged his way into the little kitchenette and finally tears his gaze from yours to spin around to the stove, knocking his tail against the fridge with a jarring clang of metal. He winces at the force, hoping he hasn’t dented it.

Grimacing at the knobs and dials sitting innocently on the cooker, he elects not to tackle them, instead reaching out to engulf the saucepan’s entire handle in a single fist where he simply lifts the whole contraption off the stove.

At once, the water boiling within its metal confines eases to a manageable simmer.

“Monty…” When his name leaves your lips this time, it’s deeper, colder, with the barest tremble flecked into your voice. “You… you can’t be here…”

The gator has enough sense not to bark out a nervous laugh at the century’s greatest understatement.

Clenching his fingers around the handle, he carefully plops the saucepan down near the back of the stove, away from the burning, red ring of heat. Excess water still dribbles in tiny rivulets down the side of the counter, but he turns his processor away from the mess by physically twisting himself around in the cramped space until he’s facing you once more, clutching his hands up to his yellow chest plate.

“You can’t be here,” you reiterate thinly, your eyes blown wide and pupils small and dark like pinprick holes, locked in his direction.

Then, with the suddenness of a bullet firing from a gun, you explode into motion.

Lurching over at the waist, you swipe your discarded crutch from the floor and begin shoving yourself gracelessly from the sofa with such fervour, Monty is momentarily struck by the ludicrous idea that you might be on your way to attack him.

“Of all the-! the stupid-!” you sputter, slamming the crutch’s rubber foot into your carpet and heaving yourself upright, wobbling across the room on an unsteady leg, “Dangerous! Irresponsible-!”

You continue hurling out adjectives and lumbering forwards, and Monty – suddenly alarmed that you’re about to topple face-first into the carpet again – kicks himself into gear. His pistons carry him across the room in a few, loping strides where he meets you at the edge of the kitchen linoleum, mindlessly throwing both of his enormous palms around your waist to steady you.

Almost at once, you latch onto him roughly, your fingertips squeaking against plastic as they attempt to gather purchase around a too-thick wrist.

“Monty!” The acrid taste of panic steadily trickles down the back of your throat. “Monty, this isn’t funny! I’m not kidding! This isn’t funny, you cannot be here!”

But Monty isn’t laughing. And although you sound borderline hysterical, there isn’t a trace of humour in your expression either. Maybe you hope it's a practical joke, or that you're seeing things. Anything except for the gargantuan reality peering down at you from behind star-shaped sunglasses.

“I know,” is all the gator can muster up as a reply. Because he does know. He can’t be here.

And yet, he is.

“Then what-” you snap, “-the fuck are you doing here!?” It’s the first time you’ve really raised your voice at him, and there’s a sharpness to it that tucks the animatronic’s snout down towards his chest, rendered contrite in the face of your reprimand. Something deep in his subroutine starts to hum, discontented. Perhaps it’s the fact that the shoe is on the other foot now, and this time, he’s the one on the receiving end of someone else’s anger.

Another tear spills over to clump your eyelashes together.

Whirring loudly behind his glasses, Monty’s optics track its path over the swell of your cheek, and again, he creaks his jaw open, hoping something more substantial than his previous answer will miraculously come to him. As it is, he merely utters a soft, “I… don’t know.”

Evidently however, that had been the wrong thing to say.

For several seconds, your mouth flaps open and closed in disbelief before your face screws up into a tight ball of incredulousness and you manage to shrilly proclaim, “What do you mean you don’t know!?”

You snatch your hand away from his wrist to rake trembling fingers through your hair, digging into your scalp with the tips of blunted nails. “Oh god, oh god… This is bad, this is bad! You’re…”

Trailing off, you lean away from the animatronic, shoving a palm against his solid chest and giving your head a harsh shake, as if you might somehow throw the whole situation from your mind. Even as you pull away, his hands retain their firm point of contact on your sides.

After a beat of silence, you go still once more, blinking up at the gator and confirming that, no, you aren’t imagining the hulking, green goliath towering over you, looking far too large to occupy the space between your ceiling and floor. “Monty, for god’s sake,” you say through gritted teeth, “You’re in my flat!”

“I.. I know this looks bad-” he tries, removing a hand from your waist, palm tipped towards you in a placating gesture, “But, it’s okay-“

“- In what universe is this okay!?” you fret, batting at the massive paw that stretches towards you, “Monty! You’re outside the Plex! If you’re caught, they’ll-! Christ! You could be decommissioned! Is that what you want?!”

“I wanted to make sure you got home,” he emphasises.

“You can’t do that though!” you almost wail at him, shaking your fists beseechingly as if to beg him to comprehend your desperation, “You understand why you can’t do that, right?!”

“I was just-!” There’s a sudden buzz of static as he cuts off his own voice box, rendering the end of his sentence effectively unspoken.

But he ought to have known you aren’t about to let him get away with silence, not when you’re so clearly distraught and prying for answers.

“What, Monty?!” you exclaim, pinning him with your glare like a butterfly to a corkboard, “You were just what?!”

The gator’s jaw works mechanically, grinding the gears on their pivots as he clenches and unclenches it. He’s unwilling to give up the vulnerable words that have lodged themselves in his voice box, words that seem far too soft coming from the mouth of an animatronic with an unmalleable frame.

The only sound to break the silence is the steady ‘drip,’ ‘drip,’ ‘drip,’ of your leaky faucet.

“Montgomery,” you snap when his silence starts to overstay its welcome.

And the gator, despite his best efforts, flinches.

Plastic eyebrows slot together with an audible ‘clack’ as Monty lowers his optics to the carpet at your feet…

You’ve fallen back on his show title.

It’s a… rather decisive step away from the nickname he asked you to call him. The chasm that stood between you and the gator was wide when you set foot his green room not so long ago, yet in spite of first impressions, that gap has slowly been closing up over the last few days.

But now? Calling him ‘Montgomery,’ and in so terse a tone feels too much like the rift has just inched a few notches wider again.

Perhaps it’s that solemn, borderline desperate urge to regain what precious ground he’s lost that drives him to finally lift his gaze from the carpet and aim it somewhere near your glistening eyes instead.

“Just… tryin’a do what you did for me…” he utters.

Your face immediately untwists, brows launching up your forehead as everything about you opens up in clear surprise.

Whatever excuse you’d been imagining, he hadn’t provided it.

“What?” The question squeezes out of your throat, rasping and tight.

Hiking up the volume in his voice box, Monty retorts, “You came to make sure I was okay at the Plex. I-I’m just… doin’ the same thing!”

Sputtering around half-formed words for a several seconds, you finally manage to exclaim, “There is an astronomical difference between a human going to their place of work, and an animatronic up and leaving the place they were built, Montgomery, you can’t even try to pretend there isn’t!”

You’re well aware that comparing your autonomy to his own is a little below the belt, but the truth, whilst certainly ugly, is still the truth.

“Andy can tear me a new one for not going home after surgery,” you continue frantically, “But that’s nothing compared to what Faz Co. will do to you if they find out you’ve gone awol! And that’s not even the half of it! I mean - What if you run out of charge!? Or – or!”

As you steadily approach the line between distraught and thoroughly panicked, your voice begins to rise, cracking at the apex of your sentence, hypotheticals darting relentlessly through your head.

“What if someone saw you!? How did you even get here! Oh, fuck, Management’ll scrap you for spare parts, or - Damnit, Monty!” you blurt, ducking your head to try and meet his downcast optics, “Are you evening listening to me!?”

He is listening, as a matter of fact, quite intently. Though his visual feed may not be focused on you, the gator is hanging on your every word. But it isn’t the realisation he could be decommissioned that’s caught his attention. He already knows that the outcomes you’ve just listed are very real possibilities, should his little escapade ever be discovered.

No, instead, it’s the clear and undeniable fear laid thickly in your voice that grinds his processor to a halt. It sits on your tongue like a glaze, shining brightly for him to pick up on, and wonder how he missed it in the first place.

This isn’t anger.

This is something else dressed up to look like anger, and the tragedy is, it’s a disguise he knows all-too well, so well, in fact, that he should have recognised you’d donned it the moment you opened your mouth to speak.

You’re afraid.

If animatronics were built to house spirits, Monty’s would be tentatively lifting their heads. However, the revelation that perhaps he hasn’t driven off his best and only friend is cut woefully short when all of a sudden, his audio receptors give a ping, alerting him to new input approaching from a nearby source.

Without warning, the gator’s head snaps towards the door of your flat, mechanical clicks filling the unexpected silence as his optics adjust to the change in distance.

Footsteps… heavy and unhurried, slowing as they draw nearer to your door…

“Monty?” you hiss, distractedly following the line drawn by his glare, “Don’t try and-“

‘Knock.’

Three deliberate raps on your front door cause any further arguments to shrivel up and die at the back of your throat. You stop breathing altogether, and every noise suddenly seems too loud in the ensuing silence.

‘Who the Hell-?’ you wonder, dumbfounded, ‘-It’s the middle of the night!?’

No sooner has the thought occurred to you than a finger of ice-cold dread drags a chilly path up the notches on your spine, right to the fine hairs prickling at the nape of your neck.

Like a jackhammer, your heart rams itself up against your sternum over and over again.

‘He couldn’t have… Shit. Could he? But... How?’

“Y/n?”

You’re too slow to clamp your mouth shut around a gasp when you hear the voice, muffled but undeniably masculine, calling out from the other side of the door. Monty’s silicone lips ripple apart, though he at least has the forethought not to push an audible growl through his speakers.

The voice, however, doesn’t sound as though it belongs to the… the person you thought it might have belonged to.

You can’t place it straight away. You’re only sure that you know it from somewhere, but with several centimetres of wood standing between you and it, details are distorted and difficult to pinpoint.

Another knock startles you again, even more-so when it’s followed by, “Are you in there?”

A pregnant pause stretches until your teeth start to ache from keeping them pressed together so firmly.

And then, the words you thought you’d never have to hear again filter through the cracks beneath the door. “I thought I heard shouting.”

There’s an instinct that rises from buried depths at the utterance, instincts you thought you’d put to bed long ago.

It's as though someone has lit a fire under your feet. Mechanically, you twist around towards the sofa, your eyes locking onto the remote controls sitting on its arm rest. Limping up to them with stilted, frenetic movements, you snatch them up and aim them at the television, jamming your thumb into the ‘on’ button with far more force than necessary. Plastic creaks beneath your fingertips.

Seconds later, the screen flickers to life, landing on a film you don’t bother to try and recognise. Hiking up the volume until the tinny sound kicks out of the speakers and fills your meagre living space, you toss the remote back onto the sofa cushions and make your way arduously to the door.

Yet another knock indicates that your late-night visitor is persistent, you’ll give him that.

Several steps from the entrance, your progress is stopped by a sudden wall of green stepping in front of you, blocking your path forward.

“Move,” you rasp through gritted teeth, too quiet to be heard over the television as you smack at the gator’s tail that’s trying to curl around your thighs.

Monty’s head swivels around to frown at you. The purple casings surrounding his optics slide half-closed to give you the impression of a beseeching look.

You wonder if he knows who’s at the door.

“Hello? Y/n?” the stranger calls again.

“I - just a second,” you blurt out, ignoring Monty’s grimace as you bully your way past him, using your crutch to keep him from stepping around you lest he risk tripping you over, “Sorry, I’m... still getting the hang of these crutches.”

You have half a mind to demand to know who the Hell would have the unmitigated audacity to come around and knock on your door at this time of night.

Behind you, Monty’s claws try to hook into the back of your shirt, but the fear of accidentally tearing anything you own keeps him from holding on with any real purpose. As such, it’s only too easy to slip out of his grasp and press your eye up to the peep hole, the blood in your ears rushing to a watery crescendo.

A distorted yet familiar face peers back at you through the glass, sweat glistening off a ruddy forehead that shines under the overhead lights.

“Mick!?” you burst out.

What in the name of God...

Whirling around to face Monty, you throw an arm out, gesturing wildly towards your bedroom door.

The gator’s jaws are clenched tightly enough that you suspect if you were to toss a lump of coal between his teeth, he’d spit out a diamond, and while his tail twitches back and forth in clear agitation, he doesn’t otherwise move.

“Ah, you are there,” your not-so-mysterious visitor exclaims, “Mind opening the door?”

Yes, you mind! You mind very much! What is he doing here!?

Unless…

Your head turns slowly over a shoulder to gape unblinkingly at the animatronic looming close behind you. Your eyes find his, your stomach clenches…

“Hello?”

