#that even if he left some habits regarding him did not

[browngurl99]

Do you think during post-hidden inventory, Gojo got himself a snack and held out one half of it and suddenly realized no one is standing beside him to share that with.

#he was so used to some things when Geto was there #that even if he left some habits regarding him did not #:') #i like making myself sad #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo satoru #geto suguru #satosugu

[bucky-fricking-barnes]

The Cards We're Dealt

Title: The Cards We’re Dealt

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 15k

Warnings: Arranged marriage, alcohol, cursing, objectification of women and mild sexism, bad parents, angst, fluff, mentions of drugs

Summary: Bucky and Y/N are the children of the two most prominent mob bosses in New York. When their parents use them as part of a deal, they’re left to figure out how their lives fit together.

A/N: Wow! Another long fic because I have no self-restraint. There’s a bit of Irish in this because I couldn’t resist it when I wrote Steve. Translations are at the end, and anything incorrect can be blamed on Google Translate. As always, thank you for reading, liking, commenting, reblogging, and supporting me in all the ways you do. 

There is an unspoken rule amongst the mobs in New York that the more drug manufacturers a man controls, the nicer you treat his daughter. So, when Bucky’s father tells him that he’s once again been pimped out as part of a deal, Bucky knows to ask the question,

“How many does he control?”

If Bucky had his way, of course, he would treat all girls as well as he is able (which is very well). He likes girls, and he likes going out with girls. He just wishes he could choose which girls he got to take out.

“Seventy-five percent,” George Barnes says, and Bucky freezes with his glass against his lips. He has a club soda to his father’s whiskey—he’s in a good mood and was actually hoping to enjoy the day, though now he’s reconsidering it. His plan to lounge by the pool with Becca and soak up as much of the late spring sunshine as possible is quickly dissipating. 

“That’s not possible,” Bucky replies. He quickly does the math in his head. His dad owns over half the manufacturers in Brooklyn. “We own—“

“Not anymore.”

The library falls silent as Bucky tries to wrap his head around the news. Just yesterday he’d overheard his father on the phone with one of his men, explaining in great detail what he’d do if they didn’t get him a sample of their newest product by the top of the hour.

“How?” he asks. He sets his glass aside and sits straighter in his chair. “Did something happen? You didn’t tell me about a takeover.”

George takes a sip of his whiskey. “That’s because there wasn’t one.” He sets the crystal tumbler on the small bronze tray nearby. Marta will come clean it up later. “I sold them.”

“You sold them? If you’ve already struck a deal, then why am I taking out his daughter? Isn’t that normally something you have me do to butter their fathers up before you make the deal?”

Bucky watches as his own father stands and goes to watch the landscapers through the library window, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s long since been out of the army, but some habits die hard. Very rarely did the man ever relax.

“You are the deal,” George answers, his voice much too casual for Bucky’s liking.

“What the hell are you talking about?” snaps Bucky.

“Watch your tone, boy,” his father replies. He doesn’t turn around to witness the way Bucky grinds his teeth together in response. “In exchange for the majority of Theo’s territory, you and Y/N will be married within a year and a half, though the exact date is up to the two of you. I believe that Theo mentioned his daughter likes spring, so perhaps a spring wedding. June is popular, from what I’m told, though that’s cutting it a little close to the deadline.”

Bucky’s up out of his seat now. He can feel his pulse thrumming and he can’t quite catch his breath.

“So what? You threw me in to sweeten the pot? Am I just another bargaining chip to you now?”

He’s shouting. He doesn’t care.

George turns and regards him in silence, and, like always, his expression betrays nothing of what he’s thinking or feeling. He doesn’t seem fazed at all by Bucky’s outburst.

“You’re my heir. I make my decisions based on what’s best for our family. Nothing about this decision is impulsive or frivolous, James,” he finally answers, his voice cool and even. There’s nothing familial in his tone—George Barnes is all business. 

“You can’t just decide that I’m getting married. I won’t do it. I refuse,” Bucky tells him. He balls his fists at his sides and he sets his jaw, furious. How dare his father try to control his life like this? It’s one thing to occupy the majority of Bucky’s nights and weekends with dates, meetings, dinners, and weapons runs, but it’s another to throw him into a marriage he doesn’t want.

“I can and you will. If you don’t, there will be consequences. To start, you will be immediately cut off from our family. You will have no money, no home, no resources, and no contact or communication with anyone involved in the business, including your mother and your sister.”

Heart pounding, Bucky glares at him. He’s got a migraine coming on. He knows his father isn’t kidding, but he wants more than anything for Steve to pop out and say that this is all just a joke. He’s never even met Theo’s daughter. He’s barely even met Theo. According to the rumors, his only daughter is his most prized treasure. She isn’t someone who frequents any of the bars, clubs, and restaurants that he and the other “mob children” frequent. Maybe “mob children” isn’t exactly the right term, at least not anymore. After all, Bucky’s engaged now. He’s just part of the mob, another pawn to be moved around the chessboard.

“You have the rest of the day off. I’ll see you at eight tomorrow morning,” says George. He picks up his glass and downs the last of the liquor. “Theo and his family are coming for breakfast, and then Y/N will be moving in with us. I want you on your best behavior.”

He pauses and Bucky continues to glare at him, not validating his words with a response. George’s eyes grow dark with a thinly veiled threat. Bucky knows that look—if he pushes his father any harder, he’ll regret it. 

“Do you understand, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky grinds out.

Turning on his heel, Bucky stalks out of the library and slams the door behind him. He immediately heads down the hall, then down the stairs and across the ground floor of the Barnes Estate to the garage. His keys are still in his pocket; he’d only just gotten back from a night out with Steve when his father had summoned him.

It doesn’t matter that he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Bucky climbs onto his bike and revs the engine, speeding off down the long driveway that winds around the house. The guards barely get the gate open in time and then he’s flying down the road, heading straight to Steve’s bar in the city. He knows his friend will be there, most likely nursing his hangover and going over the books in his back office. He won’t be hard to convince to go out again, though Bucky knows he won’t approve of the plan to drink as much as he possibly can in the next twelve hours. It doesn’t matter, though—it’s Bucky’s last night as a free man, and he’s determined to make the most of it.

You sit between your parents, staring at the empty seat across from you. They’d told you this morning that you were going to the Barnes Estate for breakfast, and while you’d expected the grandeur of the dining room and the meal, you didn’t expect the eldest Barnes child to be completely absent. You’ve never met him, but your mother has insisted that you speak to James—George Barnes’ only son and heir—as much as possible during the meal. Supposedly, he’s the same age as you.

Rebecca Barnes is a ray of sunshine and her cheery disposition is a stark contrast to the dark clouds that now hang over your fathers’ heads. Maybe it’s a deal gone wrong or maybe it’s something else, but you don’t like it. It leaves an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. Silently, you sneak a hand under the table to find your mother’s. You squeeze and your mom squeezes back, glancing over to give a reassuring smile.

“Y/N,” Mrs. Barnes starts, and you jump a little in your seat. You haven’t been verbally addressed since you’d been seated a half hour ago. The food has yet to be served. “Your parents tell us that you’re very interested in horticulture. Did you know we have a rose garden out back?”

You force a polite smile. “I don’t know about very interested. I have a few house plants that I’ve managed to keep alive, though I would love to see your garden sometime. I’m sure it’s beautiful,” you add.

“Maybe Bucky can take you,” Rebecca says, earning herself a sharp look from her mother. She simply shrugs.

Oh, to be as unbothered as Rebecca Barnes!

“Where is James?” your father asks. His voice is a low, threatening growl and you sink down in your chair, staring at the cloth napkin still folded atop your plates.

“He knows to be here,” Mr. Barnes growls back. “You’ll have to excuse his tardiness, he’s not normally like this.”

Mrs. Barnes gives Rebecca an even harsher look when she opens her mouth to speak, and this time the girl actually looks ashamed. She takes a sip of her orange juice to hide the guilty look on her face. She’s the first person to have actually touched something on the table, and it’s like whatever spell the room has been under is broken.

All at once, the dining room springs to life. A short, slightly heavy-set woman in a gray dress and white apron enters through one door. She’s holding a delicate silver coffeepot and the smell of coffee instantly fills the room. Two younger women in identical uniforms follow behind her, each of them pushing golden carts laden with food. Through the door across the room, a tall man with short, dark brown hair stumbles in. He’s wearing all black, from his rumpled button-up and jeans to his boots and sunglasses. His hair is sticking up in every direction and just like the coffee, you can smell the stench of alcohol coming from him even from your seat.

You grimace at the smell and pull your napkin into your lap as one of the women comes to place food in front of you. It’s a formal dining service and the strange new man who’s entered feels entirely out of place. From his attire to the way he shuffles across the antique rug, everything about him screams that he’d rather be anywhere else. If you acted like that, your father would be pulling you back out into the hallway to reprimand you, and you look anxiously at Mr. Barnes, who’s seated at the head of the table. 

“James,” he greets, his voice unnervingly even. A chill runs down your spine. “It’s nice of you to join us. I trust that you slept well last night?”

James collapses into the only empty chair at the table, the one across from you, and pointedly ignores his father. You risk a glance up at him as he reaches for the cup of coffee that’s already been poured.

True to form, Rebecca leans over and claps a hand on her brother’s shoulder blade. “Good morning! Aren’t you excited to have breakfast with our guests?” she shouts, and her smirk makes it much too clear that she’s fully enjoying the way her brother’s scowl deepens. Rebecca also ignores her parents, including her mother, who leans forward to look past James and give her a look of warning.

James shrugs his sister off of him and starts buttering the toast on his plate. You watch for a moment, then start picking at your own food as your mother also begins to eat. Everyone’s acting so strangely that you’re already on edge, and you’ve only managed to get down a few grapes and two bites of dry toast by the time your father speaks up again.

“So when are we signing these papers?” he asks, sipping his coffee. 

“As soon as the marriage license is signed,” answers Mr. Barnes.

You frown. Marriage license? Who’s getting married?

“And the terms are the same as when we last spoke?”

Mr. Barnes sips his own drink, something that looks suspiciously like whiskey, and sets down the glass. “Yes. I have that contract in my office. We’ll review and sign after we’re done here. Are all of your daughter’s things ready to be moved?”

Your stomach drops and you turn to stare at your father with wide eyes. He nods, not even paying attention to you as he continues his conversation with the other man. Your mother pointedly ignores you, choosing instead to stare at her plate as she eats. When you look around the room, it seems like almost everyone else is doing the same. Rebecca is the only person who actually meets your panicked gaze. She gives you a pitying look as your anxiety rises.

It feels like your mouth is filled with sandpaper, and you grab your glass of juice. You have to drink half of it before the feeling even mildly abates. As soon as you set it down, one of the women in gray appears to refill it.

“What’s going on? Why are you moving my stuff?” you finally choke out. You twist the napkin in your lap with both hands, wringing it as you look from one person’s face to the next.

Mr. Barnes stops mid-sentence and the whole room freezes. Even James, who’s pouring something into his coffee cup from a small silver flask, stops what he’s doing.

“Y/N, sweetheart,” your mother begins, taking your hand under the table.

You want to pull away. You don’t.

“After breakfast, your father and I are going home, but you’ll be staying here with the Barneses.”

“What?” you whisper, your eyes filling with tears. “No, I don’t— I don’t want to stay here. You never said anything about me—“

“We’re getting married,” James interrupts. He’s chewing and you look over at him, gaping at the casual way he’s sprawled out in his chair. You can feel his gaze on you even from behind his sunglasses and it makes you feel dirty. 

“Excuse me?”

He chuckles and sits up, then leans forward in the chair. He drops the greasy strip of bacon he’d been eating onto his plate. “We’re getting married. They’re using us like bartering chips, sweetheart. You and me in exchange for all the drugs and all the territory in New York.” James gestures grandly with one hand, a too-wide grin on his face. There must be at least ten rings on each of his hands and you swallow thickly at the threatening display of black and silver metal.

You’re trembling now and you pull your hand away from your mom’s. She reaches for you again but you shake your head, shying away from her touch. Frantically, you look around the room to see if this is some kind of joke or a drunken rambling, but no one is laughing. Even Mrs. Barnes has the decency to look sympathetic on your behalf.

“No, no. You wouldn’t—“ You look back at your parents, imploring them to say that it isn’t true. You swallow thickly, trying to stave off tears, and your voice wavers as you prompt, “Mom? Dad?”

Their silence speaks volumes and a whimper escapes you as you wring your hands in your lap. The napkin slides onto the floor. It suddenly feels like you can’t breathe and when your mom reaches out for a second time and starts to tell you to calm down, you jerk away and stand. The chair falls backwards behind you, but you ignore it as you rush out of the dining room and into the hallway you’d entered from. Everything is unfamiliar. Frantically, you pick a door and yank on the handle. It doesn’t give way and you continue the process until one of them finally opens and you can rush inside. You lock it behind you and press your back against the door. The curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows are closed, shrouding the room in darkness. You can’t make out much of the furniture through the tears in your eyes.

Out in the hallway, you can hear your mother calling for you and your father arguing with Mr. Barnes. Mrs. Barnes is yelling at somebody too, but it’s hard enough to hear the others over your own gasps and sobs. You’re properly crying now and you sink to the floor, curling up on the carpet as you heave. It’s a good thing you weren’t able to stomach much breakfast.

A knock on the door makes you yelp and then cry harder, and you crawl into the darkness of the room to try and find a hiding spot. You’re lucky enough to find an old, heavy desk right away. It’s the perfect size for you to crawl under for shelter, and there’s no chair for you to move out of the way. The drawers on both sides create a cubby for you, so you crawl into it and curl up into a ball with your back towards the door, just in case someone manages to get in. If you’re quiet enough, it’s possible they’ll walk right past you.

The crowd in the hallway has definitely heard you by now. The doorknob is rattling as whoever’s on the other side tries to get in, but after a few minutes, they stop and the hallway goes quiet. You hold your breath after every couple of sobs, listening for any sign that they’ve found a key or that they’re picking the lock. Nothing happens, however, and after a while, you give up on listening.

You sit in the darkness and cry until you’re thoroughly exhausted. Once you’ve run out of tears, you sit and zone out with your head resting against the side of the desk drawers for a while longer, numb from the news. Your body feels light and a buzzing, tingling feeling makes moving your limbs seem impossible. You could’ve never imagined that your parents would be so capable of treating you so poorly. You’ve always felt so loved by them, and to hear that they’ve practically thrown you away at the first chance of a profit makes you want to puke. Upon that realization, you actually do throw up, and the stink of your vomit on the carpet of whatever room you’re in makes you want to cry all over again.

The door opens just as the stench is becoming too much to bear. Light floods in from the hallway and you squint, curling up in fear. After a moment, the shorter woman in the gray uniform that you’d seen at breakfast appears a few feet away from the desk, right in the path of light. You look up at her. 

“Oh dear,” she sighs, and you instantly feel ashamed at the disappointment in her voice.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. Your bottom lip is trembling again as fresh tears somehow appear in your eyes. Sniffling, you wipe your nose with the back of your wrists. “I can clean it if you—“

“You’ll do no such thing,” the woman says. Her voice is gentle and kind, so much so that you don’t feel the need to argue with her. She waves her hand dismissively and approaches you, then holds out both hands. She’s careful not to step in the mess you’ve made. “Now come on, up you go.”

You let her help you to your feet and then you straighten out your clothes, sniffling and wiping at your nose again in a desperate attempt to look more put together than you feel. Still a bit unsteady, you whimper for a second time, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, dear.” She gives you a warm smile. “My name’s Marta. I’m the head housekeeper here. It’s very nice to meet you.”

You don’t feel the same way about meeting her, given the circumstances, but you hold that comment to yourself and simply nod in agreement. Marta leads you back out into the too-bright hallway. It’s empty except for a bald man mopping the floor on the far end.

The high ceilings and glossy marble floors make it look like you’re in a castle. Even the silence feels regal. Everything seems so cold compared to your home, and you feel too small in the massive space.

“What time is it?” you quietly ask, looking back at Marta.

“It’s almost noon, Miss.”

Your stomach sinks and you press your lips together, inhaling deeply as you look around again. Three hours have passed.  “My parents…”

“They left about fifteen minutes after breakfast,” she tells you. Her words are matter-of-fact, even if she delivers the news in the softest possible way.

Somehow it hurts worse that they’ve left you than finding out they’d practically sold you to the Barneses in exchange for God knows what. Drugs or territory, whatever James had said. Not only did they treat you like nothing, but they’d deserted you after it was clear you didn’t agree with their plans. They hadn’t even tried to reassure you that they still loved you or that you’d still be able to see them. Maybe you wouldn’t be. Maybe they didn’t.

You nod numbly. There’s been nothing to prepare you for this, no precursor or warning, so you keep looking around the hall, though in reality you’re not really seeing anything. 

“Your room is ready upstairs, Miss Y/N. Would you like me to take you?” asks Marta.

You nod again. You feel like you’re underwater as you follow her up a grand staircase and then down a long, narrow hallway. It’s decorated similarly to the ground floor, though with a plush Persian rug running its length. Marta talks as she walks ahead of you, no doubt explaining what the many doors lead to, but her words simply go in one ear and out the other. It’s all so surreal that when you finally get to your own room, you don’t even open the door. Marta has to reach around you to open it, and then she gently ushers you inside when you still don't move.

Just as they had said at breakfast, your belongings have all been moved into the Barnes Estate. The furniture here is different, grander than what you’re used to, but your blankets and pillows are on the bed, and the two bookshelves are packed full of the books you’ve collected over the years. Even the strip from the photo booth at an old friend’s wedding is pinned to the bulletin board above the desk. Someone’s even thought to put your plants on their own table by the window. 

“There’s a bathroom on the left and your closet is on the right,” Marta explains, pointing to each. “If you’re hungry, dinner is at five.”

“Do I have to eat with them?” you ask.

If Marta is surprised by your question, she doesn’t show it. She simply shakes her head with a gentle smile. “No. We can bring food here if you’d like.”

You nod and stand in silence until she leaves and closes the door behind her. Then, after another minute passes, you drag yourself over to the bed, climb under the covers, and close your eyes.

If there’s any mercy left in this life, you think, I’ll fall asleep and never wake up again.

Weeks pass and you still haven’t adjusted to life at the Barnes Estate. The staff is only slightly less friendly than those you grew up with, but they’re more attentive. It helps that there are more of them. For every member of the Barnes family, yourself included, there are at least four staff members to attend to their every need. It makes you feel like royalty, but it also makes you feel guilty. You don’t need this much. You certainly didn’t ask for it.