“Uh, just… hang on a second!” you stall, fumbling and fiddling with the metal latch, pretending to fight with it whilst you cast another, desperate look back at the gator. “Damn lock is always getting stuck.”

The moment his optics catch your eye again, you mouth, ‘Please’, jerking your chin at your bedroom door, ‘Please. Hide.’

Ever so slowly, Monty blinks, taking in the harsh lines that cut crevices down the centre of your forehead, right between your furrowed brows. And just like that, the corners of his snarl start to fall, and the apertures of his pupils expand to hide blazing, crimson LEDs.

A thousand calculations run through his processor at once, all of them pertaining to the risk of leaving you to face Mick by yourself. His programming shrieks in defiance as he takes a reluctant step backwards, being light as he can on cumbersome actuators.

He should stay… Neither of you know why Mick is here, though he can hazard several guesses.

You’re afraid, you’re vulnerable… You need him.

But probability reminds him that perhaps the situation isn’t so dire. He's sure he hadn’t been spotted on his way here, and if he was, why would Faz Co. send Mick – of all humans - out for retrieval?

What if the man's being here is merely down to chance?

If that's the case, then should he catch you with one of the Glamrocks in your home, the repercussions will be far worse than whatever Monty fears could happen by leaving you to deal with the situation alone…

So, driven back by the urgent glimmer of tears shining over your sclera, Montgomery Gator begrudgingly makes a decision that goes against his very programming. He retreats from the room, slinking backwards as silently as a two-tonne bot can through the door and into what he can only assume must be your personal recharging station.

All the while, you watch him over the threshold, waiting until the gator’s hefty bulk disappears into the darkness of the room beyond. Even still, you wait for him to push your door shut with an undetectable 'thud' before you finally wrench the lock on your own door free and tug the whole thing open, remembering to plaster a tentative smile on your face just in the nick of time.

“Mr Matthews,” you grind out sweetly, praying that the television in the background covers your stumbling addition of, “What a… a nice surprise!”

The man on the other side of the door straightens his posture at once. It doesn’t escape your notice that he’s keeping one arm behind his back as he too slaps a grin on his face, though you imagine his is slightly more authentic than your own.

“Y/n, my dear,” he returns, revealing his hidden appendage and, to your surprise – and confusion - producing a fistful of limp, strikingly dark dahlias, the kind you might pull off the bargain shelf at your nearby petrol station.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be awake,” Mick continues, edging towards you until the toe of his winter boot pokes over the threshold, “But I was in the area and thought I’d stop by to see how you were doing.”

With the flowers practically shoved under your nose, you try to surreptitiously lean backwards, putting your weight on the crutch as you reply, “O-oh, that’s, ah, very kind of you…”

Can he hear your pulse thundering? Oh god, can he see the dilation of your pupils? Does he know who you have hidden in your bedroom? He must… He has to. Why else would he be here?

Almost running on autopilot now, you continue, “You didn’t need to come all this way though. Um…” Trailing off to bite at the inside of your cheek, you hedge, “I didn’t realise you knew where to find me.”

To anyone with even a modicum of self-awareness, the statement is poised as a direct question, in expectation of an answer. ‘How did you know where I live?’ is being broadcast from every facet of your voice and expression.

But Mick, clueless or perhaps deliberately obtuse, merely lowers the flowers an inch and replies, “Oh, you’ve mentioned it to me a few times now.”

… Have you? It’s… entirely possible, you suppose. After all, you talk about a lot of things at work, and subsequently, you forget about a lot of things too. But who would remember all the small talk you make with co-workers, or the unimportant comments you toss out while you’re responding to ‘check-ups’ from management?

Your home address however… It took you a long time to even tell Andy where it was, in case of emergencies… You can’t imagine it’s something you let slip without noticing.

But… Mick is here…

So how else?

Shoving down the frustration at yourself for being careless, you clear your throat and nod at the flowers. “And, can I presume those are for…“

Mick jumps, staring down at the dahlias clutched in his fist as if he’s only just remembered they’re there. “Oh, yes of course they’re for you!” he proclaims, “Of course, of course. Only courteous to give flowers to people in need of healing, no?”

You blink at him mutely, pretending not to notice the excess oil he’s slicked into his hair tonight.

Is that why he’s here? To bring you flowers? Is that all?

Part of you wants to slump with relief. Another part however, older, wiser and sadder, remains cautious.

“Well, again, that’s really kind of you,” you tell him, reaching out to take the flowers from his hand. The stems seem to breathe elated sighs as he relinquishes his iron-clad grip. “I’ll have to find a vase for these…”

You’re not sure you even own a vase…

“Naturally,” he replies, peering over your shoulder to quirk a brow at the television blaring behind you, “Ah. Movie night?”

“Hmm?” Following his gaze, you rush out, “Oh yeah, I figured… since I’m off tomorrow and the foreseeable future, a little late night wouldn’t kill me…”

Would it be rude to ask your senior why he’s bringing you flowers at this time of night? Maybe you can tell him you were just about to turn off the TV and go to bed?

As you deliberate how best to tell the man on your doorstep to make himself scarce, he surprises you by abruptly asking, “May I come in?”

‘No!’ your own voice screams at you from inside your head, ‘Just say no!’

“I’m not sure that’s-“ you begin tactfully, but Mick is already bustling forwards, crowding you until you take a slight step to one side. After that, well… You’ve given him an inch, he’ll take a mile, as it were.

Once he has a literal foot in the door, Mick sweeps past you, moving breezily into your living area and roving his gaze all over the room, hands planted on his hips. “Goodness,” he remarks, cocking his head at your bare walls and sparse décor, “You don’t get much on a cleaner’s salary, do you? You haven’t put that… ahem, bonus to good use yet?”

You want to bristle like a cat that’s been kicked.

Mick’s jab is unmistakable, but his awareness of his own civility is not.

Swallowing back a retort, you simply murmur, “Hadn’t gotten around to it yet. I’ll go and put these in some water.” Truthfully, you’re still reeling from the fact he’d just invited himself inside.

Hobbling towards the sink, you delicately lay the flowers in the washing-up bowl and turn on the tap. An angry ring of red light catches the edge of your vision, and you glance over at the stove-top, clicking your tongue as you reach over and turn the cooker’s dial to the ‘off’ position.

Teeth find the inside of your cheek and bite down on the fleshy wall, worrying at it while you wait for the bowl to cover half of the flowers’ stems.

‘Monty knows better than to give himself away,’ you assure yourself, trying to pretend you can’t feel those eyes prickling at the back of your neck, ‘And it’s getting late. Mick’ll want to get home soon. This isn’t anything other than a concerned manager delivering well-wishes to a member of the staff.’

‘There’s a guest in the house,’ a voice that isn’t entirely your own pops up, unbidden, ‘Offer him a drink.’

“Can I get you anything?” you blurt out, turning off the dripping tap and swivelling about to face Mick, “Coffee? Tea?”

The man throws you a look, barking out a laugh. “My word, someone’s got you well-trained,” he chortles.

The moisture dries up in your mouth. He likely assumes he’s referring to your upbringing, or maybe your schooling, but his statement hits far too close to home and sends phantom prangs of alarm through your brain, fizzing like electricity.

But just as your head starts to feel light…

“No, nothing for me,” he sighs, entirely oblivious to the cracks forming in your outer veneer as he nods pointedly at your television, “Although, uh, TV’s a little loud, no?”

“O-oh, yes,” you give a start, wobbling past him, “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company.” That one was a little barbed, but you think it’s more than justified, given the circumstances.

Making your way to the sofa again, you reach for the controls, intent on swiping them off the cushions, but you freeze in your tracks when your eyes land on the overturned coffee table to your left. The coffee table Monty had knocked aside in his haste to get at you after you collapsed…

Behind you, Mick of course, has already seen it.

“Doing some redecorating?” he comments.

Thinking on your feet, you resume your task of picking up the remote and turning the television off, plunging the room into an uncomfortable silence once more. “No, just… had to move it earlier to do some exercises the physician recommended.”

Mick ‘ah’s’ in apparent understanding whilst you elect to deliberately leave the table where it is, tipped on its side.

“You wouldn’t believe how much space it takes just to do some stretches,” you add, “I haven’t gotten around to moving it back.”

You make a concerted effort to keep your eyes from drifting towards your bedroom door, painfully conscious that the gator must be standing just on the other side, head pressed to the wood to follow the flow of conversation.

“Mm, I can imagine,” Mick grunts noncommittally, and as you return your attention to him, you’re just in time to see him helping himself to a seat on your sofa, breathing out a long, languid sigh as he glances up at you, ruddy cheeks pushing out in a smile. “Come, sit!” he insists abruptly, as if it isn’t your sofa that he’s inviting you to. “Rest that leg of yours, you must be tired.”

If only he knew how terribly his suggestion puts your back up and sends your pulse skyrocketing.

All of a sudden, from the direction of your bedroom door, there comes a soft, nearly inaudible scraping sound, not unlike claws dragging across wood.

To your horror, Mick’s head starts turning towards the noise, but quick as a flash, you draw his focus by stretching your jaws into a wide, obnoxious yawn and settling down on the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a respectable distance between you both.

Covering your mouth with a palm, you loudly proclaim, “Oh! Oh, excuse me. I suppose I have got one foot in bed already.”

You try for light-hearted, miss and land on uncomfortable instead. But if Mick gets the hint, he doesn’t outwardly acknowledge it, merely hums and pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of his shirt, daubing at a glistening temple.

As you perch awkwardly on the edge of the seat, you keep a firm grip on your crutch and make every conceivable effort to avoid casting any wayward glances at your bedroom door. If there’s even the slightest chance that Mick isn’t here because of Monty, then you aren’t keen on blowing your cover.

“So,” the man next to you starts conversationally, clapping his hands down on his knees, “You’re holding up all right, then?”

Shrugging a shoulder, you reply, “As well as I can be, all things considered.”

Mick purses his lips, head bobbing sympathetically. “Mm, I’m sure that’s the case,” he admits, “Bad business, that attack in the tunnels. Very bad business…”

Bad business, or bad for business, you wonder.

And talk about an understatement. You have to sternly remind yourself not to scoff.

His mention of the ‘incident’ however does raise a certain flag at the back of your mind as it occurs to you for the first time that Faz Co. wouldn’t be above sending someone to make sure you’re sticking by the non-disclosure agreement. You wouldn’t put it past them…

Is that why Mick is here? Second guessing yourself for the umpteenth time, you take a deep breath and gently try to steer the conversation towards something of real substance. “I… signed the exec’s paperwork, by the way… So, you don’t need to worry. The matter’s done with, so far as I’m concerned.”

The fact that you now have enough money to start looking for a nicer place to live is certainly motive enough to keep idle gossip to yourself.

In response, Mick only tips his head back and barks out a laugh, “Of course you did,” he chuckles, shaking his head at you, beaming, “You’re a damn good woman. You work hard, you keep your head down. You do your job, and you do it well. You’re loyal…”

Trailing off, he twists himself about at the torso to face you, the smile sloughing off his face as he adds, “Loyal enough that you’d come to the Plex the day after you were carted away in an ambulance.”

With gradual unease, your fingertips curl into the sofa cushions.

Whatever expression you pull must be dire indeed because Mick immediately drops his serious façade and lets out a chortle, leaning across the sofa to give your knee a pat just a few inches from the top of the cast, apparently too amused to notice that you blanch.

“Now then, no need to look so spooked,” he tells you, “I’m not here to lecture you about what you should and shouldn’t be doing following a major incident. I just thought I’d mention that I saw you today-“

You can barely focus on his voice. He’s allowed his clammy palm to lay like a lead weight upon your knee. It’s still there. Why is it still there? The temptation to kick your leg out as if to shoo away a bothersome fly is awfully prevalent.

“I must say,” he carries on, oblivious to the way your gaze drills into the back of his hand, “I was impressed by your dedication to the company. I’d have come over to say ‘hello,’ but…”

Breaking off to torture you with a pregnant pause, the man’s jovial expression collapses, turning sour. “Well…” He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “Then I saw you were with the gator.”

Right there on the sofa, your heart seizes up.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with that gator recently.”

‘He knows,’ you fret, flicking a frantic look at the door to your bedroom. The evidence is stacking up against you. Why turn up now, and why mention Monty at all?

Fingers trembling, you start the process of falling apart right next to him, debating whether or not to just get it over with and come clean when he suddenly furrows his brows at you and – at long last – draws back, retrieving his hand from your leg. “You need to watch yourself around that bot. You hear me?”