You haven’t seen James since the ill-fated breakfast, nor have you seen your parents. They’ve gone so far as to block your number. After that discovery, you’d locked yourself in the massive ensuite bathroom and cried for an hour. Marta had been the one to coax you out. The poor maid who’d found you when coming to get you for dinner hadn’t known how to help. You’d spent that entire evening curled up on your bed while reruns of The Nanny played on the TV embedded in the wall across from the massive mattress. Marta had spent every second with you that she could, but eventually Mrs. Barnes—Winnifred, as you referred to her in your mind—had scolded her for neglecting her nighttime duties across the estate. That made you feel even worse.

“Are you okay?” Rebecca asks, and you turn to look at her from where you’re staring out the hallway windows at the gardeners. The backyard is massive, complete with a rose garden in full bloom, an outdoor swimming pool, a forested walking trail, a large green expanse for games and parties, a gazebo, a fountain, and what seems to be stables far in the distance, though you haven’t ventured far enough to be sure. A visit to the rose garden hasn’t been brought up again either, and nothing seems interesting enough to explore on your own.

Nodding, you don’t say anything before turning back to watch the men work. They talk and laugh with each other as they prune, pick, and water. You wish that you could trade places with them. 

“You don’t look okay,” she says. Rebecca props herself up on the window ledge to your right, facing you with a suspicious look on her face. “We haven’t seen you at any meals, and Valerie told me that you were crying in the bathtub three nights ago.”

You should feel ashamed, but you’re too numb to care. It feels like you’re floating through each day, detached from most things. You’ve spent your entire life thinking that you would marry for love and live happily ever after. Now, your parents have sold you to the highest bidder and your husband-to-be is a cruel, disgusting man-child that wants nothing to do with you.

Rebecca’s fingers lacing with yours jerk you back to reality and you look down at your joined hands in confusion. Her nails are bitten short and she wears a single ring with the Barnes family crest. It’s dainty and gold, a stark contrast to the many rings on her brother’s fingers.

“You’re safe here, Y/N,” she tells you, her voice gentle. “You don’t have to be alone. I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you. If I had any say in it, you could be home right now with your parents, but I’m far from the top of the totem pole.”

“I hate them.” You spit the words out and jerk your hand away from hers. “I hate my parents.”

That’s the first time you’ve ever said that in your entire life and your heart skips a beat as the anger makes your lip curl. You’re baring your teeth at her but Rebecca doesn’t even flinch. She’s a mafia princess, through and through.

“They made me believe that I could have anything I wanted, that I could marry whoever I wanted whenever I was ready, and then they threw that all away and treated me like shit the first time it was convenient for them.”

She nods. “That’s true.”

“I was so foolish to have believed them,” you growl, but the fight in you is fading just as quickly as it came. You burn bright, but you burn quickly, too.

“No,” Rebecca says, shaking her head. “You’re just human.”

You look away, embarrassed by your display of emotion as your eyes begin to water with more tears. You were raised to be reserved. You knew very little about the inner workings of your parents’ business, but you’d learned as a young girl that you’d fare better if you always clung to the edges of the room, avoiding the dirt and grime and blood that surrounded your whole life. Over the years, you’ve grown very good at hiding yourself and your emotions from the people around you. From the spark in her eye, you have the feeling that Rebecca is the exact opposite. She could hold her own if it came down to it. You couldn’t.

“It’s okay to be upset,” she insists.

Shaking your head, you take a deep breath and look back out the window. You lift your chin slightly and when Rebecca tries to rope you into another conversation with her, you ignore her and focus on the men outside. They’re finished tending to the roses on the edges of the garden. Now they’re working their way inwards.

You’re finally left alone a few minutes later and as soon as she’s around the corner, you let out a heavy sigh and relax your posture. Slumping forward, you lean forward into the window ledge, curling up just a little as you continue to watch the gardeners. The silly song from Alice in Wonderland pops into your head and you hum along, eventually mumbling to yourself about painting the roses red.

You feel a little bit like Alice, you realize. You’re out of your element in a strange land where everything you’ve learned about life seems to be turned on its head. In this world, nobody marries for love and the girls are just as entrenched in the business as the men. Does Rebecca conduct business with her father and older brother? You could certainly picture it. Will the same be expected of you?

That afternoon, Marta knocks on your door with a written invitation from Winnifred. Your presence is being formally requested at their dinner table, though from the look the housekeeper is giving you, it’s more of a demand than a request. With her help, you pick out something to wear. By the time five o’clock rolls around, you’re crossing the enormous hallway in a dress and heels that you’ve never seen before. It’s far too showy for your taste, but it’s clearly something someone wanted you to wear. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have put it in your closet.

George Barnes and James stand when you enter the dining room, as do several other men you don’t recognize. Your father is standing near the head of the table with George, though your mother and Rebecca are nowhere in sight. Besides Winnifred, you don’t recognize any of the other women. The only empty seat is beside James and your immediate instinct is to flee, but then he’s stepping aside to pull out the chair and all eyes are on you.

Slowly, you close the distance between the two of you and sit. He helps you scoot in, then takes his own seat on your right. The other men sit as well and then dinner resumes. You sit in silence, staring at the top edge of your plate with your hands in your lap. You’re not really listening to the conversations around you, either, but you can feel someone’s eyes on you as you try to stay as quiet and motionless as possible.

“Are you sick or something?”

You startle and look up with wide eyes. James is watching you. He’s got one hand on the table with his fingers brushing the stem of his wineglass and the other resting on his thigh. Unlike your fateful breakfast weeks ago, James is dressed in a neat, all-black suit. He has no tie, and his rings are all gone except one. It’s identical to Rebecca’s family crest, except his is silver and has a thicker band.

His eyes are full of something you can’t place and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. As quickly as you turned to him, you turn away and look back at your plate. The napkin is folded in some elaborate way on top of the plate. You’re not sure if it’s supposed to resemble anything at all, but maybe if you stare at it long enough, it will look like something.

“Y/N?” he prompts. You nod once, tightly, and then pull the heavy cloth napkin into your lap when a server appears to present the first course.

Between the second and third course, you can feel James’ eyes on you. After the third, he gets roped into conversation with a man sitting across the table, but you know that he’s glancing at you all the while. After the fourth, he bumps his arm against yours. You shirk away and feel him tense beside you.

“Excuse me,” you mumble, and you push your chair away from the table. Immediately, the conversations stop and all the men stand again. It’s too much attention on you and you hurry out of the dining room as fast as your heels and dress will allow. You’re stumbling over yourself by the time you get back to your suite on the third floor. The door slams behind you and you collapse onto the floor beside the bed, too overwhelmed to even climb atop the oversized mattress. You’re on the verge of tears when there’s a soft knock from the door, and that rips a sob from your chest that you hadn’t expected.

Immediately, the door opens and James is standing in the open space, a dark look on his face. You sob again and scramble backwards until the edge of the bed frame is digging painfully into your spine.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You swallow hard and take several gasping breaths, trying to control yourself. Your mind is spinning with insults, calling you weak and pathetic, and you believe every one.

“It’s just too much,” you answer through your tears. “I don’t want this!”

James huffs. His angry expression has faded, now replaced with something more akin to irritation. “And you think I do?”

You shake your head. “Of course not.”

“These are the cards we’ve been dealt, doll. You’re gonna have to get over it. Let’s just get married and then we can live happily ever after in a big house where we never have to see each other. I’ll do what I want and you can do what you want. Sound like a plan?”

You look down at your hands. A big part of you wants to say that no, it doesn’t sound like a plan. You don’t want that life. You don’t want a house so big that you practically need a golf cart to get from one side to the other. You don’t want a husband who ignores you in favor of his blood money or his side chick or the next shiny toy off the black market. You don’t want James.

Though every part of you is screaming the opposite, you nod. He crosses the room and you inhale sharply to steady yourself as he approaches you with no care. His black dress shoes are tracking dirt across the rug. James holds out a hand to help you up and you take it. The heirloom ring on his right hand digs into yours until you’re standing, and then he drops your hand like it’s on fire.

“We need to go back,” he tells you, and you nod again. “Our parents are pissed.”

“Of course they are,” you mumble. 

James pauses, staring at you critically. You’ve been staring at the baseboards since he helped you up, but when he doesn’t move or speak, you glance upwards at him. He’s got one eyebrow raised. His expression is thoroughly unreadable otherwise and an unsettling feeling blooms in your stomach.

“What?” you ask. You step back a little, but there’s no place to go except up against the bed again.

He shakes his head at you. “Nothing. Come on, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.” You scrunch your nose. “Anything but that.”

“Sugar?” he offers, and when you shake your head, he sighs. “Well, what do you want me to call you, since you’re suddenly the one calling the shots?”

His words cut deep and you look back down, hating the way shame immediately pools in your belly. How could he seem angry and irritated with you, then borderline kind, and then completely disinterested in your feelings the next? It’s disorienting, and you don’t need that on top of everything else.

“That’s what I thought. Let’s go.”

Grabbing your arm in a grip just bordering on painful, James pulls you out of your bedroom and back down the hall. He holds on as you stumble behind him in your heels. When you reach the ground floor hallway again, he drops his hand and offers you his arm. You’re hesitant to take it, but he sighs a little and you decide that it’s easier to give in than to put up a fight.

The two of you walk back into the dining room and the conversations immediately hush. James leads you to your waiting seats, pulls out the chair for you, and then helps you scoot towards the table again once you’re seated. As he takes his spot beside you, your father speaks up.

“Have you and James discussed when you’ll be getting married?” he asks.

You pick up your fork and stare at the strange food on your plate, ignoring him. Though your stomach is churning, you force yourself to take a bite. He can’t expect you to answer while you’re chewing—it would be bad manners.

“Next spring,” James answers. “In the rose garden.”

You want to spit on the roses. You swallow your food instead.

“Good choice,” Mr. Barnes agrees. He turns his attention back to your father. “Your daughter is quite the well-behaved woman. She’ll do well with our James.”

Beside you, James tenses again, his grip tightening slightly on his fork. You glance at him, holding your breath, and wait until he relaxes again to take another bite of your food. 

The rest of the dinner passes with mundane, meaningless conversations. Nobody addresses you for the remainder of the meal, not even your parents, and finally the men begin to make their way out of the dining room to an adjoining room. You hadn’t even realized there was a room connected; the door is hidden amongst the paneling and crown molding on the walls.

“You can’t go in there.” James grabs your wrist as you stand to follow the group of men into the new room. His voice isn’t malicious and his grip isn’t tight, but you flinch away from him anyway. It’s only then that you realize the few women that had been in the room are leaving through the door to the hall with their wineglasses in hand.

“Because I’m a woman?” you counter.

“Because you don’t want to hear the things that they’re going to discuss,” he answers. He tosses his napkin on the table and stands, towering over you. After a long second of eye contact, he steps away from you and heads towards the men.

You watch him go and silently weigh your options. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have even thought about following the men into the second room. You would have simply taken the same path as the other woman, though your wine would have continued to remain untouched. Now, however, with your wine in hand, you stood at a crossroads. You could go into the room and potentially face the wrath of your father, James, and George Barnes, or you could live forever curious as to what was actually being discussed. 

With your mind made up, you down your wine, step around James, and head through the open door into the room. It’s a study with dark wood paneling on the walls, leather couches, and stale cigar smoke in the air. As soon as you enter, the laughter and conversation stop and all eyes land on you.

“Y/N, you should be with Winnie and your mother,” Mr. Barnes says, stepping towards you. James is behind you now and though you’re hedged in, you simply lift your chin at the older man.

“Why? Am I not allowed to know what family I’m marrying into?”

His face darkens. “Girl, I’m warning you—”

“Don’t speak to my wife like that.” James’ voice from over your shoulder startles you and you quickly turn your head, looking back at him with shock. 

Why is he suddenly standing up for me?

“Hold your tongue, James,” his father snaps. “You aren’t married yet, and Y/N needs to learn her place. One would think her father would have taught her better, considering the problems his wife caused.”

Though you hate your parents for what they’ve done to you, your blood boils at the insult. Your anger rears its ugly head even more when you realize that your father doesn’t look intent on standing up for you or your mom, either.

“That’s enough!”

You swear the room rattles around you when James shouts and you grit your teeth, furious at Mr. Barnes. How dare he insult your father? How dare he talk to you and his son that way?

James grabbing your hand shocks you back into reality. Once again, his grip is almost painfully tight, but you force your face to reveal nothing.

“Y/N and I are going out. If I so much as hear that you’ve said a single thing about her in my absence, you will regret ever giving me any kind of power in this business,” he growls. “The next time you see her, I expect that you’ll treat her with the respect she deserves.” 

The men stare at you and James in disbelief, and then you find yourself being practically dragged out of the room. You’re too stunned to fight back, so you let him pull you across the ground floor of the estate to a door only two down from the dark room where you’d hit the morning your parents had left you behind.

“We’ll have to take the car, unless you’re okay riding the bike in that dress,” James says, pushing open the door. He doesn’t look back at you as he speaks, and it takes you a second to realize he wants a response.

“Car,” you answer after a few seconds. “Please.”

The room James has led you to is a massive garage, stretching farther than you ever realized a similar room could. Three of the walls are made of light gray cement, as are the floor and ceiling, and the fourth wall is made up of windowed garage doors, each one big enough for several cars to drive through simultaneously. Running down the center of the rectangular garage, there is a row of seven parked cars, with enough space to fit at least another car between each one, and beyond that, you can see a row of several motorcycles parked in a similar manner. The cars are in varying shades of gray and black, with the exception of one red sports car at the far end of the group. You can’t see the bikes well enough from the door, but you catch glimpses of blue, silver, gray, and black.

Four enormous, black and silver tool chests are lined up against the wall facing the hoods of the cars, but there isn’t a spot of oil or dirt in sight. You don’t even see any loose tools or equipment. Looking around, you wonder if the tool chests are just there for decoration, or if someone on the estate actually works on the cars and motorcycles.

Maybe James works on them?

“Are all of these yours?” you ask, unable to help yourself. He seems like the kind of guy who would enjoy driving around for fun, and he’s just mentioned something about a bike. You stare at the side of James’ face as he plucks a set of keys off a black pegboard on the wall. There’s a button embedded in the wall beside the board. James pushes it with one thumb and the keys in his hand bump against the wall.

One of the garage doors near the last few cars starts to roll upwards onto the ceiling, revealing the outside of the estate. The sun has completely disappeared from the sky, and the moonlight is blocked by the clouds you’d seen rolling in earlier in the afternoon. The leaves of the large shade trees that surround the estate and form a protective shield from the outside world rustle in the wind. Crickets and cicadas chirp, reminding you of the cool spring nights you’d spent on your family estate as a little girl. You’d run around in the grass near the garden while your mom or your nanny watched you. Sometimes your father’s men would watch from the perimeter of the property, and when you’d wave, they’d wave back, asking what you’d done that day. You always answered them, even if you knew it would get you in trouble. They never stopped asking either, even if it got them in trouble, too.

You stop walking and close your eyes, then breathe in deeply as the night air rushes into the garage. It’s the first time you’ve been even close to the outdoors since arriving at the Barnes Estate. Your skin is still warm from the stifling dining room and the anger you’d felt in the men’s study. The breeze is a blessed relief, even if you do shiver after only a moment. Goosebumps form on your exposed skin—the dress Marta had picked out for you did little to keep you safe from the elements. 

James keeps walking down the aisle formed by the wall and the front of the cars, though you hear his footsteps pause a few moments after you stop following him. 

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You’re a little surprised that he’s not demanding that you catch up. When you open your eyes, you immediately meet his gaze, and a weird feeling bubbles up in your stomach. The expression on his face betrays little, but his stare reminds you of the way your father’s men looked at you all those years ago—interested and almost fond, but ready to push you away at a moment’s notice. You nod and hurry to catch up with him.

Once you get closer, James presses a button on the key fob in his hand. One of the cars in front of the open garage door rumbles to life. The sound it makes is a low purr, almost seductive, and you raise an eyebrow as James approaches, then runs his fingers over the hood. Even if the others aren’t, this car has to be his. It’s a sleek black, with dark tinted windows and a gleaming silver grill in the front. The BMW logo shines proudly in the center. It looks like a car your own father would own. Though you know he’s never owned a BMW, if this car is anything like the ones in your father’s fleet, you know that the inside will be as much a picture of luxury as the outside.

You slide into the passenger seat when James opens the door for you, and in the time it takes him to cross around the front of the car to the driver’s side, you take inventory of the interior. It’s a manual transmission—something your father once said was obsolete, except for car collectors and enthusiasts—which means that you wouldn’t be able to drive it, even if you tried. The car is pristine, so much so that you’re afraid to move. Two water bottles are in the cupholders, and it still smells brand new inside. There isn’t a speck of dirt or dust on the dashboard, nor on the floor mats. The leather seat is soft and there’s a control for seat warming and cooling on the control panel.

James climbs into the driver’s seat and shuts the door. He buckles up and you follow his lead, and then you sit back as he reverses the car out of the garage and onto a winding driveway that leads you around the front of the estate, then along the other side to a large gate with a guard house. You’d forgotten about the extensive security since the last time you’d been outside the Barnes Estate. Your father had handed over your driver’s license, along with his and your mother’s, before breakfast all those weeks ago, and there’d been a strange code word of some kind. It dawns on you as the guard opens the gate for you and James that you’d never gotten your license back.

“Where are we going?” you ask as James pulls onto the main road. It leads away from the estate and into the city. 

“To get some real food,” he replies. His tone is gruff, and it feels like he’s on the verge of an angry outburst, so you slump back in your seat as he shifts gears and the car accelerates. The tension in the car is thick. You don’t want to be the one to deal with it, especially since he’s the one creating it.

After several minutes of watching the enormous mansions and the forests surrounding them pass by, you look over at James again. His expression, just like in the garage, reveals nothing, but you can tell that he’s more put-together than the last time you’d interacted, and it’s not just the tailored suit. His hair has been trimmed and styled, and he has an even dusting of stubble that frames his jawline nicely.

In the time since you’d learned you were engaged, James hasn’t said anything to you. You’ve heard him talking in the hallways as you wandered, but you haven’t wanted to be near him. This is the closest you’ve ever been. Your brief conversations so far tonight make up the majority of the words you’ve spoken to each other. His words from the bedroom echo in your head, until finally, you can’t help but blurt out your thoughts.

“Do you really not want to marry me?” you ask. Your voice sounds small and pathetic, and you hate it, but it’s too late now. 

He glances over at you with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gear shift. “What do you mean?”

You sit up a little in the seat, though you keep your hands in your lap and you try not to move your feet, just in case there’s dirt on your shoes.

“I mean,” you say, watching him carefully for his reaction, “that when you came to get me upstairs, you said you didn’t want to marry me. Is that really true?”

“I never said that.” He shifts gears again as you near a stoplight, and the car slows. 

“Yes, you did.”

“No,” he shifts again, his teeth now clenched, “I didn’t. I asked if it looked like I wanted to marry you, and you said it didn’t. But I never said I didn’t want to.”

Now you’re confused, and you frown at him, ignoring the obvious irritation in his voice. The car rolls to a stop behind a Ferrari blasting music out the open windows. 

“So you do want to marry me?” you ask. 

He sighs and drops his hand from the gear shift, then looks over at you. “Y/N, I’m not going to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do, so if this is you testing to see how I’ll treat you, then you have nothing to worry about. I’m not a monster.”

“It’s not. I just…” You stop, unsure of how to phrase what you’re feeling. It’s strange to be upset over a marriage you don’t even want, but for some reason, you are. 

“What?”

“If you don’t want to marry me and I don’t want to marry you, then why are we going along with this?” you finally ask, settling for the bigger question than the one that’s truly nagging at you.

“Because we know that if we don’t, life will be hell,” he answers.

It’s the truth. You know it is, and you know it deep down. If the two of you refuse this marriage, your life will be worse than you could possibly imagine, and you’re fairly certain that your fathers will find a way to make it happen anyhow. They’re well-connected in every sphere of life, not just when it comes to drugs and weapons. Your father probably has a priest on his payroll.

The light turns green and James moves the car forward again, merging into the right lane almost immediately. He slows as you approach a valet stand outside an upscale bar you’ve never heard of. It’s not one of your father’s, which means it probably belongs to George Barnes.

Then again, you think as a uniformed man opens your door, maybe it belongs to James.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Barnes,” a valet on the other side of the car greets.

James hands him the keys. “You too, Tommy. Listen, don’t park it too far off. We’re not staying too long.”

The man nods and climbs into the driver’s seat as your own valet leads you away from the curb. James meets you next to the valet stand and offers you his arm, then heads towards the doors.

“What is this place?” you ask as he holds open the door for you.

“My friend’s bar,” James says.

Your stomach twists itself in knots as heavy club music starts to get louder. The bass rumbles in your chest and you dig your nails into his arm as you near a set of glossy black double doors. You haven’t been to a club in a long time. The last time you’d gone, you’d been dragged by a childhood acquaintance, but you’d spent most of the night alone after she’d ditched you for someone she met on the dance floor. You’re not particularly eager to relive that experience tonight, especially with the man you’re being forced to marry. Who’s to say he won’t ditch you for someone else right in front of you, just to rub it in your face? After all, he’d said it himself in the bedroom—you’ll do what you want and he’ll do what he wants. It’s the cards you’ve been dealt.

If these are the cards, then I’ve got a sucky hand.

“James—”

“Bucky.”

You stop and squint at him in the low light of the entrance hallway. The two bouncers in all-black suits stop with their hands on the door handles, ready to open them for you once you start walking again. The music pounds in your ears, so much so that you can feel your eardrums vibrating.

“What?” you ask, not sure you’d heard him correctly.

“Bucky,” repeats James, a little louder this time. “You should call me Bucky, if we’re going to be married.”

“Is that… a nickname?” 

Even in the darkness, you can see him laugh, and a bashful, boyish smile spreads across his face. “My middle name is Buchanan. Steve used to tease me about it when we were kids, and he started calling me Bucky as a joke. It caught on.” He shrugs it off, but there’s a fondness in his voice when he speaks of his childhood friend, and it makes you smile just a little.

You loosen your grip on his arm. “Okay then. Bucky,” you add.

When Bucky steps forward again, the doors are pulled open, revealing a much more casual bar than you could’ve anticipated. Though it’s clean, it looks a little run down, and the heavy music fades into jazz piano as you step through the open doorway and into the large, open space. With almost cathedral-height ceilings, walnut floors and support pillars, and well-worn wooden booths and tables, the bar feels more homier than you’d expected. It’s clearly been well-hidden from the busy crowds of New York. Only a few patrons are scattered around the room, sitting in the booths or at two-top tables, but Bucky leads you to the wood, u-shaped bar that juts out into the room from the back wall. A single man stands behind it, drying glasses with a white bar towel. He smiles when he looks up and sees you approaching.

“Bucky,” he greets, and he reaches over the bar to pull Bucky in for a hug. It’s the first time you see Bucky smile—a real, full, genuine smile—and you watch in silence as he hugs his friend.

“Steve,” Bucky replies. Instantly, your brain starts connecting the dots. This is his childhood friend, the one who gave him his nickname.

“Tá sé go maith tú a fheiceáil.” Steve turns his attention to you, and you quickly look away from Bucky and at him. Your brain whirs as you try to place the language he’s just spoken. It’s not one you’ve heard before, which means none of your father’s men speak it, and neither do any of the Barneses.

“You must be Y/N.”

You nod and offer Steve a small, polite smile. You’re not sure how to act around Bucky’s friends. If they’re also part of the mob, it’s possible they’ll treat you even worse than George Barnes had after dinner, but a new, surprising voice in your head argues that Bucky would never be friends with someone like that.

“It’s okay,” reassures Bucky. He reaches out and touches your arm, gentler than he has all evening. “Steve’s a nice guy, and he knows about our family businesses. You can trust him.”

Steve looks between the two of you before picking up a glass and setting it right-side-up in front of you. “What’ll it be, Y/N?”

You glance at him, then at the wall of liquor behind him. After a moment, you list off a drink that’s not your favorite, but that you know you’ll be able to stomach no matter the circumstances. Steve nods in response before starting to make it.

Silently, Bucky takes one of the chairs at the bar, and you do the same. He sits with his arms folded on the counter. He’s still wearing his suit from dinner. You feel a little out of place in your fancy clothes, and you wonder if he feels the same.

Your drink is placed in front of you a moment later, and after Steve’s silent prompting, you take a sip. It’s delicious, and you can’t help but smile at him.

“Aha, I’ve still got it!” Steve cheers, and you laugh. He grins at you, a charming type of smile that makes your heart flutter in your chest. You feel a little sheepish at the intensity of his joy, and you fidget in your seat, then with your hair.

Beside you, Bucky rolls his eyes and tosses a round paper coaster at his friend. “Knock it off, Rogers,” he huffs. “Stop flirting with my girl. You’ve already got one of your own.”

You glance over when he calls you that, but you don’t say anything. There’s another weird feeling in your gut now. This one, unlike the one you’d had in the car or the fluttering feeling Steve had given you, you recognize immediately—pride. It feels good to have Bucky call you “his girl”, even if you barely know him. It’s strange, and the thought makes you squirm in your seat again. You drop your hand down to the bartop and take another sip of your drink, trying to quell the strange feelings inside of you. 

What is going on with me? Why can’t I just feel normal about all of this? Is there even a normal way to feel about this?

“You hungry?” asks Bucky, and you nod when you realize he’s talking to you again.

“I make a mean twice-baked potato,” Steve says. He plants his hands on the bar to look between the two of you. “Whaddaya say, Y/N? You up for it?”

“Only if you put the jalapeños on the side this time, punk,” Bucky tells him before you can reply. He seems to remember himself a second later, however, because he looks over at you. “Unless, of course, you want them on top.”

You shrug, not wanting to upset anyone, and Steve groans.

“Come on, Y/N,” he says, and he smiles wide as he gestures around the almost-empty bar. “I’ve got all the time in the world to make your food exactly the way you want it. Don’t make me guess.”

“He’s bad at guessing,” Bucky chimes in.

“Terrible,” Steve adds, nodding earnestly.

Tentatively, you list off what you want, and Steve makes a note of everything on a notepad that seems to appear out of nowhere. Once he’s got your order down, he disappears through a door in the back wall. Before it closes, you catch a glimpse of a shining kitchen filled with stainless steel, and you wonder how many patrons come through the bar if Steve has what looks to be a full-sized kitchen in the back.

“You didn’t eat much at dinner, so I figured I’d bring you someplace that actually has good food,” Bucky says. He reaches across the bar to grab a bottle of beer Steve has left out, and he uses one hand to pry the top off. 

You gape at him, too distracted by the blatant show of strength to properly process the very thoughtful thing he’s just said to you. “What?”

“I said that you didn’t eat much at dinner, so I figured—”

“You just pulled the top off like it was nothing. How did you do that?” You look around on Steve’s side of the bar for another bottle, hoping to try your luck. Maybe it’s some new kind of bottle that he’s trying out before it hits the market, or maybe Steve has bootleg beer with a different kind of cap.

Bucky is staring at you, seemingly just as confused as you. “With my arm.”

“With your arm?” you repeat. You’re certain that he’d used his hand to pry it off.

He stares at you for a second longer before the confusion disappears and is replaced with a glint of mischief in his eyes. It makes the shadows on his face melt away a little, and his blue irises seem bright and youthful again, entirely unlike a man who’s seen too much.

“My arm,” he reiterates, and then he pulls off the black glove you’d assumed to be part of his personal style. It’s not just for show, however, because he pulls it off to reveal a black metal hand with dull gold knuckles. Bucky continues, standing and shrugging off his jacket, then rolling up the sleeve of his button-down shirt. As he reveals more and more, you realize that the black metal continues, making up what would be his left arm.

No wonder it hurt when he grabbed me.

“It’s metal,” you dumbly say, and he snorts.

“Observant.”

You shake your head and look from his arm to meet his eyes. “You have a metal arm. How didn’t I know that?”

Bucky shrugs and drapes his jacket over the back of the chair. He leaves the glove on the bar where he’d first set it down. Once he’s seated again, he rolls up his other sleeve to match.

“Beats me. I figured everyone knew. My dad wasn’t subtle when he was bragging about the arm he had made for me when it first happened,” replies Bucky. He takes a sip of his beer, then sighs and sets it back down.

You don’t want to pity him, so you try your best to school your expression by taking a sip of your own drink.

“Was it an accident?” you ask after a minute has passed. He doesn’t reply right away, and you scramble to save the conversation. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen,” he says, and his voice is quieter than before.

You look back down at the drink in front of you. Twisting the glass around and around, you ask, “And it was an accident?”

Bucky takes another swig of his beer. “I was with my dad, working a job. I didn’t even realize I’d been injured until I woke up in the hospital, two weeks later, missing an arm. Apparently, falling shipping containers are heavy.”

You can’t help but curse. What he’s describing sounds horrible, but Bucky only laughs.

“That sounds about right, yeah. I’m lucky I had Steve around to keep me sane,” he tells you. “My friend Sam was a big help too, but he moved down to Louisiana a few years ago.”

“Steve seems like a good friend,” you agree. “They both do.”

You can feel Bucky staring at you now, and you take a sip of your drink while you wait for him to look away again. When he doesn’t, you glance in his direction.

“What?” you ask.

“What?”

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are!” you laugh, and you look at him fully this time. Bucky’s grinning, and you ball up a cocktail napkin and toss it at him.

“Okay, I was staring,” he admits, still smiling. “But I can’t help it. You’re pretty, and you’re nice, and you seem smart.”

You feel your cheeks grow warm at the compliment, and you look away. “You don’t have to say that. We’re already engaged.”

“I’m not saying it because we’re engaged. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

You don’t have a chance to reply before Steve comes out with two hot plates. He places them in front of you, joking briefly about giving you the wrong order, and it’s distraction enough that you sit up tall and smile wide. You push Bucky’s compliment out of your head as you chow down, groaning and moaning about the potatoes. They’re exactly what you need after the stressful dinner. Bucky was right—you hadn’t eaten much, and Steve’s cooking is delicious.

Once you’re full, you push your plate away and lean back in your chair. Steve grins at you before he goes back to counting the cash drawer. The other patrons have left already, leaving you, Steve, and Bucky alone in the bar.

“That was amazing,” you tell him for the hundredth time, and Steve chuckles.

“Thank you. I’ll be sure to tell mo bhean chéile—my wife—you said that, considering she still believes potatoes aren’t a meal.”

You notice the wedding band on his left hand as soon as he says it. Above it, also in silver, is a familiar ring. If you weren’t able to see the family crest, you would’ve thought it was the same as Bucky’s, but this ring has an eagle and a star engraved on it, rather than the wolf you’ve seen on Rebecca and Bucky’s rings.

“Potatoes are a meal!” you argue. You can tell that Steve has clocked you looking at his rings because he shifts his hand, instinctively blocking your view as he looks for your own ring. You’d taken your parent’s ring off the day you’d cried in the bathtub and you haven’t worn it since, but no one in Bucky’s family has replaced it with their own. It’s the first time since middle school that you haven’t worn a family ring, and you’d be lying if you said it was a weight off your shoulders. You’d thought it might be, but instead it just makes you feel naked.

Steve laughs and his posture relaxes. He stops hiding his rings from you when he realizes your hands are bare. “Well, whenever you meet her, you can have that argument with her, because I’ve already had it at least a dozen times.” He closes the drawer and fixes his eyes on Bucky, who’s just finishing his food. “Speaking of, when are you two coming over? I promised Peg I’d wait until Y/N had settled in to ask, and you seem settled enough to me.” He glances at you for the last part, and you look down at your empty plate.

“It’s not up to me,” answers Bucky. “We’ll come over whenever Y/N is ready. This is the first time we’ve been together since my dad dropped the bomb on us.”

Steve pauses, his hands on the tablet he’d set down before starting to count the night’s profits. “Wait. Really?”

You nod when he looks at you, suddenly self-conscious again, and you pull your hands into your lap. “I haven’t been the best house guest…”

“You’re not a guest, Y/N. It’s your home now, too,” Bucky interjects.

Reaching over the counter, Steve smacks the side of Bucky’s head. His accent is thick when he huffs, “Íosa Críost, you thick! You didn’t think to go talk to her? To see if she wanted to watch a movie? To see if she needed anything?”

Bucky stammers over in his seat, and you keep your head ducked to hide your smile. Clearly, Steve knows more about being married than Bucky does—most likely from experience, since he’s already mentioned his wife—and he isn’t afraid to tell his friend off for not looking out for your well-being.

“I’m sorry!” exclaims Bucky, ducking another hit. “I wasn’t thinking!”

“Like ifreann you weren’t!” Steve retreats and picks up the tablet with a huff, then looks at you. “Y/N, I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with him. He’s actually a nice guy when he’s not being stupid.”

“Stupid?” Bucky protests beside you.

“I wouldn’t have talked to him even if he’d tried,” you admit, finally looking up, “but it wouldn’t have hurt if he had.”

Steve nods, satisfied with your response. He leaves you a minute later when his phone rings. The wide smile on his face is enough to tell you who’s on the other end, but then he says her name as he walks away, the phone already held to his ear.

“So what’s with this place?” you ask. The quick change in subject is purposeful, and you hope that Bucky will take the bait.

Thankfully, he does. Bucky glances around before finishing off the last of his drink and setting the empty bottle closer to Steve’s side of the bar.

“Well, Steve wanted a place that we—and other people like us—could spend time without feeling like there was always a fight about to happen. We didn’t have that growing up, you know? And now that he’s in charge, he can do what he wants with his money. Everything’s filed properly, he doesn’t advertise, and all employees are paid above the table. If other people show up, then sure, they’re welcomed in, but they’re also fully vetted once Steve gets their IDs. Weapons aren’t allowed, and there’s no shop talk of any kind.”

“So it’s your little hideaway,” you say, propping your head up with one hand. The heaviness of the potatoes combined with the alcohol is starting to make you sleepy, and the emotional exhaustion from the night has started to weigh heavy on you, too.

He smiles a little. “Something like that.”

Bucky stands and rolls his sleeves back down, then pulls on his glove. He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket and sets it on the bar.

“Come on, doll. We should head home,” he says.

The warm feeling you’d felt when Bucky had called you his girl comes back, and you smile a little when he holds open his suit jacket for you. A little sheepish at the gesture, you slide off your seat and let him help you into the sleeves, then take Bucky’s hand when he offers it.

“Bye Steve!” you call, waving with your free hand.

Steve looks up from the other end of the bar, where he’s wiping down a counter with one hand and holding his phone with the other. He lets go of the rag to wave back.

Silently, Bucky leads you out to the front, where the valet already has his car pulled up. You’re not sure how they knew to have it ready, but you don’t dwell on it. Stranger things have happened in your world. Bucky tips the valets with another wad of cash before opening the passenger door and helping you in.

You fall asleep on the drive home. You don’t mean to, but Bucky turns on the radio a few minutes into the drive, and he lets the first station that comes on continue to play. The music is soft, and he drives so smoothly that it lulls you to sleep before you’re even fully out of the city.

When you wake, it’s because Bucky’s stubbed his toe on something, jostling you in his arms. He’s muttering curses under his breath and hobbling down the hallway, and though the jerking motion and his tightening grip isn’t the most comfortable for you at the moment, you keep your eyes closed and force yourself to keep your smile at bay. Bucky is a much sweeter guy than you’d first thought him to be, and it seems like he’s trying now to make up for lost time. You’d misjudged him at first; just like you, he has his own ways of dealing with the life forced on him by his parents, but he really is a gentleman underneath it all.

He carries you to your bedroom and carefully lays you on top of the covers. Then, as gently as possible, you feel him lift your foot and pry off the uncomfortable shoes Marta had picked out for you. Bucky stays totally silent as he takes the shoes off and sets them on the floor at the end of the bed. He pulls a thin blanket over you, one that you’re sure is just for decoration when the bed is made, and presses a kiss to the side of your head. You have to force yourself not to smile when he whispers,

“Goodnight, sleep tight.”

The door clicks shut as he closes it slowly, and you peek open an eye after a few seconds have passed. Your room is dark and empty. Silently, you smile to yourself and crawl under the covers, your eyes heavy. It’s been a long, exhausting evening, and you’re happy to be in bed. You fall asleep to the sound of spring rain on the estate windows and with Bucky’s jacket still wrapped around you.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky slowly enters your life in both big and small ways. He smiles at you over meals in the dining room and late night snacks in the kitchen. He drives you to the city to visit Steve, Peggy, and his other friends, and when he finds out that his father still has your license, Bucky argues with him for over an hour to get it back. Marta delivers your license to your room the very next day, along with a handwritten note that the dark blue Mercedes in the garage is there for your use. Sometimes, you wake up to a bouquet of flowers with another handwritten note. Sometimes it’s a text, and sometimes it’s a gift. Bucky develops a habit of purchasing anything you mention enjoying or even vaguely liking, and you eventually have to tell him to stop because he’s bought you so much that there’s nothing left to buy for yourself.