Relief and shock war for control for several seconds as you gape at him, only remembering to snap your jaw shut once you realise it’s been hanging awkwardly ajar for far too long. Swallowing thickly, you try to smooth down your bristling nerves and stammer out a clumsy, “I-I’m sorry?”

“I’m not the only one who’s noticed, you know,” Mick surges ahead as if you hadn’t spoken, “Most of the staff are starting to talk. A lot of the guests too. And now there’s that video going around…”

Your eyes are starting to ache with the effort of keeping them affixed to the manager, not your bedroom door.

“It’s no secret that it’s taken a real liking to you,” he grunts, “And the way I see it, that puts you at the most risk.”

Suddenly, you find it much easier to pay attention. Several, rapid blinks put Mick at the centre of your focus as you politely admit, “I’m sorry, I… I don’t follow.”

The look he gives you is decidedly pitying. Heaving a slow sigh through his nose, he roves his gaze up towards your ceiling as if he means to pluck the right words out of thin air. “Listen,” he begins patiently, like a teacher trying to explain something basic to their struggling student, “Bots don’t just… change like Monty has. I mean, what’s it been? Less than a week? And it’s gone from causing countless incidents of property damage and snapping at every staff member it sees to carrying one across the plex?”

He puffs out a derisive scoff and shakes his head, lips pursed. Then, leaning forward, he links his fingers together and props both elbows on top of his knees, glowering hard at the blank television screen. “I’m not buying it,” he utters darkly, “Sooner or later, its old ways will start kicking in again, and when they do, who’s the person directly in the firing line?”

Peeling one hand away from the other, he curls it into a fist, extends his forefinger, and aims it right between your eyes.

There’s something so inherently disconcerting about the action alone that you physically draw back from the man on the sofa, leaning away and eyeing his hand as though you’re staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. But at the forefront of your mind – and a sudden source of great contention - is his implication that Monty is any kind of threat to you. Perhaps you wouldn’t be feeling a thrum of defensive indignation if the gator himself hadn’t been in the other room, no doubt able to hear every word Mick is saying about him. As it is, your chest starts to buzz with the desire to correct the man’s assumptions.

Peeling a dry tongue from the roof of your mouth, you slowly press out, “With all due respect, Sir-“

“-It’s Mick, doll. Just Mick.”

You try not to pull a face at his interruption. “Mick,” you start again, “With all due respect, I think that’s a bit unfair to Monty…”

At once, surprise opens his expression, smoothing the wrinkles between his brows as they go shooting up his forehead instead.

“Unfair?” he deadpans.

“I just mean that he’s been trying very hard to do things right lately, and we shouldn’t dismiss that just because he's had a few bad days, right?” Instances of breaking into your apartment notwithstanding. “Christ, Mick, he saved my life from that en-“

Mick’s beady eyes narrow at you.

Clearing your throat, you carefully amend, “… from that intruder.”

For several seconds, you watch on as the man’s face twists up once again into a frown, and he purses his lips at you, exhaling roughly through his nose. Leaning sideways across the sofa, he puts himself close to you and raises a finger into the air, wagging it at you in a manner that you really don’t care for.

“One example of the ‘correct’ behaviour doesn’t negate all the harm that bot has otherwise done,” he tells you firmly, “To the brand, to the plex…” Trailing off, his eyes gloss over as they drift to the back of his hand, staring at something you can’t see. After a moment, he quietly adds, “To me.”

Glancing sideways to find you fixing him with a strange look, he pushes out a cough. “A-And it certainly doesn’t prove that it’s safe. Never trust a dog that’s bitten once not to bite again.”

“Monty’s not a dog,” you point out, your brows set in a stern, unyielding line.

“No,” Mick agrees sharply, “It’s a two-tonne animatronic with a history of violence and a penchant for causing trouble wherever it goes.”

All at once, you bridle, clenching your fist around the crutch. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re in your own home that gives you a shot of courage straight through the chest. If Mick had confronted you with these accusations at work, you can’t deny you might have been a little more hesitant to retaliate. As it is, he came into your flat uninvited, he sat on your sofa and started bad-mouthing your friend…

“Now hang on a moment, that’s just plain wrong,” you retort, “Monty hasn’t caused any trouble for me, and in fact, he’s gone out of his way to help me these past few days – quite a lot, actually.”

Somehow, Mick’s brows travel even further north towards his slicked-back hairline. He blinks, surprised, either because of your sudden and admittedly barbed defence of a bot you’ve only known for a few days, or because he hadn’t expected you to show him your backbone at all.

You quiver angrily on the opposite side of the sofa, heavy eyelids protesting the late hour whilst Mick blows a noisy breath through pursed lips, regarding you with newfound interest.

“Now then, there’s no need to get yourself all worked up,” he soothes cloyingly, “I didn’t come all this way to upset you.”

The willpower it requires not to bark ‘I am not upset!’ is tremendous, even more so to fake an apologetic smile and reply, “Of course you didn’t. Sorry, it’s just been a long day.” And getting longer with every second Mick sits there, behaving as though he’s done nothing untoward simply by being here.

“I’m sure it has,” he remarks.

And then… something happens. Something that sets the synapses in your brain firing off alarm bells left right and centre, paralysing you in your seat.

Without a word to announce his intentions, Mick shuffles himself along the sofa cushions towards you, closing the very deliberate gap you’d wedged between the pair of you minutes ago.

“If I’m being perfectly honest with you,” he begins in a low murmur, and you wish he wouldn’t be honest at all if that’s how he intends to speak, “I’m sorry I ever sent you into that damnable gator’s room in the first place. I mean, granted you’ve saved the company thousands in repairs since then… But… Ah, forgive me, perhaps this is unprofessional but…”

His already soft voice dies to absolute silence as he stretches his hand across the distance between you and sets it down on your leg once more, just above your knee - nowhere an uninvited hand ought to have any business treading.

You can’t tear your eyes off it. All the moisture in your throat has dried up, all the breath in your lungs stays trapped.

You’re not angry anymore.

“I simply wouldn’t forgive myself if that gator hurt you, you know,” his voice sounds muffled, half-drowned out under the blood rushing in your ears, “I’m only looking out for you.”

You’re scared.

He’s sitting close, too close, close enough that the smell of smoky cologne is suddenly clogging up your airways and sticking to the back of your throat when you inhale.

“Can you blame me for worrying though?” he asks, rubbing his hand up an inch as if he’s testing the waters. Sadly, your limits have been pushed before, further and further each time until the bad things just became mildly uncomfortable things, and the really dreadful things were simply better to ignore.

“You really are a very good worker. But that animatronic isn’t safe.”

Your breath catches in your gullet when you swallow, and even now, after all your experience and the hurdles you’ve cleared, you start to doubt yourself. Perhaps Mick really is just concerned. He certainly sounds it. You could be finding horror in something entirely benign. He’s a manager, he knows better.

He’s a molehill and you’re sitting here wondering if you should make him into a mountain.

Fingers twitch against your skin and you blanch, prying your jaws apart to… what? Scream? Tell him to get his hand off you? He hasn’t technically done anything wrong. You let him inside…

All of your senses come flooding back to you suddenly as a strange sound catches your ear; a latch clicking out of place, a handle turning inwards. Ears thrumming with adrenaline, you at last manage to rip at least part of your concentration off Mick and train your hearing towards your room instead.

Luckily for you and the idiot gator trying to stealthily open your bedroom door for some, inane reason, Mick seems far too preoccupied with catching your eye to even register the noise.

He’s looking for a reaction.

The appealing idea that this might just be one big misunderstanding starts to wash away bit by bit.

You cast your mind about, mentally searching the room for something – anything to derail the direction of his goal. When that fails, you reluctantly allow your gaze to wander from your television to the front door, over to the kitchen and then down to the flowers poking over the lip of the sink…

Flowers…

A stray gear in your brain chugs to life, kicking out a single, blessed idea.

“Hah!” you wheeze out breathlessly, forcing a wobbly smile onto your reluctant mouth, “You’re starting to sound like Andy. He worries about me too.”

There. It’s only for an instant, but out of the corner of an eye, you see Mick’s expression falter. “Flowers?” he asks.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, “I’m surprised you didn’t arrive with him actually.” Feigning an expectant glance at your front door, you school curiosity onto your face and add, “You didn’t see him on your way up, did you?”

Mick’s hand starts to raise ever so slightly from your thigh, too slow for your liking, yet you grit your teeth and bear it for a while longer, like you always have.

“See him?” the man blinks, “I… no? Why would I have seen him?”

“Oh, it’s just, he texted me before you knocked on the door. Said he’d be here in another ten… fifteen minutes to drop off some stuff I left in my locker at work. I thought you might have come together.” Shrugging a shoulder as casually as you can, you quirk a brow at Mick and continue, “You really didn’t see him? Huh. I hope he’s okay. It’s not like him to be late.”

On the last word, the feeling of warm, sweaty skin pressed to your leg disappears.

Bingo.

“Well,” Mick announces brusquely, plastering a cheery grin on his face as he leans back and slaps his palms onto his knees, pushing himself off your sofa, “If Flowers is on his way, I’d better let you two have your space. Wouldn’t want to crowd you, hmm?”

Though it damn-near kills you to do so, you tilt your head and ask, “Oh, are you sure? I think he wanted to have a word with you about something.”

Mick’s face turns several shades paler than usual as he stumbles over his response. “Ah, well, I’m sure it can wait until I see him at work tomorrow.” Slipping a finger between his grey tie and the collar of his shirt, he tugs the fabric looser, taking several, hurried steps in the direction of your front door. “I’m sorry to have stopped in unannounced.”

Your smile reveals just a few too many teeth. “It’s not a problem,” you lie, using the crutch to lever yourself onto your feet, “I suppose I’ll see you at work, then?”

Mick’s backwards peddling might have been funny if you were in any mood to laugh.

“Hm? Oh, yes, yes. I’ll see you then,” he titters, “You just stay off that leg in the meantime.” His hand grasps the door handle, sliding clumsily around it for a moment as his damp palms clamber for purchase.

You heart soars when he finally manages to pull it open, only to step halfway outside and hesitate in the threshold of your home. For several, awful seconds, you stare at the back of his head, wondering if he’s changed his mind, or worse, if he’s called your bluff.

Sparing you a look over his shoulder, Mick catches your eye. “Just… remember what I told you about the gator,” he tells you suddenly, “Preferably before you decide to visit the Plex again.”

And with that, he just… leaves, disappearing out into the hallway and pulling your door shut in his wake until the latch ‘clicks’ shut.

Mouth full of cotton wool, you listen intently for the thump of dress shoes hitting carpet to peter out as Mick beats a hasty retreat down the hall. Fainter and fainter, the sound fades, until at last, you hear the far-off 'ding' of the lift doors sliding open and shut, and with a shuddering inhale, you promptly crumple forwards against the door, gasping out a wet, pitiful noise whilst you scrabble at the lock with shuddering fingers.

It’s only when the metal latch slides into place with a definitive ‘shunk,’ that the door of your bedroom bursts open.

With all the speed and unimpeded ferocity of a stampeding bull, Monty comes surging from the darkness of your bedroom, his shoulder struts reared back like a pair of snakes ready to strike.

“What’d he do to you!?” he demands, crossing towards you in just a few strides.

You spare a thought for your downstairs neighbours before you remember they’ve been on holiday since last week. And a good thing too. Each step the gator takes sends tremors through the floor below your bare feet.

Monty’s sensors – by now so well-tuned to your vitals – had been going haywire behind the door, picking up on your thundering pulse and the steady uptick in your cortisol levels. He’d had to stand there, helpless but to listen as Mick spewed his rhetoric into your ear, and Monty hadn’t been able to defend himself or refute the man’s claims at all. But you-!

Wonderful, righteous, amicable you... You had! Monty's systems were thrumming, thoroughly cowed to hear you come to his defence, which made it only more difficult not to burst into the room and sweep you away from Mick when the man all but purred reassurances at you.

But worse, perhaps, was the gator’s inability to see what was happening on the other side of the door. Mick’s verbal blows against Monty’s behaviour couldn’t have been the catalyst for your climbing heartrate, though some small, selfish code in the animatronic hopes you felt at least a little indignation on his behalf.

No… Something else occurred here tonight. Something Monty wasn’t privy to, but wishes he was, if only to settle the ire broiling in his circuits.

You have your back to him, and your forehead pressed against the solid wood of your front door.