Bucky turns out to be a closer friend than anyone you’ve ever known. He’s kind, and funny, and intelligent, and he remembers all the little things about you that nobody else does. When you’re sick or feeling lonely, he’s attentive and his presence alone reminds you of all the good things in the world. He makes your days brighter, even the worst ones. You find yourself falling in love with him, much to your surprise. You admit this to him one day. He kisses you then, and he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first trip you’d taken to Steve’s bar. 

Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas roll around. New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, and Easter come and go. The Barnes’ grand celebrations for every holiday blur together as the months fly by, until eventually, it’s June and you’re standing in your room, staring at your reflection in the full-length mirror.

The wedding dress you’d picked out a few days after Christmas is just as beautiful as you remember it being. It fits you perfectly, thanks to the impeccable work of several tailors employed by Winnifred, and your hair and makeup are flawless as well. There’s no possible way you could’ve imagined how beautiful you look and feel on your wedding day. 

Through the open window, you can hear a string quartet playing outside in the rose garden, where the ceremony is set up. Steve has already come by once to check on you at Bucky’s request, but both men are back downstairs. Bucky’s no doubt at the front of the garden with the priest—the one that you now know for certain is on your father’s payroll—and Steve is waiting with the rest of the wedding party. The only people remaining in your room are Marta, your mother, and Peggy. 

You’ve grown to love Peggy more than any of your childhood friends. She didn’t grow up in the same world as you. She didn’t even grow up in the same country, and you love her all the more for it. She’s rational, cool-headed, and kind, though she’s not afraid to stand up for what’s right. On top of all that, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. It’s easy to see why Steve fell for her during his time in the military.

The quartet finishes the song and moves onto a new one, one that you recognize after only two notes. Your stomach drops and you close your eyes, gripping your bouquet tightly. It’s the song you’d been listening to the morning you’d found out about your engagement. You’d discovered it the night before, and you’d had it on repeat before going to sleep that night, then again that morning as you’d gotten ready. You’d even listened to it in the car on the drive from your parents’ estate.

Who added this to the playlist? Is this some kind of sick joke to them?

The same feeling of dread you’d felt that morning comes back, making your mouth dry and your head spin. You try to take a slow, deep breath to calm your nerves and block out the song, but it doesn’t work.

“Y/N?” Peggy asks.

You inhale sharply at the sound of her voice so close to you. She’d been texting Steve from near the window only moments before. You hadn’t thought that anyone would realize your distress, and you’d hoped to be able to collect yourself before it was noticeable. You hadn’t even sensed her coming closer.

“Y/N, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you tell her, but your voice wavers and your lower lip quivers. You try to take another slow breath.

“What’s going on?” Marta asks. Her hand lands on your arm and you pull away, closing in yourself and pulling the bouquet tight against you.

Your mother’s scolding makes you feel like you’re a little kid again. “Careful, Y/N! You don’t want to ruin those flowers. We don’t have time to make another bouquet for you. George is already hounding your father about how soon after the ceremony you’ll be signing the certificate.”

Anger wells up in you at her thoughtless comment, and you open your eyes. She’s standing behind you in the main part of the bedroom, near the foot of your bed. Any guilt you might’ve felt over ruining the flowers is gone now, and you turn and chuck the bouquet at the carpet by her feet. It bounces once, then lays motionless in a heap of smashed petals and ribbons.

“Enough, Mother!” you shout.

Marta rushes to close the window so the guests in the garden won’t hear your outburst.

Your mother gapes at you, somewhat surprised, but she doesn’t budge. “Y/N, dear. What are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” you yell, stepping closer. Your dress swishes as you walk, and you normally enjoy the sound, but you’re too furious to care how pleasing it is. “What are you doing? I am your only daughter! You should be treating me like a princess and worrying about how I’m feeling and what I need, but instead you’re too busy thinking about the damn flowers! I’m sick of you thinking of me like I’m an object you can sell, steal, and trade away whenever it’s most convenient! You and Dad are so obsessed with the timeline you’ve created for yourselves that you don’t even notice how much this has affected me! You didn’t even ask if this is what I wanted!”

She scoffs at you, and any trace of motherly care and concern has disappeared from her expression. Your mother is showing her true face—the mafia wife that has almost as much blood on her own hands as her husband does, if not more.

“It’s too late for that now, isn’t it?” she asks. She picks up her clutch from the end of your bed and steps closer until you're standing eye to eye. Her voice is patronizing and infuriating, and she continues, “It’s your wedding day, dearest, and you can’t back out now. We’ve made sure of it. Even James has agreed to the contract.” 

Your anger wavers. “Contract?”

“Yes, the contract,” she repeats, smirking. Her cards are all on the table now, and she’s got a winning hand. You both know it.

There’s a malicious glint in her eye as she says, “It’s already in effect. It has been since we agreed on the marriage.”

“What contract? What are you talking about?” There’s a sinking feeling in your chest, like your heart has decided to drop into your stomach, then down to your feet and through the floor. Bucky hadn’t said anything to you about a contract, and you trusted him, but you certainly didn’t trust your parents anymore, nor did you trust George and Winnifred Barnes.

Your mother smiles, a sickeningly sweet smile that makes you want to puke. “That’s a conversation for another time. After all, it doesn’t even matter to you until James gets you pregnant.”

The alarm on your phone rings and you close your eyes, your hands trembling. You’d set that alarm to remind you when it was time to leave for the ceremony. Right on cue, the wedding planner knocks on the door to your bedroom.

“Y/N?” she calls, knocking again. “Are you ready?”

Slowly, you squat down and pick up the bouquet. It’s smashed on one side and the petals have fallen off of various flowers, but it’s mostly intact. It shakes as your hands tremble and tears well up in your eyes.

Marta appears in front of you, having pushed your mother out of the way, and over the ringing in your ears, you hear Peggy talking to the wedding planner. Somehow, you make it out to the ground floor of the estate, to the double doors that lead out to the rose garden. You’re dazed by your mother’s strange revelation. The sound of the alarm is still ringing in your ears. Peggy says something to you, but you can only stare straight ahead. 

Your father is next to you then, as Peggy disappears through the doors and joins the rest of the wedding party. You see her glancing back at you, and whispering to the rest of the groomsmen and bridesmaids. Most of them are Bucky’s friends who have now become your own, and all of them look worried. 

“Let’s go, princess,” your father says, and he pulls you forward by the arm.

Numbly, you follow his lead. Not even Bucky’s initially delighted expression shakes you out of your trance, but the way he rubs his thumb over your hands at the end of the aisle pulls you out of it just enough for you to lift your head and look around. You don’t remember walking to him, nor do you remember handing off your bouquet to Peggy, just like you’d practiced last night at the rehearsal.

“Y/N? Darling?” Bucky asks. He crouches and tilts his head slightly to try to catch your eyes. “You okay?”

“I—” Your mouth is still dry and you swallow, your eyes flitting from one place in the garden to another with no rhyme or reason. The world feels like it’s spinning and you clutch Bucky’s hands, unsure of what to do.

“Someone get her a chair,” Bucky orders, raising his voice enough that you flinch. He immediately starts murmuring reassurances to you, and he pulls you into his arms until he can lower you into a seat.

Someone fans you and a cool glass is pressed to your lips. You drink obediently, closing your eyes as the water helps the sandy feeling in your mouth abate just a little. When the water is gone, the glass is pulled away. 

“Y/N, can you hear me?” Bucky asks. 

Slowly, carefully, you nod your head. He sighs in relief and when you open your eyes, he’s kneeling down in front of you. His shoulders are tense and his forehead is creased with worry. You’ve never seen him this stressed over anything and it makes you want to cry.

“I’m sorry,” you croak, heat flaming in your cheeks. You feel horrible. Bucky has been looking forward to the ceremony—he’d told you last night at the rehearsal dinner.

“It’s okay,” he quickly replies. He reaches forward and takes your hands, and you glance away from him to peek at the guests, your parents included, who are still watching you from their seats.

“Are you ready for this, or do you need a break?” 

You look back at Bucky. “A break?”

“She’s fine,” your mother says, and you look over at her from your seat. She’s standing in the front row, her eyes fixated on the priest behind you. “They’re fine, Father. Y/N’s been a bit nervous all morning. Wedding day jitters, you know.”

“I—” You frown at her, still clutching Bucky’s hands. “That’s not what it is.” You look down at him and shake your head. “I’m not nervous to marry you.”

“I’m not nervous either,” he says with a small smile. 

“Then shall we continue?” the priest asks.

You turn to shake your head at him. “No. I’m sorry, Father. I need to talk to Bucky—James—in private for just a minute. Is that alright?”

He smiles gently and nods. “Of course.”

There are more agitated murmurs from the crowd, but you ignore them as Peggy, Steve, and Bucky help you up and back down the aisle. When your mother moves to follow you, she’s blocked by Sam and Clint, another one of Bucky’s friends. She calls after you once, but you ignore her as Peggy helps you onto a bench inside, then leaves, closing the double doors behind herself. She’s handed back your bouquet, and you clutch it with both hands like it’s an anchor in the storm.

“Is everything okay?” Bucky asks. He stands near the door, and you can tell from the way he rolls his shoulders that he’s stressed. His prosthetic always bothers him more when he’s agitated, and you suddenly feel even worse about stopping the ceremony.

“Yes,” you say, but then you shake your head. “No, I’m sorry. Obviously, it’s not, or I wouldn’t have stopped everything. I’m sorry, Bucky, but I have to ask you something.”

“Okay…” There’s a wariness in his eyes, one that you loathe yourself for. You put it there, and you wish with all your might that your mother hadn’t told you what she did. Maybe then you wouldn’t have had to do this.

“Did you sign a contract? With our parents?”

He frowns and his whole body grows very still. “A contract?”

You nod. “Yes.” With your hands still fisted tightly around the bouquet, you inhale deeply and add, “A contract about getting me pregnant.”

“What?” Bucky’s furious response is immediate. He shakes his head, his eyes searching your face for any sign that you might be making this up. “Y/N, what are you talking about?”

“Did you sign a contract agreeing to marry me, and agreeing that my parents get something after you get me pregnant?” The words make you sick to your stomach. You haven’t eaten anything all day, which doesn’t help, but the thought of Bucky agreeing to something so vile… It’s enough to make anyone nauseous.

He’s shaking his head at you again. “Why the hell would I sign anything like that? Do you really think I would do that?”

You shrug a little and look down at the bouquet. “My mother…”

“Darling…” Bucky sighs and comes closer, and he kneels down in front of you again, just like he had outside. All the fight and anger has left his voice. “I would never do anything like that. Not in a million years, and especially not to you. I love you.”

“She said you signed it before they’d even told me we were engaged,” you said, quiet now that he’s so close. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, to see what his face might be telling you that his words aren’t.

“Can you look at me? Please?”

Reluctantly, you lift your eyes from the flowers in your lap to meet Bucky’s eyes. They’re just as blue as the ribbons wrapped around the flower stems, a choice you’d specifically made without the wedding planner’s guidance. You’d wanted him to be your “something blue”, even if it felt a little cheesy.

“Do you want to marry me?” Bucky asks.

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod. “Yes.”

“Do you believe me when I say I had nothing to do with that contract? That I didn’t know it existed?” he questions.

You nod again, tears forming in your eyes.

“And do you trust me to help you find a way to get rid of it, once all of this is over? Do you trust me to protect you?”

You nod for the third time, and Bucky takes both of your hands in his.

“Okay. Then let’s get married, and I swear to you that as soon as our honeymoon is over, the guys and I will start doing some digging.”

“What about me?” you ask, sniffling. You pull one of your hands away to dab at your eyes before the makeup can get too damaged by your tears.

“What about you?”

“Can I dig, too?”

Bucky chuckles and kisses your knuckles on the hand that he’s holding, and then he pulls himself up off the floor to sit beside you on the bench. He pulls you into a half-hug and you cling to him, sniffling and smiling as he rubs the your back and answers,

“You can do all the digging you want, doll. I’ll even hand you the shovel.”

Tá sé go maith tú a fheiceáil. = It’s good to see you.

Mo bhean chéile = My wife

Íosa Críost = Jesus Christ

Thick = A stupid person

Ifreann = Hell

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider reblogging my work so that others can enjoy it too.

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Forever: @aya-fay

Bucky Barnes: @lipstickandvibranium @valhalla-kristin @buckymcbuckbarnes

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #mafia bucky x reader #mafia bucky barnes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic #bucky #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky x you #bucky barnes headcanon #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #marvel #avengers #marvel fanfiction #marvel fic #marvel angst #marvel fanfic #marvel reader insert #mafia au #arranged marriage #sebastian stan #avengers fanfiction #avengers reader insert #avengers fanfic

[prodbymaui]

These Secrets That I Have.

what if I told you that I've fallen?

PAIRING: mark lee x fem!reader

GENRE: our friendly neighborhood spiderman ; the best friends

WORD COUNT: 4.3k+ words

WARNINGS: eventual smut, choking kink, arson

SYNOPSIS: Joking that your best friend is the infamous superhero bitten by a spider has been a habit for the group. It was all a joke, until it wasn't.

A/N: THE UPSIDE DOWN KISS!! spidermark agenda, I wouldn't let you die. and forgive for the poor attempts of comedy lmao. anyways, happy reading and don't forget to share your thoughts about this fic! <3

''With great power comes..''

''Great responsibilities--''

Gasping dramatically, Johnny stands up as his finger points accusingly to the male who's unknowingly straining his vocal chords due to laughing so much.

Mark shakes his head, clapping his hands in amusement. ''Dude, everybody knows that.''

''Nobody gets it right.''

Jaehyun joins the tallest among all of you. ''Except spiderman.''

Cackles once again blooms, the way these two delivers their impromptu exposing session is so comical that you are all gasping for air.

If you didn't know better, those faces full of shock mixed with betrayal would fool you into thinking your best friend is actually the one behind the infamous red and dark blue suit with webs and spider symbols decorating it. No ones knows when it actually began, the spiderman jokes. Johnny and Jaehyun are certainly the ones to start the teasing on Mark, doting on him and urging him to 'admit it' in every chance they get. Oftentimes, the jokes are fueled by Mark's fast reflexes. Someone can react fast, alright, but something about Mark's tells that there's a deeper root or cause, Johnny's words.

Personally, you don't really think Mark would be the 'friendly neighborhood' superhero neither do you consider even the smallest chance because-- one, the male is literally with you almost 24/7 and spiderman saves people 25/8. And two, you've stayed at Mark's apartment more than you've done to your dorm, you know the in and outs, every nook and cranny of the space-- not once did you found even a mere clue that suggests what Johnny and Jaehyun had in their mind.

''You really gotta back us up here, dude. You know what you've seen.'' Once again, the faux seriousness shows in his words and his eyes widening to convince, you decides to ride his flow this time.

''Actions speaks louder than voice, Mark. If you're not spiderman, then explain the spidey senses!'' Johnny throws a cap towards Mark's direction, effectively making the man catch it within seconds, eventually proving your 'theory'.

'I told you so' looks are exchanged between the three of you. Haechan barks a laugh at that.

''This is fucking crazy.'' Clearly, he's enjoying the show judging by the tears escaping the sockets of his eyes.

The series of persistence is left to deaf ears. Mark prefers downing as much pizza as he can right now rather than dealing with endless accusations that, to say the least, is absolutely nonsensical. ''Y'all would cut this shit out or you'll have webs shoved down deep in your throat in a minute?''

By now, Mark should've known making empty threats that has connections with spiderman's universe or spiderman himself will just worsen the situation he already finds hard to be in. Albeit his ears ringing, Mark didn't make any effort to stop the banters of his friends regarding if he's the superhero bitten by a spider or he's just a natural. Concluding that the discussion is harmless, he doesn't find the need to.

Ha! It's not like he's actually the 'Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman', right?

Another groan escapes past your lips, fingers drumming the white table. 15 minutes upon arriving at 7/11, your instant ramen slash source of distraction from boredom sadly disappears in thin air. What the fuck is taking Mark Lee so long?

''--so you mean, 10 muscled people holding rifles each was nothing against 1 spider descendant or some shit?'' Your ears perks up.

''Yup, flicked those robbers away to the police like it was nothing.''

''Damn crazy, and fucking awesome.''

''That's spiderman for you,'' The boy browses through the ice cream freezer near you. ''Still can't believe he's in this area just minutes ago.''

Eh? The superhero was here? Then that would mean the said robbery took place somewhere not far from where you were eating your ramen peacefully. How come you didn't hear the sirens? You sigh, mind wondering the possible outcomes if the robbers decides to raid the stores nearby and eventually reach yours. It fuels your urge to go home even more.

Supposedly, this trip shouldn't last no more than 10 minutes considering the fact that the store is not even 3 minutes away from your dorm and choosing chips to your liking only takes less than 5 minutes of your time-- depending on how indecisive you are and how crazy your cravings are. It'll all bring you back to the comfort of your bedroom in no time, nonetheless.

But a certain someone thought it's a good idea to leave you at the store and tells you that he'll be back in a bit, making you wait like some child for their parent. Heck, no parent would even leave their child alone at a convenience store, opting to take the kid with them. He insisted on meeting here again in spite of your whines to go separate ways so you can enjoy the warmth of your bed all the while he fulfills the errand that he so eagerly wants to finish.

''This motherfucker, I swear to God.'' Informing Mark that you'll go back via message, the chair lets out a faint screech as your body heat lingers a little longer after standing up to leave. Just as you turn around, your shoulders meets a chest, sending you both to a halt as the collision sinks in. You look up to see your most awaited best friend with his unstyled chest nut hair serving as a curtain for his same shade orbs. He breathes heavily, as if catching some air to fend his lungs.

Eyes raking down his body, you drink in his appearance. He looks like he just came from.. a fight. ''The hell happened to you, dude?'' Your figure heads towards the store's exit.

''Police thought I was one of those that belonged to the robbery, took me a while to convince them I'm not, sorry.''

You snort. ''Well, I would mistake you as a robber too with this beanie and all black outfit you have.''

Mark scowls. ''They thought I'm a victim, just for your information.''

''Really? That's surprising.'' Laughing softly under your breath, you tosses a bag of chips to Mark as compensation for your teasing.

The gust of cold breeze remains disregarded, warmth coming from the other's body heat is enough to ease the coldness. Passing by where the crime occurred, your feet unknowingly fasten their pace, shuddering at the thought of danger albeit the police cars and armed officers surrounds the area in protection stance.

Overhearing a reporter going on about something along the lines of 'the cops thanking Spiderman as it weren't for him, they wouldn't be able to catch the criminals' makes you sigh.

They should really stop depending on the superhero. You thought.

''Isn't it scary?''

Mark turns to you. ''What is?''

''The way greed can drive humans to intense, irrevocable madness.  It pushes them to do these things that'll not only put their lives in danger but will also fail to satisfy their desires. Sure, they can have money in the palms of their hands with just a snap, stealing from people-- but will those bills last for a long time? Will that be enough for them? Certainly not.''

A brief glance from Mark is what you received, the bop of his head caught by your peripheral vision assures you to keep going. ''The more they steal, the more they crave. If the officials thinks that every on-going and unsolved crimes plastered on the news by the media will scare the criminals away because they are apparently doing their best to find the suspects and pull them out of wherever hole they are hiding, they're wrong. The cops wouldn't be forced to  use their best assets and experience sleepless nights if the criminals are not doing well at their job, right? Those announcements of endless searchings and calls for the people's help only pats the wanted people on their back, telling them they've done an excellent mayhem job.

Sometimes, I don't even know who to blame when crimes, like this kind, happens. Is it the criminals themselves because they lost their morals over materialistic things? Because they gave in to the urge of possessing those that goes beyond what they can comprehend? Is it the police for not hearing the reason why these criminals have done it? Is it the society who embodies judgemental and discriminating in all sorts of way that probably pushed them to do such things? Or is it the government who failed to make education and employment accessible to everyone no matter what their status in life is?''

Kicking a pebble out of your way, it creates a dull thudding sounds. ''Proper education and enabling people to have a grasp of legal source of income would probably prevent crimes from happening. I'd like to think that most are just desperate measures.''

Mark hums. ''What you said are somewhat right. They makes sense.''

''But.. ?'' You know there's more that he itches to say.

''But, as much as everyone deserves to be heard and understood, some are just born evil. Born without remorse for others. It'll surprise you how we encounter many people such them in our daily lives. So avoid thinking that criminals did what they've done because they had a traumatic and devastating life. You're unknowingly justifying the ends by their means, something you cannot do especially if the lives of innocents are on the line.''

It's unclear why Mark sounds firm and sure regarding of meeting the people he just talked about but since their existence is not exactly a secret from the whole world, you suppose he's correct.

Too caught up in your conversation, your feet reached the entrance of your dorm's building in no time. Turning around, you offer a cheeky smile at him. ''Thank heavens then that I don't need to worry about my safety.''

Mark returns your smile with a hearty scoff. He knows where this is going. ''Uh-huh, and why is that?''

''Because I have Spiderman as my best friend! You'll protect me, won't you spidey?'' Giggling, Mark nudges your arm as you walk side by side, resorting to shaking his head instead of joining your spiderman agenda.

Spiderman or not, Mark vows to himself to keep you away from the darkness of this world with all his might. He already lost his uncle, he couldn't afford to lose someone so dear to his heart once again.

The alarm blares loudly and pierces your ear drums, almost busting them yet you didn't make any effort of getting up. The ringing sounds extra loud today, though. Ah.. you don't really want to wake up. Your body shifts to a new position, hands searching where your phone lays.

Definitely, no one wants to wake up before the roosters crows in a weekend where you should be using all your time to rest in preparation of yet another tiring week.

Skin making a contact with the source of the sound, you didn't feel any vibration with it. Just as when you decided to go back to sleep and withstand the annoying ringing of the alarm, rapid knocks on your door overpowered the previous sound, effectively pulling you out of the borderline between dreamland and reality.

You sit up. ''Fuck--'' It is only then that you realized, the alarm isn't coming from your usual alarm clock. Instead, it is the fire alarm ringing and announcing the state of your building.

With panic taking over your emotions, your body moves fast. Getting all the things that you know is important before soaking a blanket in water, covering yourself with it, and finally running out to leaving your room. Tears pricks your eyes as you meet the fiery blaze engulfing the whole building, enclosing in with every blink and every breath you take. You step a few backwards, lips quivering as you try to ignore the scorching heat seeping through the wet blanket, threatening to burn your skin any minute. Your eyes wavers.

There's so many ways you could die but dying helplessly amidst of an arson is not what you fancy. A scream of horror couldn't even be used to express your fear, you remain quiet and whimpering despite the shivering of your body, arms hugging yourself.

Your doors shut close once again, your back leaning against it as you falls to the ground, drops of tears continuously running down your cheeks. The fire started from a floor below yours, or at least that's what it seemed like. Meaning you absolutely have no chance of escaping the flames unless you jump out of your window. Surely, you're somehow survive a fall from the 5th floor, right?

A rattle created somewhere in your house snaps you out of your nonlogical thoughts. Looking up, you don't know whether to believe your eyes or rub the surface of your orbs, taking a second look in case what you're seeing is just a figment of your imagination. Maybe you're slowly losing some screws in the head.

But the movement of the figure, jogging towards you, tells you otherwise. ''What the fuck.. ?''

It's real.

It's him.

It's Spiderman in the fucking flesh.

Once again, you are stolen from your trance by his arms gently pulling you up, steadying you. Without much of a warning, the superhero scoops you in his arms and flies out of the window. And holy fuck, does it scared the shit out of you that the fibers of your body started to scream nothing but hold on tight to the man who's swinging down the building with you.

The uncalled adventure ended before you could even processed that your building is currently burning down, you got stucked between the fire and now Spiderman just saved you. No one should be able to blame you if you take days to properly digest what just happened.

He stands before you for a few more seconds, as if raking down his eyes. You tilt your head when he nods and runs to save the others. ''The fuck.. ?'' For the nth of the day, you let out a curse.

Your brain is totally playing with you. There's no fucking way Spiderman helped you, made sure that you got no wounds slash you're safe and sound before nodding as if to assure himself. Johnny is gonna combust if he's to hear your story.

The comfort of the thick blanket engulfs your figure as you hold your cellphone and wallet in your hand. Sighing, you turn to Jaehyun who came to your aid at this goddamn hour. ''You don't really have to stay with me, Jay. Pretty sure this'll end in an hour or so, you can go back now.''

Stubbornly, the male shakes his head. ''Did you know how worried we are when we heard from Mark that your dorm was on fire? Johnny and Haechan almost even flew out of Busan just to make sure you're alright.''

''Dude, I'm really fine, I promise. I can manage this, just rest.''

His hand pushes your head lightly to lay on his shoulder. ''No, you rest.''

Giving up, you let yourself relax, leaning your weigh towards Jaehyun as you pull the blanket tighter around you. The dreamland train is ready to send you to your slumber when your eyes opens abruptly, realizing what Jaehyun just said.

''Jay?''

He hums.

''From whom did you heard about the fire again?''

''Uh.. Mark?''

''And where is he right now?''

''... Dunno, maybe he's somewhere that's why he couldn't come.''

Your silence tells Jaehyun you're not convinced by his reason.

He silently prays Mark doesn't kick his ass.

2 hours passed and you decided to make Jaehyun drop you off on Mark's place, opting to stay there until everything's alright back at your apartment. It is proven that the male's walls have nothing against your persistent whines as you now lay on Mark's bed, scrolling through your phone.

Ever since stepping a foot here few minutes ago, you didn't catch nor sense Mark's presence. In usual days, it's Mark who zooms from wherever he is to your place once the news of something happening to you reaches him. But today, it was Jaehyun instead.

Your thoughts ponders to where it has been circling earlier. A voice inside you says something you surprisingly don't find hard to believe. Maybe it was your best friend who found you first after all, just not in his signature beanie and all black outfit.

''That's dumb. I should stop joining Johnny and Jaehyun with their shenanigans.''

You must've gone crazy now that you're talking to yourself.

''What's so crazy about that? Doesn't everyone talks to themselves at least once? It's not like it's so bad. According to scientists, taking to yourself brings you comfort and such.''

Of course, that's bullshit. You hate reading anything that involves science.

''Mark is not the superhero who got bitten by a magical spider that turned him into a man who saves the people from fire and crimes. Mark is just your stupid of a best friend that thinks putting strawberries in a microwave is a good idea because he likes his fruits warm. Mark is your best friend who's scared of cockroaches so how come he's a hero whose powers came from a spider? Mark is not Spiderman--''

Wrong. Absolutely Wrong.

Your claims got debunked right after you lay them down. You're absolutely fucking wrong.

The superhero whom you got to meet earlier, now stands in front of you once again. Hissing at what seemed to be a burn, unaware of the other presence inside the room, the mask comes off of his head, revealing the face the media and government would pay billions of money to see.

All this time, the jokes that Johnny and Jaehyun threw weren't all bullshit. Because the moment Spiderman turns out, the familiar chestnut shade eyes meets yours, effectively stilling both of your figures.

Holy motherfucking shit.

Spiderman IS Mark Lee.

''...''

''...''

''...''

''... let's treat your burn first.''

The hero nods like a puppy.

''Ouch! At least dab it gently. I may have powers but immunity to stings isn't one of them, you know?'' That only pushes you to dab the cotton pad harder on his burnt skin, earning a yelp.

''You deserve that after hiding this secret from us for how many years.''

''Who said I hid it from all of you? Johnny and Jaehyun have known about this months ago.'' Your glare scares the superhero embarrassingly. To be fair, it's not like Mark intended to let the duo know. It was accidental.

''And you didn't even dare to tell me, your literal best friend?'' You know exactly why he didn't want to risk revealing his secret even with those he trusts the most, you just don't know how to properly mask the worry inside you.

Mark, instead, smirks. ''Just say you're worried, it's not that bad to admit it, you know?'' He's right.

Your finger fumbles the cotton, eyes staring deeply to Mark's as you weigh the outcomes if you say the very sentence that lays at the tip of your tongue. The hem of your shirt moves, courtesy of Mark of playing with them.

Fuck it.

No one knows who leans in to who, all you know is that you desire to take more than the heat coming from Mark's tongue on yours. His arm wraps around your waist, flipping your position so you would be the one to lay on the bed, hovering your figure as his kisses travels down to your neck. Whimpers escapes your lips, hand threading the brown strands while the other feels the firm chest through his suit.

Your clothes soon flies to god knows where, the chilly wind bites through your bare skin but the flames of Mark's tongue licking every surface he can eases it. The lips comes back to meet yours one more time, devouring every area that he can reach. It's nothing like you expected to experience from Mark.

It's fierce, hot, and needy.

Wet sounds of kissing echoes through the silence of the room, rustling clothes accompanying it as Mark takes off his suit.

Fingers ghosting over the line that serves as an entrance to your core, your breath hitches. They entered Mark's mouth first, sucking and licking before pulling them out full of saliva just for the show. Finally dipping inside you, a sigh couldn't help but to be let out. It's deep, something you're unable to do whenever you're left to fend for yourself.

Mark gets on it, inserting one after another with little rest in between until he feels you're stretched enough for him. You pant, the angry red tip touching and tracing the line of your pussy, enough to send you desperate. So desperate that you whine and grinds your hips upwards to meet his length.

Caging you in his embrace, Mark's lips stays on yours as his cock slowly but smoothly slides past your opening, the veins rubbing along your walls enough to receive a quiet moan from you. There's a slight sting caused by the stretched of Mark's girthy dick but that's what you wanted, for it to hurt even a bit. In order for you could feel Mark fully.

''Good?''

''So good.''

Mark chuckles, observing your facial expression as he makes circles with his hips, hand caressing your sides in a comforting way. When he senses that you've gotten used to his cock sliding in and out of your entrance, he with no doubts quickens his pace. He starts fucking.

Screams of his name along with vulgar profanity fills the apartment, loud skin slapping fuelling the hunger for release. ''More, more, more-- fuck, Mark, please.''

The male grunts. God, just your calls of his name is enough to make him come. It takes him a lot of self-control to prevent his climax from raining on him quickly. With the determination of bringing you over the edge, his hips snaps harder, harsher and faster.

The way his tip gets caught on your walls before fully pulling out is hypnotizing. Hands gripping the pillow beside your head, Mark changes his angle a bit and that's when you scream his name loud enough for the neighbors to complain tomorrow. Mercilessly, Mark's bulbous tip jabs on your spot dead on continuously, giving you no time to catch some air.

His mouth attaches to your skin as he paints it with love bruises, a remembrance of your activity. ''Aah, shit-- are you close, baby? Are you gonna come around my cock? Tighten your-- fuck-- walls around me until I can't fucking-- aah-- breathe?''

You nod, chanting his name like a mantra as you plead him to bring you the mind numbing pleasure. Scratching his back, nails digging and creating crescent moon shapes on his skin-- Mark finds himself only getting closer to coming. His fingers wraps themselves around your wrist, placing your palm on the expanse of his neck. Mark groans when he feels the pleasuring grip on the sides of his throat, eyes rolling to the back as the perfect press sends him to his peak.

With your walls pulsating around him, white cream creating a customized ring for his cock, Mark thrusts once, twice, trice and a few more before he pulls out. Ribbons of white makes itself known on your stomach through the warmth it radiates. His head is thrown to the back as his mouth falls apart, moaning your name.

Minutes passes by and it was only then that Mark came to his senses, laying carefully beside you. Despite just having his cock inside you not long ago, Mark visibly stills when you wrap your arms around his waist. You chuckle.

''Any secrets you have that you want to tell me?'' Whispering against his shoulder, Mark gains the courage of placing his arm to hug you side ways. He smiles, staring at the ceiling.

''If I didn't know any better, I'd say that smiles means you like me.''

''Well, do you?''

''Do I what?''

''Know better.''

Giggles of happiness echoes the bedroom.

It is night and your heels clicking the floor is heard along the quiet alley. You purses your lips, hands buried in the pockets of your jacket to hide from the freezing cold of the night. Eyes remaining to the ground, you steps comes to a halt when you sense another presence just behind you.

The shadow shows an upside down figure of someone, a strange yet familiar way. You turn around with no fear, smile of adore dawning your face as the sight of your boyfriend waiting greets you.

''Hi,'' Softly, you caress his upside down face. ''The people are waiting for you to save them, spidey.''

''Can I get my good luck? So I'd know someone is waiting for me to get back home?'' Chuckle rumbles on your chest as you pinch his cheek.

Your fingers tugs the hem of his mask, enough to reveal the naturally red yet slightly chapped lips that you love. Pressing a loving kiss, you hoped that Mark was able to decipher all the feelings you've put.

''Can I tell you a secret?''

You didn't wait a respond from him.

''I love you.''

You peck his lips.

''So damn much.''

You fix his mask and ensure that it wouldn't slip off of him.

''Be careful while saving the world, will you? I wouldn't know what to do if I lose mine.''

With one last kiss through the fabric of his mask, Mark vows that after helping the people, he will come back safely-- to his very own home, his own world.

#nct smut #mark lee smut #mark smut #nct #mark lee #nct 127 #nct dream #nct fanfic #mark fanfic #mark imagines #mark scenarios #mark lee x reader #mark hard hours #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct fluff #mark fluff #nct x reader #nct dream smut #prodbymaui

[vanwritesfan-fiction]

If You Let Me, Part One

A/N: My first Joe fic! This series is based off the song "If You Let Me" by Sinead Harnett, one of my favorite songs. Really excited to post this and I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: angst, kissing, mentions of alcohol and drunkenness

You pulled your coat tighter across your body as you crossed the street toward the church. It had just started to snow, uncharacteristically early for Cincinnati in November, a light dusting of flurries coating the stones as you ran up the steps.

You wish you could say being late to your brother’s wedding rehearsal was out of character for you, but you’d be lying. You had a habit of showing up fashionably (or what your mother would call embarrassingly) late to family events, partially because you couldn’t stand to be around your parents for too long without a drink in your hand, and partially because it meant a decreased chance that you’d run into Joe. He was your brother’s best friend, troublemakers attached at the hip since they could walk, so your mom invited him to every dinner, birthday party, and holiday. Thank goodness his football schedule made it difficult to say yes to any of the invitations, or you probably wouldn’t have seen your family at all this year. It wasn't a surprise that Joe was going to be your brother's best man, but it did mean you'd been dreading this weekend for the past year.

You could admit you were dragging your feet getting ready this morning, but your tardiness today, truly wasn’t your fault. On the 15-minute ride from your apartment to the church downtown, you managed to hit every red light and get stuck behind a freight train. Even on the walk from the parking lot, all of the contents of your purse spilled onto the pavement, and you lost your shoe crossing the street.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was divine intervention.

As you walked into the church, you realized it was karma.

There he stood, leaning against the door that led to the main hall, his phone in his hand. His blonde hair was shorter than the last time you’d seen him, the tan he got from being on the football field six days a week a nice contrast to his bright blue eyes. He looked nervous, uneasy, his left leg jiggling as he looked around the room before glancing back down to his phone as if he was anticipating someone's arrival, and when he made eye contact with you, he looked downright sick to his stomach.

“Hi”, the word came out as a squeak. Joe straightened up, pulling at the sleeve of his tan suit jacket. The bride, your future sister-in-law, Tiffany, insisted that the entire wedding party be in coordinating colors, tan for the groomsmen, teal for the bridesmaids. You were wearing a simple black shift dress that had been hiding in the back of your closet because you turned down your invitation to be part of the wedding party, much to your mother’s chagrin.

“You’re going to be the only member of our family not part of the wedding”, she chastised you over the phone when Tiffany told her you would be enjoying the wedding from the second row of guest seating. “How do you think this is going to make me look in front of my friends?” You realized that it did look odd that you weren’t participating in your only brother’s wedding in some capacity, but you knew the only way you were going to make it through this wedding was by clinging to the bar and staying as far away as you could from Joe Burrow.

“Um, hey.” He cleared his throat as he slipped his phone into his back pocket. You could cut the tension with a dull butter knife, that’s how little regard he had for you now.

The last time the two of you had even been in the same room together was your family’s annual Christmas Eve party, three years ago. You had just broken up with your boyfriend of eight good, long years, the man you thought you were going to marry and have a family with, after he admitted to cheating on you with some random girl he met at a bar, and you were more than drunk off of a few martinis to try to ease the pain. You stumbled, literally, across Joe on the balcony, who had stepped outside to get some fresh air and get away from the terrible Christmas karaoke.

“You are not drunk enough tonight, Mr. Burrow.” You shakily held out the bottle of champagne you had stollen from the kitchen. Joe took the mostly empty bottle from you with a grin, placing it on the ground. “I think you’re drunk enough for the both of us", he grabbed you just as you tripped over your own feet, holding you up with one of his hands, Ok, I gotcha.”