He has to see your face… He has to know. He has to read your expression and see for himself that there isn’t any fear there, just exasperation or even a fiery burst of anger. Anything… Just not fear. He would take all the fear in the world from any human he meets if he would only be spared from yours.

Wrestling back the hissing lines of code that poke and prod at his temper, Monty slows to a halt as he reaches you, his apertures twitching wide then narrow again whilst they flit up and down your body in search of damage.

“Hey,” he calls, sliding a single, clawed hand around your bicep, “You hear me? What’d he-?”

If he’d have just known… If he’d have hazarded a guess as to where your mind had gone in that moment, he might have thought twice about laying his hand on you.

“DON’T-!” you yelp shrilly, whirling around to face him and thrusting your wrist against his, knocking the limb aside as if to parry a weapon instead of his arm.

Startled, the gator wrenches his appendage back, holding it above his shoulder in a display of surrender as he blinks down at you dumbly, jaw falling ajar.

And then, he sees it.

You’re staring up at him, your face drawn back, haggard and half-mad with terror, your chest heaves with the effort of taking in breaths.

He doesn’t have to perform a scan to determine what he’s been dreading. Humans have looked at him like that ever since he was first brought online. Monty’s processor thumps, dredging up a memory of Mick - younger and bolder than the man he is now – reeling away from the gator, face as pale as Moon’s and his eyes so wide the entire iris was exposed. Monty remembers the odd sensation of something soft collapsing between his teeth.

The animatronic violently purges the memory from his internal storage, though he knows it’ll still linger there somewhere, buried behind layer upon layer of firewalls until his guard is lowered once more.

All at once, he recoils like he’s been hit by a wrecking ball, staggering backwards until his tail hits the wall behind him and he’s forced to stop. Unable to retreat any further, unable to offer you any more distance, he simply stares at you from his side of the room.

It’s over… This wonderful, safe harbour he’d found in you is finally finished… You believe what Mick had said about Monty being a danger to you.

He always knew this had to end, of course. Good things can’t thrive in the vicinity of a Faz Co. animatronic. He just… didn’t think the time would come so soon.

Even still, he can’t help but cling with raw, desperate hope to you, scrabbling to keep a hold of your good graces because he’s too stubborn or too foolish to let go.

“I-I wouldn’t -“ he starts, concealing his claws with his fists and tucking them against his chest, “- I’d never… I wouldn’t hurt you. Not you, not ever. You’re…”

His voice box sputters, cutting out for a moment as he searches his bank of vocabulary for what you are.

When it finally dawns on him, his processor almost grinds to a halt.

“You’re all I got,” he confesses slowly, surprising himself with the revelation, “I don’t got nobody else…I ain’t gonna hurt you, you know that.”

You have to know that.

Please know that.

Gradually, far too gradually for the gator’s highly strung code to endure, you lower your arm too look at him, brows high on your forehead.

“Monty?” you utter quietly, sending a quick glance between the animatronic’s downcast snout and the hands he still keeps curled beneath his chest. In another blink, you realise what you’ve just insinuated through action alone.

“Oh, I… Monty – No, of course you wouldn’t. I’m so sorry, I… God.” Slouching back against the door, your head knocks against it as you drop a palm over your face. “This is such a mess.”

Lowering your palm to the door, you splay your fingers over the wood behind you, drawing in a steadying breath and trying to ground yourself to the solidity at your spine. Another breath, and you finally drop your eyes to the gator.

For the briefest moment, you consider telling him why you couldn’t bear to feel a hand on you right now.

Your mouth creaks open, the words sitting on the tip of your tongue.

But something along the vein of common sense tells you that it wouldn’t be fair to burden Monty with such knowledge.

‘Besides,’ you remind yourself, borrowing your mother’s words, ‘It’s all in the past, and least said, soonest mended.’

Morose yet resigned, you swallow back your admission.

“I’m sorry, Monty,” you offer instead, raising a hand to rub at your drooping eyelids, “I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Unconvinced, the gator curls his tail inward, eyeing your arm - the one he’d grabbed.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” The question seems to creep out of him, his volume levels set so low that you have to strain your ears to hear it.

“No,” you reassure him, dropping your hand to give him a gentle, albeit tired smile, “No, you didn’t. You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t,” he readily agrees, lifting his snout a little.

For a few seconds, the pair of you simply regard each other from opposite sides of the room, until eventually – and reluctantly – you have to let your smile fade away, replacing it with a worn, heavyhearted frown.

“That was close though,” you whisper to yourself, letting your eyes slip shut, “Shit, that was too close.”

How on Earth Mick didn’t find out about Monty’s presence here, you’ll never know.

A mechanical whir followed by a thud lets you know the gator has just edged a step closer. “Yeah, no kiddin’…” There’s a pregnant pause, and then you jump slightly, snapping your eyes open as Monty raises his voice to an indignant bark, “And just what in the heck did he think he was doing, comin’ round here in the middle of the night anyway?”

The look you shoot the gator is withering enough to have him tilting his head sideways.

“What?” he asks, apparently oblivious.

You elect to gloss over his blatant hypocrisy in favour of jabbing a finger at him, though the action lacks the same hostility it might have ten minutes ago. “You know, it wouldn’t have been ‘too close’ if you hadn’t been here in the first place.”

Perhaps recognising the rising challenge in your tone, Monty’s stance shifts as he raises up on his struts, towering so high that his mohawk almost brushes the ceiling. He peers down the length of his snout at you, the line of his brows set and rigid, half shuttering his optics.

“I ain’t sorry,” he tells you, and it’s so matter of fact that you give a hard blink, your own eyebrows springing up towards your hairline.

You’re starting to feel a little like Andy. If this is how exasperated the poor mechanic feels when you do something stupid, then you owe him several, sincere apologies.

“I… I was, though,” Monty adds suddenly, lowering his nose as if the bluster was only ever meant to be short-lived, “Before Matthews turned up. But now, I…”

For a second, he falters, then bulldozes through his hesitation with a sharp grunt and a shake of his head, meeting your gaze resolutely. “Now, I’m glad I was here.”

His optics flicker brightly, though they dart between your face and the cast on your leg at frequent intervals as though he’s uncertain of himself yet determined not to back down from his conviction.

“I ain’t stupid,“ he insists, but there’s too much fervency behind it, like you’re not the only one he’s trying to convince, “Matthews was doin’ something to you. If you hadn’t’a got rid of him, I’d’ve…“

“…What, Monty,” you sigh when it becomes clear he’s hesitating to sort through his words again, “What would you have done, short of giving us both away?”

“I’d have stopped him,” he growls, puffing out his chest and jabbing it with the sharp claw of his thumb, “I’d’ve protected you.”

Rolling your eyes, you huff, “Oh, my hero. You’d get yourself scrapped, and me arrested for kidnapping an animatronic.”

It’s disconcerting to see a bot so large and intimidating positively wilt as though your point has just heaped a very real, very tangible weight upon his shoulders.

Letting a sigh slip through your nose, you catch a loose bit of skin between your teeth, worrying at it in the tangible silence that hovers between you and the gator.

You want to be angry with him for being here. You want to tell him how foolish and misguided his programming was to convince him that he should leave the Plex to seek you out. But if there was any strength left in you after the day’s events, it’s been well and truly sapped clean out of you. In fact, ‘sapped’ is too gentle a word for it. As memories try to pile up on top of one another, it takes more effort than you’d care to admit to beat them down again, leaving you with very little residual energy to conjure any resentment for an animatronic who followed you home because he wanted to make sure you got there safely.

This behaviour is so out of character for him.

And you? Well, you’re so out of your depth. Shit, you can never tell Sun and Moon about Monty’s escape. If the daycare attendants find out that they can leave the Plex as well, you’ll be in for a whole new world of trouble.

While you slump against the door, contemplating, Monty’s large head swings to the left, his optics studying the window. He’d wrenched it open so hard the frame had torn jagged splinters from the surrounding wood. The corner of his lips turn south as he lowers his optics to the table he’d overturned. That alone had almost been enough to rouse suspicion, but you’d explained it away expertly, from what he could hear, and Mick ended up none the wiser.

It comes as no real shock to the gator that if it weren’t for your quick thinking and well-oiled responses, he’d have given himself away ten times over. He’d have given you away…

Impulsive, Freddy might call him.

Stupid, would be Roxanne’s more cutting, though no less accurate decree.

It’s never been an easy thing for Montgomery Gator to admit that he might have been wrong. Even if his protocols thrum with a newfound urge to guard a member of Fazbear Co.’s faculty, his processor knows all too well that his coming here put you at the most risk.

The gator’s tail drops to the ground with a dull ‘thunk’ of plastic and metal on the carpet. “I just wanted to do somethin’ right for once,” he utters to the stillness, his truest desire finally spoken aloud.

He doesn’t look at you this time, but his audials pick up your gentle intake of breath and wonders what happened to the animatronic who would have bitten your head off several days ago just for looking at him the wrong way.

At least if that Monty did something wrong, it was usually deliberate. Somehow, as he’s quickly coming to learn, it’s so much worse trying to do something right, and getting it wrong anyway than doing something wrong in the first place.

Hurts more, he concedes.

The gator is too busy discovering the scope of his regret to notice you push yourself off the door, leaning hard onto your crutch as you squint up at him, cocking your head to one side like he’s a puzzle you’re still figuring out. Admittedly, you absolutely are. You’re not an engineer or a programmer. You can’t begin to fathom the depths that Monty’s learning algorithms can reach.

All you can see is an animatronic condemned by those who made him, trying to be better than he’s told he is. So, while you can’t condone his being here, for his own sake, you realise that he - much like yourself - has likely had more than enough of people telling him off.

Sucking down a long, thick breath, you release it all in as weary a sigh as you’ve ever expelled.

“You’re doing fine, Monty,” you say, and it’s kinder, warmer than you’ve sounded all evening, “You’re doing just fine. I mean, this was a little…” Pausing to gesture loosely at the overturned coffee table, you let out a soft laugh and continue, “Uh, overzealous. But your heart was definitely in the right place.”

‘Your heart.’

Slowly, hesitantly, Monty’s tail lifts from the ground, rising with the edges of his crocodilian smile. You might never know how much it means to him that you don’t point out how he doesn’t technically have a heart. And it means even more to hear that you know his intentions came from a good place.

“But,” you add, inhaling, like you’re bracing yourself, “I’m still not happy you’ve put yourself in such a precarious position just to check up on me.”

Monty’s metal framework groans as he slumps again.

“Ugh. Listen to me,” you chuckle, rubbing your temple, “I’m starting to sound like Andy.” Starting forwards, you begin limping for your room, stifling a wide, clumsy yawn behind the back of your hand. “Now, I have had, like, the longest day. And I’m going to bed before I keel over.”

“…But… what about your food?” he asks, sparing a glance over at the saucepan sitting idly on the countertop. The water inside has long gone cold.

Your footsteps pause as you draw alongside him, reaching out to lay a palm on your bedroom door. “I’m not hungry,” you murmur after a second. It’s not entirely a lie. For some reason, the meagre appetite you had for cheap noodles and tea has evaporated, leaving you hollow, yes, but not nearly as hollow as you were rendered by the touch of Mick’s hand on your leg.

Giving your door a shove, you push it open and reach around the corner, sliding your fingers along the interior wall until you find the light switch, flicking it on and illuminating the bedroom with a warm, yellow glow. Monty is frowning at you, you can feel his crimson optics boring into the side of your head, but you ignore him to say, “I suggest you go back to the Plex before you run out of charge.”

You must have mistaken the gator’s earlier acquiescence for a willingness to leave.

“I got plenty of charge,” he deflects.

As it is, Monty’s optics rove over the top of your head, widening significantly behind his glasses as they land upon the contents of the room that he’d been standing in just minutes ago. He hadn’t bothered to sate his curiosity then, far more apprehensive about what was happening on the outside of the space, but now, without oppressive darkness cloaking every corner and without a potential threat to contend with, his protocols take a backseat to his inquisitiveness.

He observes closely as you shuffle into the new territory, your territory, where you immediately make a beeline for the nest – bed, his CPU corrects – that’s set against the furthest wall.

Swinging his prodigious bulk around, the animatronic trails after you, ducking underneath the doorway and raising his snout to the air.

You don’t even have to look over a shoulder to know you’re being tailed. The heavy stomps are proof enough of the gator’s proximity. “Monty, come on,” you whine, “You’ve gotta go home.”

The gator only offers a gruff hum in response, otherwise distracted by the simple yet pivotal revelation that he, for the first time, is seeing your private, recharging chamber. Immediately, he’s struck by how much more lived-in this humble space is. Out there, in your kitchenette and the adjacent living room, everything seemed so much more bland. Less you.

In here, there are pieces of you scattered into each corner of the room, from the pile of unwashed clothes sitting in a nearby chair to the row of house plants lined up like soldiers along the breadth of your windowsill.

Curious, his optics roam towards a desk in the corner, upon which sits - to his immediate intrigue – a large, square tank filled almost to the brim with crystal-clear water, and lit from above by a cool, fluorescent light bulb. He knows what it is at once, though he’s never been privy to one in person before.

At his back, you reach the bed and promptly collapse onto your rear at the edge of the mattress, dropping your crutch to the floor and listening to it land with a sharp clatter of plastic.

“Ohhh,” you groan tiredly, leaning forwards to balance your elbows on your knees and drop your face into a palm, trying in vain to rub away the bags underneath your eyes with numbing fingertips.

Your whole body aches ferociously, all stemming from the sharp twinge of your ankle that lays protected behind a thick, white cast.

Six Weeks…

Day one has been hard enough. How are you supposed to make it to day forty-two? The question remains; is it uphill from here, or down?

Glancing over a shoulder, you restrain an impromptu smile before it can spread as you spot Monty creeping up to the fish tank on your desk, his head hunched low to peer through the glass at your little corydoras sifting eagerly through the substrate in search of hidden food.

“Hey, little guys,” the animatronic murmurs, his optics casting the water in a gentle, pinkish glow.

Fish are a novelty for him. He knows of them, of course, has seen images of them depicting many various shapes, sizes, and colours. He knows they can’t survive for long outside of water, and he knows they’re covered in scales.

But to see for himself how those scales flash under his scrutinous, crimson LEDs, to watch their barbels twitch as they playfully chase one another along the floor of the tank…

There’s a strange kinship there for the creatures who share the waterways with his real-life counterparts.

He likes them, he decides. He likes that you have them. It speaks to an apparent affinity for aquatically-inclined animals…

For several moments, you merely observe the gator from your bed, wondering why he’s stalling. At least, you assume he’s stalling.

“Monty,” you yawn, pretending not to notice how his purple shoulder struts jump in response to your voice, “What are you doing?”

The gator’s head twitches towards you briefly. “M’sayin’ hi to the fish,” he states simply.

Shooting him a deadpan glare, you retort, “You know what I mean. Why are you still here? You need to get back to the Plex before you’re missed.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna miss me,” he shrugs, “Sides, I’ve still got a couple’a hours of juice left in the tank. Don’t worry.”

“But I am worried, Monty,” you squeeze out - and oh, there’s that pinch of tenderness to soften the hard, brutal metal hidden under his casing – “If I wasn’t worried about getting caught, I’d haul you back to the Plex myself… How did you get here unseen anyway?”

“Came over the rooftops,” he replies proudly, cocking his head at a fish that approaches the glass, lured by the glow of his optics.

“The rooftops!?” you sputter, “How on Earth did you get up there!?”

Flashing a cheshire grin, the gator gives the casing on his thigh two hearty slaps. “Got the best pneumatic cylinders in the business. These things’ll carry me distances you wouldn’t believe. Sometimes I use ‘em to get from one side of the catwalks to the other. This is the first time I’ve seen what they can really do.”

Collapsing backwards on top of the covers, you splay your arms out on either side of you, letting a long, appreciative whistle pass your lips. “You jumped…. All the way here?” you realise aloud.

“Beats walkin’.”

“… And you’re going to jump all the way back?”

“Can’t exactly take a cab, can I?”

You don’t respond for a long while… So long that he turns himself all the way around and rises to his feet, half expecting to find you fast asleep on the bed.

Your eyes are closed, and you’ve gone very still. Your chest rises and falls with even, steady breaths, though your legs are still dangling over the side of the mattress, toes brushing against the carpet.

Monty frowns. A hum of machinery gives him away, not so silent as he paces around the bed towards you and lowers himself down onto one knee, reaching for your legs with the intention to lift them up to the bed so you can lay flat.

His first-aid protocols are nowhere near as advanced as Freddy’s, but he’s skimmed enough medical files in the last twelve hours to know that you should keep your damaged leg elevated.

With gradual movements, the animatronic’s fingers flex and stretch for your cast. However, his purple claws barely make it within a foot of your appendage when your body goes absolutely rigid, as though you’ve turned to stone right there on the mattress.

At once, Monty stops, glancing up to see one of your eyelids crack open and swivel over to peer at him, blinking slowly in the glow cast by his optics. “What’re you doing?” you ask guardedly. Something in your voice quivers. He catches it right away.

“I… just – I was gonna put your legs on the bed,” he explains.

The clock on your bedside table ticks quietly ever onwards, and it’s only when you remember to exhale that he considers your expression for another moment and finally ducks his head, asking, “… Can I touch you?”

Stuffing your teeth into your bottom lip, you clutch a fistful of the duvet beneath you and slowly shake your head from side to side. “Not… Not yet… I’m not…”

You falter, swallowing a painful lump that sticks in your throat like guilt. Monty didn’t do anything, after all.

But for an animatronic, his response comes far too softly.

“Okay,” he nods, pulling his hands away and returning them to his lap.

And that’s… all he does for a long time.

Sniffing, you lower your gaze, tugging yourself backwards using the duvet as leverage until you can haul your heavy cast over the side and stretch your legs out towards the foot of the bed, sighing in relief.

"Better put a pillow under there," Monty pipes up, jutting his chin towards the fluffy, white cushions spread out behind you.

Clicking your tongue, you stretch behind yourself and snag the first pillow your fingers grasp, hauling it over your head and tossing it haphazardly near your leg. After taking a moment to brace yourself, you lean back on your elbows and bite your tongue to keep down a cry as you lift the leg up and onto the pillow.

Through it all, Monty says nothing further. He does stare at you though…

You’ve noticed he’s being doing that a lot lately. What was it Mick said?

‘It’s no secret that it’s taken a real liking to you.’

You don’t want to think about Mick.

Finally, when the gator’s staring starts to grow a little too… intimate, you swallow thickly and peel your lips apart to mumble, “Monty, why don’t you want to go back to the Plex?”

He perks up at his name but loses his enthusiasm as he registers the question.

“I’ll go back soon,” he grumbles.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Monty’s vents hiss as he simulates a pensive sigh - like yours - and begins folding his legs up underneath himself, his plates sliding over each other as he settles himself down onto his rear, arms draping loosely over his knees. He knows.

“Six weeks…” he mutters, cautiously lowering his long chin until it brushes the duvet cover beside you. When you don’t protest or move away, he gives his head a little more rein to droop, and the framework in his neck no longer strains to keep it aloft.

Confusion lays its mark bare across your face. “What?”

Six weeks,” he repeats, “That’s how long you’re gonna be gone for. That’s a long time to…” Static clings to his voice-box, stifling his words. With a grimace, Monty thumps a fist twice over his chest until something clicks audibly into place. Then, forcing a laugh, he falteringly adds, “S’a… long time for a bot to go without having his room cleaned, yeah?”

“You could always let the S.T.A.F.F bots help you,” you point out.

“Nah, they wouldn’t do it right.”

A weary smirk toys with the edge of your mouth as you reply, “Well, have you considered – and this might be a bit outlandish, but bear with me here – have you considered just… cleaning it yourself?”

“Course I have,” he retorts, “But… c’mon, it’d be more fun with you, wouldn’t it?”

He should have known when your smirk recedes to leave him looking at a flat, sombre line that you weren’t fooled for a moment.

“Monty… Is the truth really that embarrassing?” you pose.

‘Yes…’ he huffs wordlessly to himself, ‘It is.’

“It’s all gonna go back to the way it was before,” he mumbles into the duvet.

“What is?”

“Everythin’,” he suddenly exclaims, wrenching his head back up, “It’ll go back to how it was before you came along. You’ll be gone for six weeks! What if I start gettin’ angry again? What if I forget about what you taught me, ‘bout accidents n’ stuff?” That thought brings on another that’s even more dreadful, and he curls his hands underneath his chest, leaning into them against the side of the bed. “What if you forget about me?”

You blink at him, bewildered, studying the jarringly human behaviour he’s exhibiting, and wondering, not for the first time, if it says something about you that you see humanity in so much of what these animatronics do.

“Hey,” you offer, giving him a sympathetic smile when he slides his nose further along the duvet until it almost touches your arm. Almost. “You might be overthinking things, Monty. I’m pretty sure I could never forget you.” You laugh at that, causing him to blow a whuff of air against your forearm. “And besides,” you add, “Six weeks is… like, nothing, okay? It’ll go by faster than you think.”

Far from convinced, the gator only grumbles unintelligibly into the duvet and casts his optics to the other side of the room. The bed underneath you rumbles as the rich bass growls out of his speakers.

“Listen...” you sigh, flopping your head down onto the pillow to blink up at the ceiling overhead, “When I was younger, one of my best friends moved halfway across the world with her family.”

Immediately, the gator’s jaw clenches at the mention of your ‘best friend’ before he catches the action and berates himself for behaving like a toddler being asked to share their favourite toy.

“We haven’t seen each other for… Oh boy, ten years, maybe? I still call her sometimes… Probably not as often as I should... And you know what?”

“…What?”

You roll your head over to peer at the animatronic beside you, finding his focus has returned to your face.

Pulling your mouth into a sleepy smile, you let out a hum before murmuring, “Every time I ring, she’s always so pleased to hear from me. I bet if she were to walk through my door right now, it would be like no time had passed at all.”

Monty’s optic shutters click open and shut. “How come?” he prompts quietly.

“Well, do you think I love her any less now because I haven’t seen her for ten years?” you reply, “Friends can’t be together all the time, you know. Even if they might want to be. Life gets in the way. Families, jobs, fatigue, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t still friends. So, you don’t need to worry about not seeing me for a few weeks, okay?”

You can’t help but find this conversation very reminiscent to a similar one you had to have with Sunny after he learned you were leaving for a week of summer vacation.

“I ain’t worried,” Monty lies through his teeth, “Just wonderin’ how you’re gonna have any fun without me around.”

“Fun was not the doctor’s recommended treatment,” you yawn, letting your eyes slip shut and keeping them closed, bogged down by a cumbersome weight that’s been heaped upon your shoulders. A myriad of hurried little thoughts swirl around inside your head, too numerous to pin any single one down. Mick’s arrival and subsequent behaviour, whether you’re trying to read too much into what might have been nothing more than a friendly gesture, Monty’s escape from the Plex and the sudden responsibility you have for an animatronic you’ve barely known a week…

You just need to sleep.

‘It’ll all make sense in the morning,’ you try to tell yourself…

You’d make a shit salesperson.

For some time, the quiet gurgling of your tank's filter provides a soothing backdrop to the silence cast between you and the animatronic.

“Can I stay here?” Monty’s question breaks through the fog of flitting thoughts, his volume barely a digit away from being entirely mute, “With you? Just for a lil’ while?”

Prying your eyelids apart to blink tiredly at the gator, you let your chest fill with a slow, heavy breath, blowing it all out again through your nose.

“… Just this once,” you whisper back.

The gator’s optics brighten, then flit towards the movement of your hand on the bed.

You’ve raised your forearm, inching the appendage closer to Monty’s snout. Fingers worn dry and abrasive from chemicals and labour touch down on top of the animatronic’s nose, followed by your palm, spreading a pleasant flood of warmth down through his teeth and onto his tongue.

In response, some of Monty’s systems backfire, kicking errors codes to his HUD that tell him he’s overheating, and should release excess coolant to the affected areas. He ignores the alerts. He ignores everything. Everything that isn’t your hand is left by the wayside, forgotten in favour of soaking up a touch that he knows would never cause hurt.

Letting his optics click shut, the gator draws his silicone lips up into a lax, lazy smile.

The muffled ‘thumps’ of a heavy tail fall and rise from the carpet over and over, and Monty’s frame seems to purr as he relaxes his massive head onto your mattress, contented and committed to this spot until his battery hits zero and his limbs rust from underuse.

He knows he has to leave, but for now, just pretending… It’s the happiest he’s been in…

It’s the happiest he’s been.

“Just this once.”