“If you can’t get stupid drunk while your mom inappropriately sings “Santa Baby” to a room of your family and friends, when can you drink?” You gestured back into the house, watching your mother scandalously shaking her hips as the instrumental blared over the speakers. You got your sense of humor and your low alcohol tolerance from her. You gripped the railing of the balcony to steady yourself, accidentally landing atop Joe’s hand. His skin felt hot and smooth, and for the second you made eye contact with him, his gaze falling from your eyes to your lips, you were pretty sure you were willing to do something stupid tonight to forget about your broken heart.

Your relationship with Joe had always been, well, nonexistent. Growing up, he and your brother were a year ahead of you in school, and they mostly wanted nothing to do with you; teenagers could be cruel, so the only time you saw Joe was in passing in the hallway between classes or when he came to your house to hang out. He was always nice to you, but in a “I have to be nice to you or my mom will kill me” kind of way. You were pretty sure he didn’t see you as anything more as an obnoxious little sister.

“So, how’s school going?” Joe quickly pulled his hand away, crossing his arms over his chest. You took a deep breath, feeling yourself quickly sober up. “School is well, school.” You punctuated your sentence with a hiccup. The last thing you wanted to talk about was how terribly you were doing in college, and how your goal of getting into law school next year was quickly becoming a pipe dream. “School, you?”, Joe’s brow furrowed at your question as you slurred your words, “I mean, how’s school going for you?” He nodded, flashing you his perfect, pearly whites. “School’s good, football’s going well. Scouts are telling me I’m probably going first round.” He looked down at the ground, studying his sneakers like they were the most fascinating thing he’d seen all night.

“That’s amazing! Congrats!” You would later blame it on your inebriation, but not thinking, you threw your arms sloppily around Joe’s shoulders, his hands catching you low at the waist. “Uh, I-“, your mouth was dangerously close to his, and you were sure he could smell the vodka on your breath, but when you tried to pull away, he wouldn’t let you go, keeping you tightly pulled into his chest. You let yourself fall into his hold as the two of you brushed noses, Joe gently kissing at your bottom lip to test the waters. You’d be lying if you said the thought never crossed your mind, you had always had a crush on Joe, but it was also a line you thought you’d never cross. Any other night there would have been no question, but tonight, you were hurting, and Joe was your only source of comfort.

You grab his face with both hands, pulling him down to better meet you, your lips pressed together so hard, not a breath could escape. Joe’s large frame towered over yours as you both fought for dominance in the kiss, Joe’s tongue jutting in between your lips. You felt a warmth pool in your stomach as Joe’s hands roamed your body carelessly, eventually moving to cup your ass, gently lifting you and forcing you to stand on your toes to keep up. You were glad the heat from inside the house had fogged up the windows, preventing anyone from seeing the two of you.

“Joe, stop.” You mumbled against his mouth, trying to push him away at the chest, making him eventually break away even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. You saw the puffs of white in the air leaving his mouth as his chest heaved with each breath, his cheeks a rosy pink, lips swollen and red.

“What?” It was more like a plea than a question, his warm hand cupping your cheek as he looked at you. “What’s wrong?” You pressed your forehead against his, his arms still wrapped around you; he didn’t dare to let you go. You played with the necklace around your neck, twisting the diamond stone between your fingers. You were still wearing the necklace that your boyfriend had given you, even though the two of you were broken up. As much as you wish you were, you still weren’t over your relationship, and it wasn’t fair to either of you to lead Joe on.

“We really shouldn’t be doing this. You’re my brother’s best friend.” You closed your eyes, each breath you took in reminding you of just how good Joe smelled. Your head was spinning, and not because of the drinks you’d had all evening.

“I’ve always cared about you. I know we’ve never been here before”, you knew he meant the kiss, “but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want it to happen.” Joe was pouring his heart out to you, and you were still hung up on the guy who cheated. You wanted him, more than anything, but it felt like you were trading one heartbreak for another, whether it came now, or further down the road. There was no way this ended well.

Seeing your wheels turning, Joe leaned in again to lock lips, and you let him kiss you, but he could feel you hesitate. You stepped back, and the look on his face was enough to make your stomach turn. “I’m sorry, Joe. I really am.” You pulled the screen door open with what little strength you had left and left him out on the balcony.

You knew it was inevitable, fate would force you to come face to face with Joe eventually, but you were really wishing it wasn’t going to be today of all days. You knew he’d be here, of course, but you were hoping you’d could sneak in after rehearsals had already started and be out before anyone saw you. You were sure he could hear your heart beating with how quiet it was in the vestibule.

“Joe, I really want to apo-“, you gripped the strap of your handbag, the leather twisting against the skin in your palm. He couldn’t make eye contact with you, or didn’t want to, as he pushed away from the door he was leaning against. “Let’s just get through today”, he edged out, letting out a sharp breath as he began to walk away from you.

“There you are!” Your mother came rushing toward the two of you, the click of her heels echoing through the hall. “Joe, you look so handsome. I was just telling your mother how proud we are of you.” She gently patted his forearm, and Joe gave her a small smile.

“And you, it’s a good thing you’re here, actually.” She immediately began to straighten out your dress and licked her thumb to wipe away mascara that settled in the creases of your under eye. “Thanks, mom, and here I thought I was going to be an inconvenience.” She rolled her eyes, as she always did at one of your quips. “Stop being dramatic, hun. One of the bridesmaids is sick with food poisoning, so we need you to step in for her. Today and during the wedding. Her dress should fit you, might be a little tight.” She sized you up, undoubtedly noticing the couple of pounds you’d put on while studying non-stop for the LSAT. “You’ll walk with Joe actually.”

You could hear the groan rumbling in Joe’s chest from where you stood. “Mom, I don’t think that’s a good idea”, you muttered under your breath, but she immediately waived you off. “God forbid you actually do something to support this family. Is it really too much to ask for you to get your head out of the books for a minute and be a part of the biggest day of your brother’s life?” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as you felt an oncoming headache. “Of course, mom. I’d be happy to be a bridesmaid.”

“Perfect! Tiffany will be thrilled.” She clapped her hands together, leaving the two of you in her dust as she hustled back to the wedding party.

“Joe, I really think that we should talk.” You were waving your white flag at him, hoping he would let his guard down long enough so you could properly apologize.

“We have nothing to talk about”, he bit back at you, and you staggered, not expecting his harsh tone. “I think it’d be better for the both of us if we keep the talking to a minimum.” He ran his hands through his hair, and for the first time you saw how truly hurt he was by what happened that night, three years ago. He left you standing in the entrance before you could get out another word.

The universe really had a cruel sense of humor.

Tag-List:

@wonderlandiswhereitsatyo

@bernelflo

@wickedfun9

@brrbrina

@zobellagio

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fanfic #joey b #joey burrow #joe burrow fanfiction #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow fic #nfl imagine #nfl fanfic #nfl fanfiction

[un-lawliet]

“Present.”

— in which Dazai wants to kiss you

part two here <3

“Osamu…”

Dazai lifted his gaze, his eyes narrowing at your figure.

It was cold.

The Summer, having prolonged its stay, pliantly welcomed the first cool breeze of Autumn, inviting the ember shafts of the moon a little earlier, cutting the day shorter and introducing the night before the clock struck nine.

And Yokohama appeared to come alive at night.

The streets bustled with crowds, lively and impeached with an alacrity one would expect to see when the sun was much, much higher in the sky.

Dazai found himself outside the Lupin Bar, leaving a half empty glass of sake idle on the cracked confines of the bar top, the crisp air steadying his somewhat dizzy state, un-fogging his senses and clearing his head.

Leaning against the bar wall, his hands in his pockets, an indiscernible look in his eyes as he watched the ever moving city around him.

It was moments like this when you knew his mind was elsewhere, reminiscing over memories in which you did not know, memories that left you except and puzzling over the glimmer of recognition in the depths of his eye.

Breaking his trance he regarded you with quiet solidarity, as if debating weither or not he should throw up his defences or continue to stare, an eyebrow raised in subdued acknowledgment of your appearance.

He didn’t seem shocked at your return, having been on a mission at the other side of Yokohama for a few days, you feel a sickly indulgence of disappointment in his lack of reaction, your shoulders dropping as you approach him slowly.

He probably knew of your return, he has a habit of knowing seemingly every action and it’s equal reaction before they are even taken, it’s a habit that leaves you uneasy at best, and terrified at worst.

Sighing, you join him against the Bar, leaning your head back against the bumpy surface of the wall.

He looks at you for a moment longer, and it’s as if you can feel him back away, creating an insurmountable distance between the pair of you.

In reality, you know he does not move, but at the sight of an ill placed smile stretching his face, you have never felt so immeasurably far from him.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He grins, and it’s ugly for a man so devastatingly beautiful in your eyes, you hold back a grimace.

“I’m back.” You say simply, unable to look at him anymore, the footpath suddenly becoming the most interesting thing you’d ever seen before.

A street lamp flickers, the light momentarily dies leaving the pair of you in the dark for a split second before the light returns, Dazai glances upwards to look at it, you don’t even notice.

You don’t know why you even sought him out, your feet seeming to move on their own after Kunikida grumbled that Dazai had headed to Lupin’s Bar just after his shift at the agency.

You have a gift for him from your mission, you tell yourself, attempting to justify your foolish actions, ignoring the voice in your head that reminds you that you would have seen Dazai at the agency at some point the following day.

“You’re back.” He mimics, and he’s back to looking at you again, trying to understand your actions, trying to comprehend why you were currently standing outside in the cold, cold night with him.

“The mission was successful then I suppose?” His smile seemed less indulgent now, and if you were to look up you would surely notice how his body swayed slightly, a testimony to the tipsy feeling resonating in his chest.

You don’t however, your eyes staying downcast as you nod; mumbling about how it was more boring that anything, you hear him laugh at your admission, you hate how empty it sounded.

“Is everyone at the agency ok?” You ponder, clinging to the tail ends of a conversation you were slowly losing.

“You didn’t visit them before you came to see me?” Dazai questions an undeniable tease in his voice, you feel yourself flush.

“I did, it’s how I-” Found out you were here.

The words die on your tongue, refusing to go into detail of how you actively asked for his whereabouts about five minutes into your return.

“Hm?” Dazai coaxes you, although you’re certain he knew what you were about to confess.

“Nothing.” You mumble, your hands clammy, “I uh did, but I only saw Kunikida and Yosano so..” You trail off.

“Ah” He muses.

And in the back of his mind, he wonders if you were simply here because you felt like it, that you had no alterier motives, internally frowning at himself for his suspicions despite knowing you were part of the ADA, critiquing himself silently for falling into old habits that should have died when he left the mafia.

He supposes that maybe you just wanted to see him.

The breeze falls over you both and he’s moving to leave, you look at him again, your head cocked, holding yourself back from questioning, restraining yourself from clinging onto his hand and begging to follow him, indulging yourself in the warmth of other human.

The bar door opens, and for a brief moment you hear the drunken giggles and exclamations of careless patrons, before the door swings shut again, muffling the voices. It grounds you.

Dazai takes a few steps and then turns to face you, his face unreadable, before he tilts his head gesturing for you to follow him, you think your heart soars.

“You coming?”

And you’re pushing yourself away from the wall, nodding.

He doesn’t wait for you to catch up, and you find yourself walking at a pace slightly behind him, your hand subconsciously tracing the box in your pocket.

You wonder if you should give him his gift now, or if you should wait.

When you can’t decided you stay silent, choosing to speed up to level the distance between you both.

You have no idea where you’re going, simply following a man who’s actions you couldn’t begin to understand. He makes no effort to inform you of the destination and so you make no effort to ask.

Dazai likes to think when he walks, constantly scheming, devising ways in which he could encourage Atshushi to grow, or better yet, another way to end his life, and fail, over and over again.

A bitter cycle that infringes upon his thoughts like a bullet.

Tonight however, his thoughts circle back to you, and your silence, and how your face seems to glow in the dim light of the night. And he blames the alcohol that’s coursing through his blood, the last of his drink finally hitting him as he walks, dizzying him and rendering him in a state of concealed vulnerability.

“So.” His voice comes out steady, despite his tendency to slur his sentences when under the influence.

You look at him, gently urging him to continue.

“You’re hiding something.” He states, and you curse him for his intellect and damn observation.

You grip your coat tighter, eyeing the bulge in your pocket, defeat already coaxing you to reveal your intentions.

“I suppose.” You whisper, concluding to yourself that there was really no reason to hide the present from him, after all it was just a gift shared between two work colleagues, there was no need to plaster it with a hidden agenda.

Reaching into your pocket you timidly lift it out, his gift was wrapped, just like everyone’s gift from the agency, a pretty ribbon tying it all together in a clumsy bow. You feel foolish.

“I brought you something from my mission.” You explain, your eyes trained on his face.

And Dazai pauses, his steps slowing to a stop as he stares at the box in your hand, and you scramble to explain yourself, eyes wide.

“I-I got everyone from the agency something!” You stammered, “I just…wanted to give it to you.”

He doesn’t move for a second, his eyes moving between your flustered face and the present.

A car drives past, it’s headlights cause you to blink.

“Do you plan on giving them their presents in such an intimate manner as well?” His voice was softer, as if he himself is unsure of your answer.

His question makes you freeze, feeling as if you were caught in your own actions.

You whisper a tiny “No” and Dazai just nods.

And you hate how you don’t understand.

His hand brushes yours as he picks up the box, his hands are cold, you try not to shiver under his calculating gaze.

“You don’t have to open it now.” You mumble, willing yourself to look him in his eye.

Truthfully you hope he doesn’t open it in front of you, unable to cope with the silent weight of the consequences to your actions.

Dazai finally breaks eye contact to look at the bow, his finger going up to play with the flimsy material.

You brought him something, you had thought of him. Dazai, was unable to fathom how you could be so pure and act so well intentioned to someone with his past.

Did you not believe him to cruel? A man desperately trying to patch over his history with the excuse that he had changed. Changed from the eighteen year old who’s presence struck fear in those unfortunate enough to know his name. Who’s presence alone caused the death of the only person who-

Bitterly, he reminds himself that you had thought of everyone at the ADA.

Without a word he pockets the gift, that same ugly smile rippling his features yet again.

“How kind of you to think of me!” He exclaims, his voice far too loud for the quietness of the gesture, clapping his hands together in an enthusiastic display of himself.

The distance between the pair of you stretched for miles and you shake your head.

“I think about you plenty.” Your voice is hushed, edging on exasperated, because (although you would rather die than describe your complicated feelings for Osamu Dazai out-loud) you don’t appreciate being pushed away.

The moon appears to hide behind the clouds, leaving the street lights to fend for themselves. Their glow emphasising your features as he looks at you.

And Dazai wants to kiss you.

It’s a desire that materialises amidst the acutely awkward silence that follows your admission, it breathes down his neck and forces him to lose any and all words that might escape his lips.

He smiles, a bandaged hand reaching up to cup your cheek, your eyes squint; confusion, admiration and need seeping out from their sockets and onto your face, and Dazai, for once, is grateful for his ability to read people, to read you.

He wants to kiss you, but he doesn’t.

You lean into his hand as his thumb gently draws circles across the area just below your eye, your lips part, a question you will never ask bubbling in your throat.

The pair of you look at each-other for another brief moment before Dazai removes his hand from you and turns, hiding his expression.

“You’re cold.” He states, starting to walk, “You should go home.”

And you watch him go, your feet refusing to move, body overcome with a melancholy you only ever seem to experience around Dazai.

The moon peaks out from behind the clouds again, as if to ask if you’re ok. Illuminating both you and your surroundings like a blanket.

And you feel exhausted.

masterlist <3 or part 2 here :)

feel free to leave a request !

A/N: this was supposed to be fluff idk what happened- i think i started thinking of chapter in 109 half way through, i’m sorry ANYWAY hi bsd fandom ily ily ily and thank you for reading !!!

#dazai x reader #bsd dazai #bsd season 5 #bsd manga #bsd #bungo stray dogs dazai #bungo stray dogs x reader #hurt/comfort #angst #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs manga #dazai osamu #dazai smut #dazai x reader comfort

[songmingisthighs]

Pitiful, You're Pitiful

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ch. iii

group : ateez

pairing : aged up!wooyoung × aged up!reader

genre : angst, mature

word count : 2.5 k

warning : adultery, cheating, medical condition (?), mentions of loss/miscarriage, negative depiction of wooyoung

a/n : I'M FINALLY UPDATING THIS HOLY SHIT i would like to thank stress and my manic episode for making me abandon sleeping at 4 am and just went nyoom with this

a/a/n : btw happy black day 🫶🫶

buy me coffee ?

The three weeks that passed after Wooyoung's incident was rather hard on you but it was severely... bland.

Mind you, there was nothing in particular that happened but between finding out you were pregnant with a child you didn't even know how your cheating husband would feel about and finding out the person your husband cheated with was his staff member, you couldn't tell if your morning sickness was mostly caused by your pregnancy or as a physical reaction to your current marital situation. Not to mention your daughter had been severely opinionated regarding your care of her father.

Despite everything, you still took care of Wooyoung well. That day you left after finding out that Wooyoung was with a bitch who had some audacity to make big claims about her status, and you came back not two hours later with Wooyoung's things. Upon your arrival, Wooyoung was visibly tense, as if he was being wary and you assumed that the nurse said something about the whore he was with not being his wife and he panicked because how was she supposed to know that? You didn't make things easier for him either when you showed up all calm and collected unlike how a wife usually would react upon finding out that her husband had been hospitalized. He knew how you would usually fuss over him when he was ill so your behaviour struck to him as abnormal and concerning. Or well, something to be concerned about, it's not like he would be concerned over you at this point, right? Though, you excused yourself as being out of it and he just bought the lame excuse. Luckily, his mom soon came and later when you brought your children to visit him, your behaviour became less of a concern and the next two days he was under observation went by smoothly.

But still, the turmoil you felt didn't die down, it stayed stagnant within you and you were at a point where you were feeling too much but couldn't exactly let anything out. Except for puking, that's non-negotiable.

"You need to check that stomach bug out," Wooyoung said as he poured himself a glass of coffee upon hearing your footsteps nearing the kitchen. You had gotten into the habit of ignoring him because you didn't know what you would do or say to him if you opened your mouth. So you simply let out a hum of acknowledgement, not even bothering to answer him completely, not after you just emptied your stomach. "Did you drink any wine last night?" Wooyoung asked, now leaning on the counter to look at you who had situated yourself on the stove to prepare your children some breakfast before they had to go to school. But of course, you simply shook your head whilst turning the electronic inductor on and placing a pan over the surface.

It seemed like Wooyoung had taken note of your odd behaviour and while normally you would be glad that your husband had taken interest in you, all you felt was just sick to the pit of your stomach. It was as if his attention no longer mattered knowing that he shared that with someone else. Someone who hadn't done anything for him for years only to be betrayed yet someone worth risking his marriage and vows to you for.

Wooyoung huffed and pushed himself off the counter to go over to you, leaning on the countertop close to you to take a good look at your face. "I'm worried. You seem like you haven't been yourself for quite a while now," boy did you want to whack him and claw his eyes out for saying that because how dare he act like he cared when you knew he had something going on with a cheap side piece. But you held it in as best as you could, balling your hands tight that the spatula in your hand almost snapped and just shrugged, "d'know what you're talking about," you muttered lowly, trying to avoid as much interaction with him as you could. With a sigh, Wooyoung tried to push some hair out of your face but for some reason your body moved involuntarily out of the way as if revolted by his touch which surprised Wooyoung who stood aghast, staring at you with wide eyes as you stared him back with nose twitching. Knowing you (ironically), you would not avoid his touch or act as if he was going to hurt you because (to his knowledge) he had never hurt you nor does he have shown any inclination that you should be afraid of him. Both of you just stood there in the kitchen, Wooyoung in surprise at your reaction and you in annoyance and once you finally took a good look at him, you glared at him in anger and boy did Wooyoung took notice of that.

"What?" He asked, stupidly, you might add. "What?" You answered back, returning to scooping breakfast to your children's plates. "Okay, sure, act like you haven't been avoiding me these past three weeks, (y/n). Did something happen when I was in the hospital?" yes, you got hurt but you were as fine as a peach because your mistress was there, "Are you mad that you had to take care of me these past three weeks?" no, but I am mad that your whore claimed to be your wife to the nurses and even had the gall to visit you while I was right there against my will, pregnant and all, "Did I do something wrong?" and that was when you snapped your head and crossed your arms at Wooyoung, "I don't know, Wooyoung, you tell me. Did you do something wrong?" though he wanted you to answer him, the tone of your voice surprised him greatly to the point that he straightened up. "Hm? Tell me Wooyoung, is there something you think that you know is VERY wrong that you wish to tell me right here right now?"

How you wished you had a camera to capture just how stupid Wooyoung looked. It was obvious to him, or made obvious to him, that you knew that something was up but there was no way Wooyoung could confirm that you knew that he had been cheating on you with his subordinate out of all people. As much as it was the most logical answer to your sudden hostility, Wooyoung didn't want to accidentally confirm his suspicion much to your dismay.

The moment he heard footsteps rushing to the kitchen was the moment Wooyoung believed that God existed because he knew the conversation was coming to an end. "Morning!" Woohyun chirped, throwing his book bag by the doorway before rushing to give you a hug, completely unaware of the tense situation or even the stare-off you were having with your husband. With one final glare, you shifted your attention from the cheating bastard Wooyoung to Woohyun, smiling to cover up your annoyance, "Morning Woodonnie," it had been a while since Woohyun grew out of his lisp phase but the nickname stuck and he liked that you had a special name for him, "Slept good?" he nodded with a wide grin, "Want food?" his grin widened and his nod was firmer. "Dayoung, do you want food?" you asked your daughter, who was too busy grinning on her phone to actually look at you, "Hey, Dayoung?" You called out again, sighing after carefully handing Woohyun his plate of eggs and half a toast.

Realizing that Dayoung was ignoring you, Wooyoung huffed and snatched Dayoung's phone, causing her to let out a 'hey!', "Your mother was talking to you, Dayoung," he stated, unimpressed with his daughter's blatant disregard for you (for once). Dayoung rolled her eyes and turned to you, "Yeah, I want breakfast, if not I wouldn't have come here now, would I?" Wooyoung was about to scold her but he was stopped when he saw you visibly gag, halting everyone's activities. Then you gagged once more before dropping the spatula on the counter and rushing to the toilet without saying anything else.

"She hadn't thrown up on those eggs, did she?" Dayoung asked, cringing at the thought of you doing something to her breakfast. Wooyoung snapped his head to Dayoung and glared at her, "Can you not? Your mom is sick and the last thing she needed was for you to act disrespectful to her," he scolded which surprised Dayoung because, to her knowledge, Wooyoung hadn't been that defensive of you for a long while.

"Is mom okay?" Woohyun asked, worry visible on his face and he was about to get off his chair to go to you when Wooyoung patted him on his head, "Don't worry about mom, okay? She'll be fine and she'll be even finer if she sees you eating," he smiled, trying to assure Woohyun which thankfully work as Woohyun began eating his breakfast with so much gusto Wooyoung had to tell him to slow down.

When Wooyoung got to you, you were getting out of the bathroom, looking pale and sweaty. He immediately approached you with a small towel he grabbed from the linen closet when he was getting to you, "Really, (y/n), you need to go to the hospital and get this checked out. I'll go with you today, okay? You definitely can't go anywhere yourself right now, I-" you simply snatched the towel from his hand and pat your mouth dry, refusing to look at him as you turned away, "I'm fine, Wooyoung, I can manage myself," it was the first time that you hoped he would just shrug and go back to not caring but of course, Wooyoung didn't come through when you desperately needed him to. Instead of leaving you be like you wanted, Wooyoung grabbed your shoulders gently and turned you around, "(y/n), please stop being stubborn and let me help you, okay? You're clearly unwell and whatever it is, we can get rid of it and you'll be better!"

You knew that he didn't mean it like that because you knew that he didn't know about the growing person inside of you. But still, with your current state both physical and emotional, you were hurt and you couldn't help but think that his words meant that he didn't want the child that he helped create.

Balling your fists, you used the tension in your hands to stop yourself from rushing over and punching Wooyoung in the face. Instead, you pushed his hands off of you. "Like I said, I can manage myself. Shouldn't you be worried about work? You know, with people at work that you need to give more attention to?" you tried pushing past him to tend to your children but he effectively blocked your path with his body, frowning down at you, "What's with you? I'm trying to help here, (y/n), I'm worried about you!" "Well, maybe you've been ignoring me too much too long to the point that right now I'm so used to doing things myself without your help, Wooyoung. You've been very absent from me and I'm sorry to say this but it has come to the point that your presence is actually making me feel annoyed and I don't know if it was because of you in general or if it's because of this very uncharacteristic shift in your behaviour that's making me wonder if you're compensating for something or if you genuinely want to be there for me now."

Though you had managed to not physically hit him, your words stung worse than any slap you could deliver to him. Wooyoung was painfully aware of how distant he had been with you since your miscarriage and what he thought was his attempt to give you space had instead caused a rift in your marriage. He never meant for things to go this far, heck he never thought that he was capable of cheating on you but when another woman approached him when he was crying in the practice room to offer him a shoulder to cry on, he felt like his own pain was being acknowledged. After all, the loss didn't just happen to you, it happened to him too. While you were in your zombie state, Wooyoung manned the ship and put himself on the back burner, not even letting himself falter and stupidly not letting himself process the pain. He wasn't justifying his infidelity whatsoever, he knew that it was beyond wrong and he was disgusting for committing to it for so long. But it felt nice to let his vulnerability taken care of even if it ended up with him using someone he had no affection for as a mean to get some form of twisted connection because he was too ashamed of himself to touch you again.

Wooyoung stood there silent, not knowing how to react, or more like not knowing what to react to first. So you simply shook your head and walked past him, this time successfully.

Soon, Wooyoung heard Dayoung and Woohyun saying (yelling) their goodbyes which was then followed by the front door shutting.

When the silence of the empty house settled in on him, he found himself slumped on the couch, emotionless as your words kicked him all over. His chest burned with hatred for himself and his fingers became tingly from anxiety. He couldn't help but think of the ways he had failed as a husband and perhaps as a father considering how his daughter treated you. It dawned on him how mad he was when Dayoung disrespected you earlier, how he hated seeing you, who had always treated Dayoung with a lot of consideration, to be treated that way. And while he felt justified for chastising his daughter for her action, it was almost laughable how he didn't do the same when what he had been doing was a hundred, if not a thousand times more disrespectful. He was a hypocrite. You didn't deserve this.

Negative emotions welled inside Wooyoung, creating turmoil that almost made it hard for him to breathe.

Unfortunately, despite his realization, Wooyoung found himself driven to an action he had repeatedly done like a sick act of compensation when he was feeling bad. His hand fished the phone out of his pocket and his fingers moved as if on their own, immediately finding the contact that he didn't even bother to fake because he trusted that you wouldn't snoop because you were not that kind of a person.

"Hey, I know you're not busy until later in the evening, can I come?"

And the self-hate repeated itself.

But how much can he hate himself when he is being distracted by shallow, unfulfilling "pleasure" instead of dealing with his true feelings? How much more pain should he give you before he could finally take the first step to stopping and coming clean?

Maybe this was the last time he did it.

Maybe.

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[luvfy0dor]

"You Are In Love!!" - BSD x GN!Reader ੈ✩‧₊˚

╰┈➤ Fyodor Dostoevsky, Chuuya Nakahara ♡

Warnings; none pure fluff and sweetness

Description; Drabbles (I actively attempted to make these shorter than the timeless ones but I clearly have a yapping issue) of Chuuya and Fyodor based off of You Are in Love by Taylor Swift in honor of 1989 (Taylor's Version) today. This one had a lot of cute little prompts for small scenarios so I thought I'd take the opportunity.

A/n; yawning is contagious you guys I proved it because I wrote about yawning and then I yawned, also I have so many 1989 TV thoughts now so im gonna write them while writing asks at the same time, so im sorry for those of you guys who dont like Taylor, that's totally valid. Hmu w/ music themed requests if you wanna see a different song.

Fyodor Dostoevsky ੈ♡

“Coffee at midnight”

You sat on your boyfriends lap, facing him while he typed away, working on God knows what. You didn't ask what it was at that very moment, too sleepy care. You breathed in his scent, your arms tightly hugged around his torso. Any time he took a break from typing, his left hand immediately went to stroke your back, his lips moving and ghosts of whispers slip out from between them as he read over the text. You nuzzled into his neck, pressing sweet, chaste kisses to his pale skin every now and again.

You were playing with his hair softly when you could hear him yawn. "My dear, do you mind getting up? I'm going to make some coffee for myself." He murmurs, his head turned a bit in your direction. You nod and get off of his lap, standing up and rubbing your eyes a bit. "Yeah, sure, but coffee? It's midnight.." now you were yawning. He nods, standing up and heading straight for the kitchen. You trail behind him, drowsily following along. Luckily, the lights of your kitchen were dimmed rather than being at full brightness. He stood against the counter, starting the coffee machine and grabbing a mug for himself while the drink started to brew.

"Do you want some too?" He asks, noticing your stare before you yourself even could. You shook your head, holding your upper arms for the warmth that Fyodors body had previously been providing to you. You yawned again, making him smile ever so slightly in amusement. You leaned against the counter with your eyes closed, almost starting to nod off. The two minutes it took to make the coffee passed within the blink of an eye, you being woken from your sleepy and dazed state by Fyodors thumb caressing your cheekbone.

"Moya Lyubov, you don't have to stay up with me. I appreciate it, but if you're tired you should sleep." He softly murmurs while looking into your eyes. "No, no, it's fine, don't worry." You say, standing straight up and walking with him back to his little work space. He sat right back down on the chair, opening his arms for you to crawl right back onto him. He sipped on his coffee, and the aroma made you regret your decision to reject a cup for yourself. You moved your head to rest on his shoulder sideways instead of upright so you could get a better look at him while he drank from the ceramic mug.

He glanced at you while he did so, sighing into the glass and handing it to you without even needing to hear anything from your mouth; he just knew you that well. Perhaps it was your predictably, or maybe it was his attentive habits regarding your body language and every expression. You took the mug, bringing it to your lips and drinking a small amount, making sure that you didn't chug it and leave nothing for him. You handed him back the glass, wiping your top lip off before you pressed a kiss to his cheek, making him smile a bit.

"So much for not wanting any, hm?" He teases quietly, leaning his head against yours. You just roll your eyes at him. "Well I changed my mind a little." You mumbled, your hands rubbing up and down his sides gently. Your eyelids felt as if they had weights attached to them as it became harder to keep yourself awake. Fyodor had taken notice of this numerous times, before getting coffee, while getting coffee, and even after you had taken a sip. If the caffeine had any effect on you it clearly was not immediate.

"That's alright, I don't mind sharing it with you." He says quietly. You hum in response as a thank you while you drifted off into a calming sleep. Fyodor noticed you fully knocked out after about a minute or two. He smiled and kissed the side of your head, whispering to you. "Goodnight, my love, sleep well."

Chuuya Nakahara ੈ♡

“You kiss on sidewalks”

You looked up at the stars in the night sky while you walked down the streets of Yokohama with Chuuya. Late night walks were never something you found enjoyment in before Chuuyas presence in your life. Not only did Chuuyas ability and profession absolutely make you feel safer, but he was someone to talk to while you walked. It wasn't silent, but filled with conversation about your day, passions, etc.

His hand was holding yours while he listened to you rambled on about a book you had started reading, explaining the plot to him. Chuuya wasn't an absent listener, he didn't just nod and "ohhh" every now and again, he actually asked questions about it and commented on the actions of characters and what not. Chuuya didn't ramble much, but when he did you offered the same undivided attention. You loved watching his eyes light up whenever he talked about something that excited him; he specifically got riled up about his missions, explaining what he did with as much detail as he was allowed to.

And that's what was happening. You walked along the path, holding your boyfriends hand while he told you about how he acquired a new small cut on his cheek. You asked him about it and he got so worked up, it was almost funny. The amount of slandering he put on the name of some random guy he had to fight was a little much, but it was his opponent and enemy, so you didn't comment on it. His other hand was moving around very quickly while he passionately told you about the encounter, annunciating every word and speaking clearly.

"He was so annoying. Obviously I dealt with him real fast, but now I've got this cut on my face." He says while rolling his eyes. You snicker a little. "Oh yeah, I totally get that. He sounds like he sucks, but I think the scar is kinda hot, to be honest." You laugh, standing in front of him and brushing his bangs out of his eyes. He scoffs and places his hands on your arms. "Ofcourse you do, doll, you're...well, you're you." He says, rubbing your shoulders a bit.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Your eyebrows were furrowed as you stare him down. "I know you like the back of my hand, I knew you'd find somethin' like that attractive. It's like, your thing." He says, the street light you stood under casting a yellow glow overtop the two of you. The shadows that projected onto his skin because of the angle hid the blush on his face relatively well. "I pay attention to you, ya know.." he murmurs, making you grin and gently cup his face.

"Oh I know you pay attention to me; everytime you bring up some random small detail about me it makes my heart flutter." You say, looking down at his lips through the black veil of darkness on his face. "I'm glad I can make ya swoon, darlin'.." he mutters, both of you leaning into each other, your hands interlocked and giving each other soft squeezes as your lips gently collided with one another. You pulled away after a couple seconds, but you felt yourself pulled right back in as the two of you softly giggled with one another, his gloved hand pressed against the back of your neck.

Your lips moved against his, soft hums of approval coming from his throat. When you did finally part, the both of you looked into the other's eyes for a second before breaking the stare and grinning. "I love you a whole lot, y'know?" He says, sliding his arm around your waist. You did the same and nodded. "I know, I know. I love you a whole lot, too." You say, kissing his cheek while the two of you walk home to retreat for the night.

A/n; I have a couple of things to say; 1- this is not a theme switch, it's only blue and white for 1989 TV, 2- I know these aren't the most obviously related to the song, but I felt inspired. 3- I was gonna do more characters for this but I don't wanna in this moment, would y'all wanna see that?

#bungo stray dogs #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd headcanons #bsd x reader #bsd fanfic #bsd fyodor #fyodor x reader #fanfic #fyodor #fyodor dostoyevsky bsd #bungou stray dogs fyodor #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor x y/n #fyodor x you #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #chuuya #bsd chuuya nakahara #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya x reader #bsd chuuya #chuuya nakahara #bad headcanons #bsd x gender neutral reader #taylor swift #you are in love #1989 taylor's version #1989 tv #inspired

[pigeon-toes]

People really don't seem to read, so here's a small collection of the ways Arlecchino helped Freminet after she took over the House of the Hearth.

She taught him to value his life after the previous director taught otherwise, she paired him with Lyney and Lynette because if how isolated he was, and told him the truth about the reason his mother left him with the Hearth after the previous director had lied and said she abandoned him.

About "Father": Teaching

"When I was little, I was taught that we should be ready to give our lives for our family. But when "Father" took control, this philosophy changed. "Father" said that every one of us is important, and we have to value our own lives, be our strongest selves, and stand on our own two feet in this workd... But actually, all that's much harder than following orders."

More About Freminet: IV

"I don't like thinking about my time in the House of the Hearth under the previous director. All I'll say is... My habit of retreating into the sea started back then. "Father" changed not only me, but my view of our family, too. Then Lyney and Lynette joined the family... and for the first time ever, I gained some genuine companions.

Character Story 5

After "Father" replaced the previous director, Freminet's thoughts began to turn to finding his mother once again.

At first, Freminet assumed that she would rile up a still greater storm of brutality, for he knew that her methods were brutal, and he expected new orders to be given just as pitilessly as they had been in the past. But he soon discovered that "Father"'s way of doing things was utterly different.

With "Father," the home was a place of refuge for all the family's children, and as such required a collective effort to maintain. It was up to each of them to complete their tasks in the way that best suited them. Even if they failed, they wouldn't be subjected to the searingly painful punishments they had been previously.

She also gave him a pendant that belonged to his mother later in the same character story.

"I found this at the base operations of those scum. Keep it," said "Father."

Freminet looked back at her, perplexed, which in turn seemed to confuse her.

"What it is? I'm talking about those usurious scoundrels. It belonged to your mother..." She frowned, suddenly seeming to realize something.

"What were you told about her?"

Freminet told her what the previous director had said to him, about how he had been abandoned. As he did so, she said nothing, but her eyes began to burn with wrath.

After Freminet was finished, Father fell silent for a rare moment. "Do you want to know what really happened?" She asked, fixing him with a piercing stare.

Freminet nodded almost unconsciously. But once he had heard what she had to say, he wasn't sure which story he'd rather believe.

"Father" told Freminet that his mother hadn't abandoned him, but on the contrary, had acted to protect him...

That year, the debt that his family owed finally reached the point where they would no longer be able to repay it. Those greedy moneylenders had not only forced Freminet's mother to hand over the house that they lived in, but had also demanded that she hand over Freminet as well. But she was his mother — how could she let this happen? In the end, she had no choice but to entrust Freminet to "that orphanage" — somewhere they could never get at him — and then face them alone.