#fnaf #five nights at freddys #fnaf sb #security breach #Montgomery Gator #On the ropes #Everyone is having a not okay time #Monty x reader #f!reader #fluff #angst #protectiveness #tw noncon

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awkwardauthorwrites · 1 year

Text

Do It Like A Girl

Word Count: 2k

Themes: duelling, Leander slander, pining (in that order)

Summary: Y/N takes part in Lucan’s Last Man Standing tournament

Warnings: Potential spoilers for HL. All characters 18+ and in seventh year. (ambiguous house, so feel free to pick your own)

(Edit; in typical me fashion, I forgot to add the song that I listened to on repeat while writing this. I hope you enjoy!)

Y/N squeezed through the crowd with Sebastian by her side, his hand gently gripping the back of her school robes so that he wouldn’t lose her. Considering the Crossed Wands was meant to be a secret club, the tournament that Lucan had organised this time had the largest turn out she had ever seen. Dubbed ‘The Last Man Standing’ (a name which grated Y/N just the tiniest bit), anyone could jump in and take part, with the only rule being that the winner stayed on until everyone decided they had had enough. Lucan had approached Y/N and Sebastian as soon as he had the idea, extending them an invitation to come and take part. Sebastian had nodded his head enthusiastically, but Y/N simply shrugged and said she would see how she felt on the day.

They finally made their way to the front of the group (being a seventh year had its perks) and watched through the bars that separated the clock tower from its courtyard. Leander Prewett was currently duelling a fifth year and showing no mercy as he shot a barrage of spells at the boy. The Ravenclaw could barely keep his shield charm up as Leander fired any and every spell he could think of at the younger student in an attempt to break through the hastily cast protego.

“This is brutal,” Sebastian muttered from next to her. Y/N hummed in agreement, a frown forming on her face as she watched Leander scowl and cast a particularly vicious bombarda at the Ravenclaw and finally shattered through his shield. The younger boy went flying, his wand leaving his hand, and Leander grinned and let out a victorious woop as he faced the audience that had gathered. The gate started to break open and Y/N quickly ducked underneath and made her way to the fallen student, a Wiggenweld potion in her hand as she knelt by his side.

“Are you alright?” she asked him gently, watching with a careful eye as he groaned and slowly sat up. His face flushed in embarrassment from the defeat, but he still nodded slowly and took the potion from Y/N. Lucan looked over worriedly, but Y/N gave him a thumbs up and helped the younger student stand up and walk towards the exit.

“Looks like Leander wins again!” Lucan called out. “Who wants to go next and see if they can beat him?” Y/N could see Sebastian grin wickedly and start to roll his sleeves up as he stepped forward.

“An actual challenge, please,” Leander drawled. “Not someone who fights like a girl.” Y/N shot the Gryffindor a scathing glare and was slipping her robe off before she could even process the decision.

“I’ll duel you.” Sebastian stilled in his spot, his hands still trying to roll his right sleeve up. His jaw was clenched in annoyance at Leander’s words, but the look on Y/N’s face was downright seething. He didn’t pity the man. Lucan looked at Sebastian, silently asking if he wanted to claim the spot, but he shook his head and took a step back, sticking his hands into his pockets. Leander sneered at her, twirling his wand in his hand.

“Fine. Just don’t expect me to say sorry and wipe away your tears when I beat you.”

“I would rather skin myself alive,” Y/N hissed at him. “I’m not a fifth year you can push around, Leander - let’s make this interesting. How about a wandless duel?” She held her smile back as she watched Leander’s smug attitude falter for the briefest of seconds - his wandless magic was subpar at best, despite all their professors hounding them to pick the trait up in their final year. “You can always use your wand if you feel more…comfortable?” she asked innocently. Sebastian watched from the sidelines, a large grin of pride on his face as Y/N toyed with Leander. Y/N began to roll her sleeves up the way she had seen Sebastian do, a small smirk on her face as she waited for Leander to respond. If anything, that seemed to aggravate the Gryffindor even more, and he forcefully stuck his wand in his pocket as he glared at her.

“Let’s get this over with.” Leander held his hand out of him, bracing himself to cast the first spell as the gate slid shut once more.

“With pleasure.” Y/N’s smile was near feral as she stood there, her hands casually hanging by her side. Leander cast the first spell, a poor excuse of confringo that sputtered out before it could even reach her. Y/N laughed at the shoddy cast and tilted her head to the side slightly, looking very much like a predator who was stalking their prey. “My turn.” Sebastian was too enraptured with her demeanour to focus as she (in startling quick precision) cast levioso, accio and confringo on Leander and blasted him backwards. The man barely had the chance to sit up before she was summoning him forward again and levitated him in front of her.

“Put me down!” Leander snapped, flailing his legs. Sebastian couldn’t help but laugh, along with the rest of the gathered crowd, as Y/N left him floating for a few more seconds before she cast a descendo that was so powerful Leander winced as his rear hit the ground.

“Anything that you can do, I can do better,” Y/N leaned down to hiss in his face, yanking at his tie so that he would meet her eye. “You wish you could do it like a girl.” Water appeared underneath Leander as Y/N silently cast aguamenti before freezing it over with a glacius charm. She stood up and took a step back before casting depulso without using her words, wand, or even a gesture. Leander went sliding back along the ice and crashed into the wall behind him. “Come on, Leander, do you really want to say you lost to a girl in heels?” she mocked, her shoes clicking against the stone floor as she walked towards him slowly. “I’d love to see you try to fight like a girl - to do anything like a girl.” She summoned him once more, and he flinched slightly as his knees dragged across the floor until he was kneeling in front of Y/N. “Yield.”

“Never!” He tried to stand, but Y/N managed to keep him down with an unknown spell, as she refused to say her incantations aloud.

“Yield.” She repeated, a ball of energy forming in the palm of her hand. Sebastian couldn’t tell which spell she was holding from this distance but he could see the occasional swirl of fire, as well as Leander’s terrified look.

“I yield! I yield!” He scrambled to get away from her spell and quickly got to his feet and took a couple of steps away from her. Y/N closed the palm of her hand, extinguishing the spell that had been sitting there and tilted her head to the side ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that? Did you just lose to a girl?” Her eyes flashed dangerously and she raised an eyebrow at him. “Admit that you wish you could fight like a girl, Prewett. Admit I’m better than you.”

“You’re - ” Leander grimaced as the words caught on his tongue, and Sebastian could have sworn he stopped breathing as he leaned against the bars to watch as Y/N took an intimidating step in his direction.

“I’m waiting.”

“You’re better than me!” He all but spat the words out, his face twisting in anger.

“...and?”

“And - ” he growled in frustration before giving her the deadliest glare he could muster (not that it fazed Y/N in the slightest), “and I wish I could fight like a girl.”

“Good boy.” The smile she gave Leander thrilled Sebastian down to his very core, and he was left absolutely breathless as she turned to give him a wink. “I’m pretty sure that makes me the winner, Lucan.”

“Y-yes!” Lucan swallowed heavily and looked out to the crowd. “Our new winner, Y/N Y/L/N! Does anyone want to challenge her?” The crowd was silent as the gate slowly opened and Y/N watched in amusement as a few people took a step away from her. “Sebastian?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Sebastian kept his gaze trained on Y/N as he spoke to Lucan. “I didn’t particularly like my chances against Y/N to start with, I think witnessing her brutalise Prewett may have just cemented that.” Y/N laughed quietly at his words, the anger that had been directed at Leander leaving her body as she grinned at Sebastian’s answer. “In fact, it doesn’t look like anyone fancies their odds against her. I think we’ve found your winner, Brattleby.” Y/N looked over at Lucan, her eyebrow raised in a silent question. The younger Gryffindor looked out over the crowd again before nodding slowly.

“Well, it looks like we have! Y/N Y/L/N, everyone! The first winner of our Last Man Standing tournament!” Y/N clicked her tongue in annoyance and let out a quiet sigh.

“I think it might be time to reconsider the name of your tournament, Lucan. Lest anyone else gets the same idea as Prewett and thinks that women can’t fight.”

“O-of course!” Lucan’s face flushed and with a wave of his wand the blackboard that held the name of the tournament amended itself to read ‘Last Person Standing’. Y/N nodded in approval and made her way to Lucan to collect her winnings, only partially aware of Sebastian sliding up to her, his arm pressed against her back gently.

“You’re breathtaking.”

“I know,” she smiled coyly up at him. He laughed quietly and placed a hand on her waist, tugging her towards him.

“I’m a little terrified to get on your bad side after witnessing that.”

“As you should be.” Sebastian laughed at this and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his heart pounding in his chest. “Darling, save it for when we’re in private,” Y/N teased, swatting his chest playfully. He grabbed her hand and placed a kiss on the back, barely paying attention to Lucan as he handed Y/N her winnings. She turned her attention back to Sebastian, her arms slipping over his shoulders as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, his eyes sparkling with absolute adoration for the girl in his arms.

“Like I’ve hung all the stars in the sky and you’re dying to kiss me.”

“Maybe that’s just how I always look at you and you’ve only just noticed,” Sebastian lowered his voice considerably and slowly leaned in to press his forehead against hers. “I think I fell in love with you during that duel.”

“Oh? That’s nice.” He opened his eyes (when did he close them?) to see Y/N giving him a sly smile. “You should come back with that admission when you know and we’ll see how I respond then.” She tilted her head up slowly and watched in satisfaction as Sebastian’s eyes fluttered closed again in anticipation, as his grip on her waist tightened fractionally. She pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose, a wicked grin falling on her lips as she pulled away and watched as his eyes flew open. “Shall we go to Hogsmeade? First round is on me,” she patted the pocket where she had stored her winnings and started to walk away, only stopping to pick up her discarded robe.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse as he watched the sway of her hips as she walked away.

“Probably,” she gave him a disarming smile over her shoulder and held her hand out to him. “Are you coming?” Sebastian didn’t even need to think twice before he took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together before playing a kiss on her knuckles. Merlin, the effect she had on him. He would follow her to the ends of the world if she asked.

“Lead the way, darling.”

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papiliotao · 1 year

Text

・❥・THE FIRST OF MANY YET TO COME

♡ — Reader: GN

♡ — Characters: Kazuha, Scaramouche, Xiao

♡ — Synopsis: the first "I love you"

♡ — Content: fluff, light angst(?), injuries in Xiao's, Wanderer era Scara but I'm calling him Scaramouche anyway because I can, established relationship

♡ — A/N: I can't do titles. I'm sorry. Please enjoy reading though!

Ever the poet, KAZUHA has no qualms with expressing his affections through the most flowery of words. Piles upon piles of love letters stashed away in your nightstand's drawer are a testament to his feelings for you, and by simply reading them, you can tell that whenever he is away at sea, his wandering mind can't help but drift away from reality to the thought of you.

To cope with his longing, he writes. He weaves haikus out of meticulously-chosen words, painting vivid pictures of you in all your glory, confirming that distance truly makes the heart grow fonder.

However, despite his eloquent musings to you, Kazuha has never once said the three words that you have been waiting an eternity to hear. They're not quite as grandiose as Kazuha's intricate poems, but the meaning they hold for lovers is remarkable. The words "I love you" have the power to create new universes out of nothing, to place stars in an empty sky, and to make the mundane hues of the world a little more vibrant.

And that's precisely why Kazuha has held off on uttering that simple phrase for so long. He's acutely aware of its significance, so he wants to make your first time hearing it from him special. You mean everything to him, and in his eyes, you deserve nothing less than the best he can offer.

However, as Kazuha stares out at the sunset over the sea with you by his side, those three words run rampant within the depths of his restless mind. His hand rests on top of yours as you watch the last rays of daylight paint streaks of bubblegum pink and marigold orange across the vast canvas of the sky. He feels his heart pounding as he catches a glimpse of you in the dying light of the sun. He nearly forgets how to breath. You're ethereal.

It is a magical moment spent in an irrefutably elysian place, and when Kazuha leans his head against your shoulder, he realizes that it's finally time to break the wall and speak the clause that you have been dying to hear.

He feels at ease with you. You are the one who brightens his day. You are a home for him to return to after his voyages across Teyvat. You are the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with. So with that epiphany in mind, Kazuha softly whispers your name to garner your attention. When you turn your head to glance at him, Kazuha finally allows himself to confess his sincerest sentiments.

"Forgive me for speaking these words in what seems like a moment of impulsivity," he starts, averting his gaze slightly to obscure the rosy tint dusting his cheeks, "but the truth is, I've kept them to myself for far too long." Kazuha pauses and takes a deep breath, composing himself before he utters the last of his thoughts. "You mean the world to me, dove. I love you."

Words of affection from SCARAMOUCHE are like breathtaking nights where meteor showers illuminate the skies above — rare, but they never fail to evoke a feeling of contentment within you. Scathing insults leave the tip of your lover’s sharp tongue more often than not, making affirming phrases expressing his infatuation with you feel like luxuries. You try not to take it to heart — after all, you know him well enough to see through his harsh act and realize that despite his mean attitude, Scaramouche adores you more than anyone else.

Instead of acting as though you are nothing to him like he does with the countless masses of people he views as worthless, your lover actually gives you the time of day ⁠— sharing surprisingly lighthearted conversations with you during stolen moments and seeking your company whenever he has free time. He reprimands you whenever you injure yourself or find yourself in a dangerous situation, but instead of sounding angry, the hidden breaks of his voice betray his fear.

The way Scaramouche comes back to you time and time again is enough to prove that he is deeply enamored with you. His fragile puppet heart, full of cracks and fissures, has been entrusted to you, and you have long since vowed to yourself that you will do everything in your power to protect it.

But no matter how much faith your lover places in you, he still can't seem to shake off his fear of rejection, and after all the heartbreak and abandonment he has faced throughout his life, you can't blame him. He has never spoken the words "I love you" because he is afraid of letting you in, lest you break him by leaving him all alone like everyone who has come before you.

In some ways he feels caged. He can't bring himself to stop loving you, the only one who is able to alleviate his pain and make him feel human, but he can't bring himself to directly convey his love for you out loud either. His dilemma causes a feeling of guilt to steadily build within him. He knows that the only way to free himself from his prison of illusions is to tell you what you mean to him, but he’s still not ready.

Sometimes he almost resents you for making him feel so conflicted, but now, gazing upon your sleeping form lying on the couch within the living room of your house, Scaramouche feels nothing short of pure adoration and wonder. He has been busy helping Nahida over the past few days, so he has been returning home late each night. However, you wait for him every time without fail. Scaramouche finds it almost bizarre that you’re still capable of treating him with such care and attentiveness after having to put up with his feeble displays of affection, but he’s not complaining, rather, he is touched by your willingness to stay with someone like him.

Indigo pools filled with moonlight collected straight from the tranquil atmosphere of the night scan the room for a blanket. When your lover finds what he is looking for, a quilt that appears as though it has been dipped into a pot of melted rainbows, he drapes it over over your frame. After ensuring that the icy fingers of the midnight air won’t cause you any discomfort, Scaramouche simply stares at you. His eyes soften as he leans closer toward you.

"This is absurd," he whispers to himself before placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. Is he seriously talking to you while you're asleep as if you'll hear him? Love has surely bewitched him. "But… thank you for everything. I love you."

He tests the phrase out as stars dance overhead, rejoicing his ardour-filled declaration of devotion. As he observes your sleeping face, he decides that the words just feel right when he directs them at you. Under the dim glow of the all-seeing moon, Scaramouche finally gathers up the courage speak the truth, and he hopes that perhaps one day, he will be able to tell you all that he feels under the light of the radiant sun.

Despite his blunt and cold exterior, XIAO is a fair lover. He will hear you out whenever you have something to say, and he is willing to negotiate with you if the two of you have differing views. However, there is one thing that he will never compromise on: your safety.

So when you seemingly disappear into thin air right under Xiao's nose without warning him first, he can’t help but feel uneasy. You know how much he hates not being able to protect you, so you never fail to tell him where you're going. This is entirely unlike the you that Xiao has grown to adore.

In spite of his misgivings, your lover tries his best to remain undeterred. He wants to believe in your ability to stay out of danger, and deep down, he's aware that you're not completely helpless. However, he can't quite shake the feeling of apprehension that tells him that something isn't right.

His worst fears are confirmed when he hears a desperate cry of his name rushing on the wayward wind. It's you. A shiver runs down his spine as his blood turns inexplicably cold.

You're in danger. You need him. Now.

Without hesitation, he follows the sound of your voice, which leads him to you. As he rushes to find you, adrenaline begins to course through his veins, and his troubled heart pounds frantically, threatening to leap out of his chest.

When Xiao arrives on the scene, his amber eyes widen as they lock on your form. You are slumped against a tree, panting heavily. Nothing but your laboured breathes can be heard in the empty clearing that you are sitting in. It's eerily quiet. The dissonance created by your pitiful state and the serene atmosphere feels disturbing.

Once your lover overcomes his initial shock, he wastes no time in making his way over to you. He sees the way you lift your head as you hear the sound of grass rustling under his footsteps. Xiao breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes you're lucid enough to take note of his presence.

"Why are you here?" Xiao asks you in a grating tone as his eyes scan your body. A subtle flame of poorly-concealed rage springs to life as he notices beads of crimson spilling out of a nasty gash etched across one of your legs. Torn fabric surrounding the wound is dyed shades of red by your blood. You're hurt.

"What happened?" he demands when he is met with silence.

"Ran into a ruin hunter," you tell your boyfriend between desperate gasps of air. Each ragged inhale wracks your body, and Xiao notices your eyes beginning to droop of their own volition. "I'm — I'm fine though." A frown paints itself across Xiao's face as he hears your words.

"Don't lie," he snaps, making you flinch. A small sliver of guilt lodges itself within his heart, but he does his best to ignore it. "You're injured," he says as he runs his fingers along your leg. He feels you shiver under his touch and immediately pulls back.

"Alright, I'm sorry," you manage to breath out, averting your gaze so that you're not staring straight into Xiao's honeyed irises that seem just a touch too cold at the moment. You take a second to regain your composure before speaking again. "I should have told you where I was going but," you start, hesitant to tell Xiao what you had been doing.

"But?"

"I was picking flowers for you, and I wanted to surprise you," you finish sheepishly, reluctant to admit that you had gotten yourself injured over something as trivial as preparing a gift for your lover. When you muster the courage to glance at Xiao, you notice that his eyes have widened, and they appear to be filled with glimmers of regret. "I'm sorry if I worried you."

"You did all this for me?" Xiao seems shocked, but at the same time, his gaze softens. He freezes for a second before shaking his head. "I should be the one apologizing. I wasn't here to protect you."

You offer your lover a weak smile before opening your mouth to say, "I forgive you."

Xiao breathes out a sigh of relief before carefully picking you up. A comfortable silence settles between the two of you as Xiao carries you bridal style and starts walking in the direction of Wangshu Inn. As he looks down at you in his arms, he feels words forming on the tip of his tongue. He contemplates allowing them to leave his lips, and in a moment of weakness, he gives in.

"Next time, call out my name as soon as you find yourself in danger," Xiao tells you, breaking the hush that once hung in the air. You nod as you bury your head in the crook of Xiao's neck. "I'll be there because —" Xiao hesitates. However, when he thinks back to how the greedy hands of death were a hair away from taking you away from him, he finishes his sentence.

"Because I love you."

I am definitely not biased toward anemo boys. Anyway, thank you for reading! Have a nice day :)

#r.archives *ೃ༄#kazuha x reader #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #xiao x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin fanfic #genshin imagines #genshin fluff #genshin headcanons #kazuha fluff #scaramouche fluff #xiao fluff

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bucky-bucket-barnes · 1 year

Note

Ok I have a angst requests. Unrequited love cause I like to hurt myself,but reader is the one in love with bucky. You can do a sad or happy ending its up to you

the cure

Pairings: bucky barnes x avenger!reader

Warnings: so much angst, hurt comfort, arguing, swearing, minor depictions of violence, blood, slow burn, and some fluff

Word Count: 3.7k

masterlist

Thick blood pooled in your hand, gathering like an expensive wine, traversing the lines in your palms before dripping thickly down onto the pavement below. A piece of broken glass had scathed at your hand as you were climbing out a window in an attempt to leave the building swiftly. While you should have been more concerned about the risk of tetanus or the multitude of other blood diseases you had just exposed yourself to, the thought of those didn’t trouble you much.

Bucky. He was the first thing to cross your mind. You knew he’d fuss once he saw the blood pouring out of your hand, insisting, practically begging to help. It felt awful to admit, but his attention was addicting.

He was always so much sweeter when you were hurting, so much softer. Instead of fretting over your injury, you fantasized about it. The panic that would descend in Bucky’s eyes, clouding his pupils, the tenderness in which he’d offer to wrap your hand. The maddening satisfaction that he cared about you deeply enough to worry.

It was masochistic, it was sick. Sometimes you thought you were sick. But you hadn’t gotten hurt on purpose, of course not, this was just an added benefit to the pain.

On cue, he rounded the corner, huffing out, “Alright, I got the hard drive we needed, let's head out before the cops show up.”

You didn’t respond with words, instead, you outstretched your palm toward his direction, like a beggar reaching for alms. You studied his face, nipped and bitten red by the cold night air, the way his brows furrowed at the revelation. Even in the modest light of the alleyway, you could see the concern melt into his face.

“Oh, doll, what happened?” Bucky asked softly into the night, gently taking your hand to inspect for any further damage. Sirens were nearing in the background, the breeze whispered against your skin, causing a shiver to travel down your spine.

Doll, he called me doll.

That was his pet name for you, sparsely used except on the occasion when he believed you needed an extra bit of kindness from his direction. Doll was reserved for severely scraped knees, sprained ankles, nasty bruises on the arm, and, now, for glass in your hand. Your actual name was for all other occasions, for casual conversations, late-night talks on the roof, and group settings. You hated it.

“Did you scrape anything else? Are you okay to walk?”

I could fly if you’d ask.

“Yeah, I’m good. My hand needs help though,” you answered. He tugged at his shirt sleeve, ripping off a decent chunk of fabric near his wrist.

“I don’t think anything got stuck in there, but I’ll take you to the Med Bay just to be sure.” He wrapped the blue fabric around your hand as he spoke.

Just as quickly as you had caught him, he was slipping through your fingers. He’d drop you off and in the morning he’d be normal Bucky. Not mean or cruel but something much worse; disinterested. Your attention would be thrown towards another person as you floated in the background like a forgotten shadow.

“Could you bandage it when we get home? I’m sorry, I’m just really tired.”

Bucky shot you a concerned look before studying your face more. “If that’s what you want, doll.” A weak smile cracked on his face before his face returned with worry. He went to wipe a small smudge of dried blood that clung to your forehead. Momentarily, you convinced yourself he was going to lean in for a kiss.

“Let’s get you fixed up,” he added gently, wrapping your hand before ushering you into your getaway vehicle.

Your heart tightened in your chest as your throat stung with disappointment. He would be yours for the night. You silently tried to convince yourself that this would be the last time you’d reach for his attention. This isn’t love, this is pity. He was being a good friend, a dutiful soldier.

“You’re going to worry me to death, you know that?” He glanced over as you attempted to put on your seatbelt. “Here,” he whispered, reaching across to adjust the buckle for you in fear your hand would start gushing more blood.

“Promise?” you sighed, gazing longly at his side profile as he began to drive.

“Steve’s always moving the damn rubbing alcohol,” Bucky grumbled as he dug through the kitchen’s medicine cabinet. The lights above made a low humming noise, the only sound to accompany Bucky and you.

The air felt thick as you sat patiently at the island, studying your hand in the warm light. Everyone else was either dead asleep or several states away, allowing Bucky and you to remain in the kitchen undisturbed. Alone.

He sighed triumphantly, pulling out the faded grey bottle before ushering you over to the sink, “C’mere, we need to rinse it first.”

Shuffling out of your seat, you gently spoke, “Thanks, again, I really appreciate it.” The cold floor tickled against your bare feet, causing you to shiver lightly as you moved.

“Of course, I couldn’t leave my partner high and dry.” He guided your hand under the cool running water. By now, you had stopped actively bleeding. The blood had dried, floating down in flakes of browns and reds as it swirled around the sink before falling down the drain. Your eyes remained on the faucet, trying not to catch Bucky’s gaze that was barreling into your temples.

Bucky’s hand was gently wrapped around your wrist in an attempt to control your quivering. The heat radiating from his body wasn’t enough to warm you up.“You’re shaking like a leaf, are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

Feeling your face grow warm, you cleared your throat. “I’m just cold, that’s all, Buck.” You swiftly moved your hand back to your side and silently reached to grab a paper towel. Part of you believed the longer he held onto you, the sooner he’d realize this odd game he was unknowingly partaking in.

“Here,” he said softly, wrapping his jacket around your arms. “It’s not much, but it should keep you warm until you go to bed.”

Mouthing a small thank you, you readjusted the leather around your arms. It smelled like his cologne, a warm coffee scent that lingered around all his clothing.

Standing in silence, you turned to face Bucky, who was now just inches apart from your face. His eyes began to traverse your face inquisitively, as if he was trying to find a secret tucked between your eyebrows or hiding on your cheekbones.

“Doll?” he lulled so quietly you weren’t sure if he had spoken. He reached for your hand, slowly dabbing the alcohol on your wound. He stopped for a second, eyes glancing up towards your face, waiting to see if you were flinching.

It was as if you couldn’t move. His stare alone had turned you to stone, bolting your tired feet into the tiled ground. Is he onto me? “Yes, Bucky?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it was just a scratch.”

“No, I meant is everything okay with us.”

It felt like you were swallowing rocks as your mouth ran dry. He had a disappointed glint in his eyes as he awaited your response with bated breath.

“Of course, why wouldn’t it be?” The words fell seamlessly from your mouth, almost convincing yourself for a moment. Out of all the questions he could have prompted, this wasn’t the one you were expecting to tumble out of his mouth. He mindlessly gnawed at his lower lip, unsatisfied with your answer.

Bucky slowly began to wrap a bandage around your hand. “Did I say something? For the past few weeks, I feel like you’ve been. . . distant. You don’t talk to me anymore, except on missions, and you’re quiet on those too. I thought you needed space, but now- now I’m not sure. What happened to us?”

Us, us, us, us, us, there is not us, stop saying us.

Guilt was bubbling in your mouth as you clenched your jaw. You weren’t trying to hurt his feelings, you never were.

“Life,” you shrugged. “You’ve been dating, I’ve just been more into work. We’re fine, though.” You smiled lightly, fighting back the burning shame that was rising in your throat. “I guess this is just what happens when you grow up.”

“Y/N, I haven’t made it to a second date with anyone yet, you have nothing to worry about,” he reassured, taking your uninjured hand in his. “Our friendship means a lot to me, whoever I date knows you’re part of the package.” He was smiling, sure the misunderstanding had been cleared up by now.

Your heart cracked when you heard your name. Doll was gone for the night, now in her place was what felt like a half-baked version of a person. Feelings of embarrassment and shame began flooding into your body again. This was you why didn’t say anything, held your tongue instead of telling him how you felt.

Because you weren’t the girl he’d take out on dates.

You weren’t even the girl he’d take to the movies.

No, you were who he came home to. Always waiting patiently for him to come back, like time froze when he wasn’t home. You were a stand in for whoever he’d find to take your place.

“Thanks,” you could feel your voice dangerously close to faltering as you took off his jacket, shedding it like an old skin. You briskly made your way out of the kitchen, hoping he didn’t catch the deep set frown on your lips. “Goodnight, Bucky,” you called back before making your way to your bedroom.

It was humiliating letting someone have this much power over you. Even worse, he either didn’t notice or he didn’t care.

“Goodnight,” Bucky murmured, eyes sadly gazing at the discarded jacket that now rested on the counter instead of your arms.

Snow was softly collecting on the ground outside. Lazily, you remained curled up against your window, watching as the flakes descended from the sky and onto your backyard. A warm cup of tea was curled around your hands, warming your fingertips.

Today is going to be a good day.

A whole month had flown by and you hadn’t thought of him once. Well, not for long, anyways. Bucky was off on some secret operative mission in Eastern Europe while you remained in New York. It was easy to lose track of time in your endless hours of paperwork and countless mini investigations. When you weren’t working, your time was devoted to getting lost in museums and exploring any hole in the wall restaurant you could find by yourself. If no one was going to take you on a date, you’d decided you’d take yourself.

I just needed some alone time.

A gentle knock came from your door, you remained still, sure Natasha was just checking in.

“It’s open,” you called out, still admiring the snow from the comfort of the heated indoors.

I like this version of me.

“Hey,” a familiar tone chimed out, warm and low.

Your head snapped towards his direction, eyes widened with surprise. Bucky stood just feet away, a shy smile on his face, more than the usual amount of stubble peppering his face. The air felt thick all of a sudden, the walls too close together to breathe.

“Your hair. It’s longer.” Was all you could manage to get out, gripping your cup so hard you thought it might break.

“Oh, yeah,” he responded, self consciously running his hands through his chestnut locks. “I couldn’t really cut it for a while. I just showered and shaved, but I wanted to say hi.”

“It looks good,” you reassured, a familiar feeling rising in your chest. You couldn’t smile in return, instead a hesitant look still lingering on your face.

He wasn’t supposed to be back this soon. Yes, you were glad he was home and more importantly that he came back in one piece, but you had been silently dreading his return for weeks.

Things can’t go back to how they were.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure, I was about to lie down though, I’m feeling a bit tired.”

Lie, your mind growled as he slowly walked in. He perched at the window sill besides you, gazing outside. The bright light of the snow reflected back on his features, slightly washing his face out. He was glowing.

“You look paler.”

“You’re observant today,” he chuckled, turning to look at you. You quietly told yourself you wouldn’t look back, maintaining a faux interest on the outside scenery.

A few minutes of silence passed between you two. It was peaceful and allotted your heart the chance to stop racing and the butterflies in your stomach to settle down. Sipping lightly at your tea, you could feel Bucky’s eyes back on you.

“It was kind of lonely.”

“Sorry to hear.”

“I thought about you a lot.”

You let his words hang in the air for a moment. Just a few weeks ago and you would have been vying for his attention, his secret affections he only exchanged when you were wounded. Now? You weren’t sure anymore.

“I missed you everyday,” he cooed, gently going to place his hand on top of yours.

Without thinking, you jerked yourself away, spilling the steaming peppermint tea all over your lap. A nasty hiss escaped your lips as you jumped off, praying the burning sensation would melt away as the liquid fell off your lap and onto the floor.

Bucky was immediately on his feet, snatching the cup from your grasp before it could shatter to the ground and cause further issue. A firm arm had wrapped around your waist in an attempt to keep you on your unsteady feet.

“Are you okay-”

“No!”

“Do you want me to-”

“No,” you corrected, shimmying yourself from his grasp. “No, I mean I’m done, I’m done with this.”

His feet remained planted, unsure whether you wanted him to reach out or stand down.

“You. . . you can’t keep doing this to me,” you sighed indignantly, clenching your hands in frustration, unsure where to channel your emotions.

“Doll-” He had a honey like sorrow in his voice; sweet, slow. His eyebrows turned up in confusion and hurt.

“Could you just stop! I can’t figure you out. One moment you’re sweet and telling me how much you missed me but then the next your off fucking some random girl before you come back home and play fucking nurse with me.”

Venom was lingering in your voice as you spat out your frustrations at Bucky, months of built up resentment and anger finally boiling over.

“Can we talk about this later, you just spilled boiling water all over yourself.” His calm tone only seemed to infuriate you more. He took slow steps towards you as if you’d jump out and bite his head off if he weren’t careful.

“I’m fine!” you challenged back. The adrenaline coursing through your body was enough to distract you from the burning feeling on your thighs.

“Clearly not,” he began to challenge back, exasperated. “You’re acting like I’ve just shot you, all I did was say I missed you. Is that not how you feel?”

“Get out.”

“Doll.”

“Bucky, I know you’re not dumb,” you groaned out in frustration. “I’ve liked you for months and if everyone else has picked up on it, I’m sure you have too. You don’t have to like me back, but you don’t get to go around saying ‘I missed you’ and then act like I don’t fucking exist unless I’m bleeding or burned. You’re being mean to me.”

“I can’t fucking read you at all.” It was his turn to bite back. An indignant scowl was situated on his face. “One moment you act like you can’t bandage you’re own fucking hand then you’re scurying away like some stray cat when I try to have a conversation. When you act like you want space, people usually try to give it to you, Y/N. I don’t think you even know how you feel.”

“I know you only give a fuck about me when I put on some stupid damsel in distress act. Do you know how that feels?”

“And you only act like you’re not scared of me when you want attention. And I’m a fool enough to give it everytime. Do you know how that feels?”

He shot your own words back at you in a way that was so uniquely painful, you both stood there in silence, taking shallow breaths in after your screaming match.

“Is that how you feel?” you asked matter-of-factly, voice steady.

“I’m sorry-”

“That’s not an answer,” you said softly, the anger withering from your voice and replacing itself with an old fatigue.

“Sometimes, yeah.” Bucky matched your low volume. It took everything he had in him to not step forward and pull you in a tight embrace, whispering sorry until his voice went hoarse. “I’m used to people being frightened. It hurts when you do it, though.”

“Your hookups don’t seem to be afraid.” You internally winced, wishing you would’ve phrased that better.

“They’re not you.”

“If you like me so much, why not ask me out?”

Bucky took a moment to glance you over, tracing your outline with his eyes. You were inches away and he still felt like he missed you.

“I have problems and three lifetimes worth of baggage. I don’t want you to get hurt. You’re more than just collateral damage.”

“We’ll hurt each other eventually. That’s life.”

“I don’t want to hurt you at all.”

“Bucky,” you began to fiddle with your hands, hoping to avoid his eyes. “Maybe we should give each other some space.”

“But,” he desperately reached out for you, cupping your face lightly, anguished in his eyes, “I like you.”

“But you don’t want to be with me. Liking me isn’t enough.” You were looking up at him, an injured look on your face. You couldn’t tell what was making your body ache more, this or the burn on your lap. Slowly, your hands went to rest atop of his before removing them from your face.

“Are we still friends?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can I at least get you an ice pack for your lap.”

“No, it’s okay. I take care of myself.”

Sunlight began streaming into the Grand Central Terminal, tickling against your skin as you walked around, luggage in hand. The snow was merciful enough to stop piling on the ground for a few days, allowing your 7 A.M. train to run on time. In under an hour you’d be boarding a one way trip to D.C.

The new year had just begun, it was time for a fresh start. A start that was far enough from New York to make you forget about the city. The people who lingered about the city. A certain person from the city, to be more exact.

A confused look settled on your face as you tried to find your exact stop before you drifted for the next half an hour at one of the local cafes. From the corner of your eye you could see something hurtling towards your direction in a frenzy.

It was him, hair disheveled and face wild with surprise. Bucky looked like he had just rolled out of bed before coming here, sleep still desperately trying to cling to his eyes.

There was no point in trying to duck in the crowd, he had his eyes locked on you as you stood.

“Y/N,” he called out, hoping you’d echo back with his own name.

“Bucky?” you spoke out, only loud enough for yourself to hear, his name a secret on your tongue.

“Don’t get on that train,” he gasped out, trying to regain his breath as he stopped short in front of you.

“I’m not, my train isn’t here for another 35 minutes.”

“Alright, give me a second then. Sam told me you were leaving this morning and I got here as fast as I could. I also just ran the past 10 blocks. Fucking traffic,” he huffed out, running an exasperated hand over his face in order to regain himself.

“What are you doing here?”

“Wait,” he pleaded, putting his hands out in defense. “Before you tell me to go away, I just needed to say something. Then you can curse me out all you want, I’d understand.”

“I don’t want to fight,” you mumbled, slightly wounded he was still ready for a fight even now.

“I’m a fucking idiot. Severely. Here I have, the most amazing woman I have ever met, who’s funny and kind and smart as well as beautiful and I was too much of a dumbass to treat her right. I’m insecure. I don’t like myself and I get scared that when other people get too close, they’ll see what I see, and they’ll want to go away.”

You noted the passersby that were stopping to spectate your scene. “Bucky, you don’t have to-”

“I want to, I want you. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better friend and I’m sorry I made you feel used. But I don’t want to lose you.”

Time slowed, all of a sudden the air felt too light and no matter how much oxygen you sucked in, it was never enough to satisfy your lungs. The rise and fall of your chest felt like a shake, battering your organs as you breathed in and out.

“Are you asking me to stay?” you asked, unsure what to do with this information.

“I’m asking that you let me follow you wherever you go. I don’t care if it’s New York, D.C., or the middle of nowhere, I just want to be with you.”

A decent crowd had circled around the two of you by then like vultures, waiting for a murder. The grip you had on your suitcase seemed to slip from your fingers as you moved towards him. You threw your arms around his torso, taking in a deep breath; it was like you could breathe again.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he whispered against your temple before planting a soft kiss on your forehead, entangling his arms around your body. You could feel the way his body shook like a wilting flower, the excitement at which his heart thudded in his chest.

“Let’s go home, Bucky.”

“Of course, doll.”

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