"This was all I found. As for your mother..." As she looked at the young boy in front of her, still gripping the pendant tightly in his hands, "Father" trailed off and left the ensuing silence to speak for her.

Freminet's head hung low, but knowing his personality, Father slipped out of the room without another word.

It's strange to me that people entirely demonize her soley for his voiceline about crying, when that's the only bad thing he has to say about her. Every other voiceline and character story he has regarding her details how she improved his quality of life after the previous director's abuse and made the house of the hearth actually feel like a family and home.

#arlecchino #freminet #house of the hearth #genshin impact #pidgey rambles

[mvniro]

. . . (🍷) ֶָ֢ 𔓘 HOME IS WHERE YOU ARE ; an akutagawa ryuunosuke fic.❞

˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🍷 ꒱ . . . ahhhhhhhh finally the man i simp for is here!!

˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🍷 ꒱ . . . tw ; fem!reader, angst, comfort, hurt/comfort, husband!akutagawa, father!akutagawa, wife!reader, akutagawa siblings and their slight bonding time, akutagawa is insecure and feels he is a worthless shit, dazai angst (mentioned for aku regarding the older and his mentorship), slight suggestive ending and that's all i remember tbh

oxygen is absolutely essential for human survival and so are some more external factors which extends further then what a human's basic needs may require. however, we aren't talking about human needs but rather what one's humanity needs.

in initial years even the strongest man alive would need a father, a pillar of support and a bundle of knowledge.

of course the mafioso never had the privilege of having this one figure and rather he was this figure for his sister but only his sister knows if he played the role right or failed.

what he, the mafioso who is now on his way to exit the slums he grew up in, is sure of, is that he is failing as an actual father and as a husband.

"maybe if it was a daughter  . . . instead of a son then . . .  maybe you could've seen gin in your child and loved it." were the words you uttered in despair a week ago to him, what resulted in these words being spoken was the incompetent man himself who felt himself flater when he picked his  son and the nearly one year old began crying. he wasn't scared or else you would've not wasted a second in taking him from akutagawa's arms but rather it was the feeling of finally being adored by the man whose appearance he takes after greatly that moved the naive heart of his son.

akutagawa couldn't take the horrifying resemblance out of his mind. the way your chin wobbled and lip quivered as you tried not to burst into tears and the eyes glossed over with tears which screamed of despair was what he found on his son's face as well. and he wondered, truly he did of who is more starved of love ; him, his son or you?

his only regret was that he stood like he always did whenever faced with the outburst of someone he is close to though the one who made him adopt such a habit isn't here anymore with him and the next morning, akutagawa had to leave for a week long mission overseas with his sister and of course he would crumble and his facade would break when gin found him staring at a picture of you and his son on his phone one night when he was fooled to think his sister had already submitted to her slumber, she didn't, she watched the previous and the night before it as well but waited for the cause of her brother's despair.

akutagawa pushed his hand into the pocket of his long coat and felt for the small velvet box as if the object could help to soothe his nerves and anxiety.

he told gin everything for who else if not her whenever something concerned you? when the topic revolved around you or around your son, the only person akutagawa trusted enough was his own flesh and blood. and he wonders why gin respects, admires and loves him so much when all gin felt was admiration for the man she feels fortunate to call brother.

but akutagawa doesn't feel so. he is but failure in the rawest form. a tragedy and a utter ugly and horrible mess of his past self which was broken by the mind of curiosity and joined back in a way he (akutagawa and the man who was once his mentor) knew there was no going back to who he was before. but that's fine after all, akutagawa had been a monster since birth.

akutagawa's hand left the box which oddly provided him with strength as he stood infront of the door behind which lied his home, he punched in the pass code before hearing the click of the lock unlocking and the cold of the metal he pushed down on felt a bit too chilly today.

or is this because he is scared of failing? of disappointing and of loosing the only chance he has of having a family of his own and proving to himself that he can be something more than a tossed aside toy?

akutagawa shook his head as he entered the apartment and closed the door behind him with his leg to see the boxes containing many items ranging from clothes to toys and teethers and various other items which akutagawa bought himself for his son with the assistance of his sister during the last two days after the mission was completed.

akutagawa took off his shoes and quietly strolled into the nursery room. he stood infront of the crib and peered down at the face of his son. akutagawa gulped as why was it that such an innocent soul was cursed to have features similar to him but just softer?

akutagawa's hands turned to fists by his sides as he continued to stare down at his son with a longing and he pondered for a while.

after what seemed like five minutes of contemplating, akutagawa saw his son stir in his sleep and he got alarmed thinking the little one would wake up at any moment. the little boy turned to face akutagawa and opened his eyes and oh.

akutagawa's heart beat fastened and his eyes widened at the innocence and purity in his eyes. he had this innocence once too. so did gin and maybe, maybe dazai did too?

akutagawa ridded himself of all these thoughts before he leaned down to pat his son's back, the latter looked up at akutagawa and the father had to brace himself and use everything in him to not cower under the pure stare of his son whose face brightened at the sight of his father. the boy giggled and the father closed his eyes, the combination of his son's giggles and his own heartbeat is oddly not that bad or unbearable to hear.

when akutagawa opened his eyes again he saw the boy raising his little chuuby fingers to akutagawa and he hesitantly raised his own hand towards his son as well but before the boy could take his father's finger in his hold, akutagawa flinched and pulled his shaking finger back.

the boy pouted but blinked for how can his young brain comprehend the horrors and anguish his father is experiencing?

akutagawa stared at his fingers and then at his son in horror, he couldn't let the soul filled with hope and dreams to be tainted by touching his hands which are daily stained in blood.

but when his son began to whine and babble as he made grabby hands at akutagawa, the mafioso could only stand his ground for a few seconds before his resolve crumbled and he extended his hand for his son to hold.

the little boy immediately latched his hand around akutagawa's fingers and giggled, a smile appearing on akutagawa's face as well. he turned to look towards the door to see you standing there, leaning on the doorway with your head against it and arms crossed over your chest.

akutagawa found it hard to breath but so did you. how were you supposed to talk to the one you are afraid of disappointing and how were you supposed to talk to the one who felt too scared to be cared for?

but one more glance at your husband's finger gripped by your son and your heart melted like it always did and you smiled in defeat at akutagawa, letting him know you had let your walls down again and are ready to talk to him again. the man widened his eyes slightly in surprise because truth be told, he seriously thought he failed and messed everything up this time and that this is the last time he would be able to see his son or you and hence he tried to savour the moment.

slowly and very faintly, akutagawa smiled back and tilted his head.

"i missed you."

there it is again, the feeling of hope of having a future brighter then the past when he read what you silently whispered and akutagawa nodded before he awkwardly looked at his son again, pursing his lips but then he looked at you and muttered,

"gin missed you both . . . and so did i."

the words makes you smile as you nod and turn around to leave the man alone in the company of his son. only lord knows how hard it must've been for your stoic husband who is generally bad with dealing with feeling and emotions to utter these words to you.

you smile as you sit on the couch and take your phone out to ask gin when she would be returning at night as the woman was immediately called to the port mafia headquarters for what you assume as her reporting her end of the mission. you hit the send button and scroll up to play the video again which gin sended you two nights ago, the video showed akutagawa with furrowed eyebrows as he compared two different types of rattling toys before looking at gin and shrugging, he said something along the lines of "both looks shit. how on earth do kids play with these?", before he tossed both into the shopping cart behind him as gin giggled.

you remember how when you saw the video for the first time and read the caption gin added 'looks like papa is trying to make up to his baby and wife.', made you smile and your anger immediately evaporated.

it must have been ten minutes later when you were leaning back on the couch with your legs on top of the coffee table infront of you when the door to the nursery was quietly closed, you turned your head to see akutagawa approach you after what you assumed was him putting his son to sleep, the thought itself made your heart swell with adoration.

". . . i put him to sleep." akutagawa whispered albeit he remained unsure of what to do. should he sit on the couch next to you or continue awkwardly standing infront of the coffee table under your gaze which seemed to see way beneath the layering of his clothes and skin and made him feel utterly exposed to you?

he decided on the former.

akutagawa sat next to you and you tilted your head in his direction as he contemplated before he extended his hands to grab your thighs and place your legs on his lap, it gave him a sense of security as he tricked his mind into believing he is being restrained until and unless you two clear the tension between you two but you both knew it was mostly so he could have something to focus on rather then looking into your eyes with the fear of his stoicism slipping away.

"it's not that you are a bad father." you began after concluding that he wasn't going to make the first move, you looked down as you picked on your nails to distract yourself, "you are trying. and that's what hurts ryuu. you are trying and i see it, i see your efforts but our son . . . he is not even one yet, he doesn't and won't understand it. us trying isn't enough for him because he will grow up to despise us both because he doesn't know you like i do, he hadn't seen you struggling and . . . and he won't see you as a father but as a man he shares the same features and last name with." you confess.

your voice isn't soft nor is it gentle, it is shaky and unstable, raspy and filled with sorrow. but akutagawa was never into that type anyway, the calm before the storm? yeah no. akutagawa knew the storm and felt calm in it for he is the one who grew through the storm and lives in it.

safety and protection is a luxury he never received but is trying to give.

". . . i know." he answered after a long moment of silence and you looked at him, thickly gulping as the nimble and lithe fingers of your husband traces over your thigh. he pushes your nightgown upwards to reveal more of your skin to him. "maybe your biggest misfortune was falling for a monster like me."

the words hit you and you feel the effects of it physically, your breath got stuck in your throat or did they even ever travel through the windpipe because maybe the latter can explain why your eyes are getting teary.

your brain sighed at the way your heart is making these baseless excuses to explain its sadness at the words of the one it dances every day and night for.

akutagawa sadly looked at you and he felt time blurring around him, your eyes filled with tears were shining or maybe it was the light reflecting it?

okay but how will he explain his own heart beating faster as if mimicking your's to not let your heart dance the waltz of sorrow alone?

"then change my misfortune into fortune." your voice cracks as you look at him through teary eyes, head tilting as you smile in defeat and in response, akutagawa comfortingly squeezed the flesh of your thigh.

"what good is in having faith in a lost case?"

"what good is not looking past your exterior? i just . . .  love you alot to even think of you as a lost case." you answer before you look down as you part your lips but close them again before gathering the strength to look up at akutagawa, "are . . . i thought about this alot but  . . ."

you take a deep breath, "am i holding onto you against your wishes ryuu?"

you were going to clarify your meaning and feelings more but it all disappeared the moment you saw akutagawa stare at you in utter surprise on his usually stoic or sad and almost lost face. you take a few shaky breaths to not burst out crying as that'll just hinder your conversation and so instead, you shrug and try to smile admist your quivering lips.

"what made you think that?" he asked, voice uncharacteristically soft.

". . everything since the past few days." you answer and watch akutagawa pat your thigh as an indication to ask you to move closer to him.

"i told you i am a lost cause. i'll hurt you and disappoint you."

but how can he when even the tone he is using with you is one which felt as if it's a feather tickling you?

"i also told i don't care, i can take it as long as you love me." you mutter out, moving near him as you hide your face against his shoulder and akutagawa gripped your hips to lift you up before adjusting you to sit sideways on his lap.

"can you take it? are you ready to wait for an excruciatingly long period of time?" akutagawa muttered against the top of your head, his hand smoothed the nightgown cloth against your legs.

"always." you breath out, closing your eyes.

akutagawa looked down at you and shook his head, leaning down to kiss your nape before he mumbled against it, "you really are an idiot for saying this."

"let me be one then. a idiot in love." you peek up at him and akutagawa took it as an opportunity to cup your jaw and pull you towards his mouth.

"does this make me the fool trying and disappointing you every time?" he whispered against your lips and licked his own.

". . . you are a good father and a good husband. you . . . i just i don't know."

"you don't know?" akutagawa's lips curled up into a small and amused smile. you leaned near him and the distance between your lips and his is enough for someone watching from a distance to assume you two are kissing.

"i just know that i want to spend my life with you even if it means waiting for you, i just want to appreciate your efforts for me and our son but . . . that'll only be possible when you stop viewing yourself as a monster."

"and what am i if i am not a monster?"

"my husband." you close your eyes as you lean to kiss him, akutagawa hums before raising his hand to massage the spot behind your ear while the other gripped your thigh to pull you more onto his lap.

akutagawa closed his eyes as he repeated the words 'my husband' in the back of his head. the title fills good and soft on his tongue and maybe it's why his shoulders relaxed as he moved before laying down on the couch with you still on top of him as he didn't break the kiss for even a second.

━━━━━━━  🎀  end.

#bsd #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd x you #bungou stray dogs x you #bsd x y/n #bungou stray dogs fanfic #bsd fanfic #bsd x female reader #bsd akutagawa #akutagawa ryuunosuke #bungo stray dogs akutagawa #akutagawa x reader #gin akutagawa #akutagawa x you #akutagawa x y/n #akutagawa angst #akutagawa siblings #akutagawa fluff

[elizais]

nothing else, only you

chuuya x reader fluff/comfort warnings: ??, this is short sorry dividers by v6que

god, it had been an awful day for you. it was not just one major thing, you couldn't pinpoint one event that had solely ruined your day. the plethora of different factors that creeped into a mountain of issues towered over you like a looming, dark shadow. just one last inconvenience could push your tears over the edge of your waterline.

you wanted nothing more than to go back home, throw in some food that most certainly done nothing good for you, watch tv with chuuya and forget about this day. a day that dragged you through hell by the collar of your shirt.

opening the door, the lights were already on. chuuya was home before you, unusual yet pleasant. his keys were still on the counter so he must have just gotten back. to have a somewhat dignified ending to your day, you opened the freezer to fish out whatever you could throw into the oven and call a day.

finding something edible and tossing it in, you beelined for the bathroom to shower as it cooked. chuuya was probably in the bedroom watching tv and didn't hear you come in.

stepping out of the shower, you walked into the bedroom for your pajamas. chuuya was not there. not a big deal, exhaustion was preventing you from having a coherent chain of thought anyways. as you walked back to the kitchen, you spotted chuuya reading the back of the packaging you left on the counter with a blank face. "doll, these are 3 weeks out of date." he softly spoke, greeting you with a smile. unfortunately, that was the inconvenience that completely shattered you.

he watched your eyes become glassy as he walked over to you, taking your hands and bringing you over to the couch. did he know what had happened? no. did he know how to help you? yes. "love, this isn't about the food? is it?" he gazed gently into your eyes, figuring that your resilient nature would not falter over something so miniscule. you shook your head, a tear falling down your cheek which he was quick to wipe away.

"it's.." you began slowly, trying to gather yourself. you knew he would not judge in the slightest yet you still tried to collect your emotions a tad. "it's so silly" you explained, looking back at his patient expression.

"do i need to deal with someone?" he sternly asked, playing it off as a joke even if you both knew he would single-handedly build a planet from scratch if you even implied you wanted him to. "nobody, chuu." you smiled, finally. "just so many things happened.."

he listened to you complain as you fiddled with one of his hands, an anxious habit you must have picked up early on in your relationship.

he dabbed your face with a tissue from the box that sat politely on the coffee table, thinking carefully prior to commenting "for what it is worth, i already ordered take out." and that small sentiment brought another smile onto the face that was once surrounded by dark clouds.

as if directed to do so off stage, the doorbell rang and chuuya fetched the food as he called out "put something good on! we have the day off tomorrow!"

to chuuya nothing else existed, only you, only his love for you. will this moment be something you can laugh about in the future? definitely, but the way he can treat anything regarding you with such importance is something nobody fails to see.

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #bungo stray dogs #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #chuuya nakahara #chuya nakahara #chuuya x reader #chuuya bsd #nakahara chuuya x reader #bsd chuuya #chuuya nakahara x reader

[milkiematcha]

jeno/mark with a spit kink + praise and degrading :ppp

fuckboy!jeno + anon's request<33

"you're so good for me, aren't you? such a good girl." jeno's voice was low, his fingers tangled in your hair. he was so deep down your throat that you half wanted to pull back and catch your breath, but the other half of you was so taken with the way he groaned when your nose touched his pubic bone made you stay. "you looked so pretty when you walked in. you look pretty now, but you don't look like a princess anymore."

a tiny sound of choked confusion left your lips, and he shoved you down farther on his cock. "you look like more of a slut."

he was right. you could feel tears dripping down your cheeks from lack of air and your hands were braced on his thighs, your knees probably already black and blue from the position you were stuck in. and you were so, so desprate that it probably showed on your face.

he'd caught your eye from the moment he'd walked in, smelling vaguely of smoke and having that trademark overconfident glint in his eyes. you'd heard everything, all the rumours of his fuckboy habits, even seen the hickeys scattered on his neck when he showed up to class late. but he was still so alluring, it felt like a gravitational pull surrounded him.

so when he'd handed you a red solo cup, you'd sipped it immediately, expecting beer or at least some mixed drink, but when water touched your tounge you'd recoiled.

"what the fuck?" you'd spat, jerking your head away from the cup. "i thought this was-"

"donghyucks spiked punch?" he finished, smirking in that annoyingly pretty way of his. "no, doll. i want you sober for later."

and now here you were, so needy for him that you would be begging for it if you weren't already choking on him. your thighs were pressed together, pulling a laugh from him when he noticed.

"looks like a whore, acts like a whore..." he was teasing, but his voice was strained and his movements were jerky. "must be a whore."

he pulled back, his fingers digging into your hair to keep you from licking at his cock. you looked so pathetic under him that he couldnt help but caress your cheek, murmuring something that sounded like "good girl" before returning to his harsh movements. his other hand was yanking over his cock, and the hand in your hair just kept pulling tighter and tighter-

"open."

less than a second later he was cumming on your tounge, a strangled moan escaping his lips. you went to swallow, to do what you hoped would make him regard you as a good girl again, but he squeezed at your cheeks, not letting you move even the slightest bit.

he leaned down, just close enough that you could kiss him if you just jerked up a bit, but instead of kissing you like you so badly craved, he spit. it landed on your tounge, and you'd have jerked back if it wasnt for his hand holding your face and his damn satisfied expression.

"swallow, princess. be a good slut." his voice was low and gravelly, so you did it. and you when you opened your mouth after, you got your treasured response.

"good girl."

I WROTE THIS IN MY NOTES APP BECAUSE MY LAPTOP IS UPDATING SO IF ITS NOT VERY GOOD PLEASE FEEL FREE TO REQUEST SOMETHING ELSE/SOMETHING LONGER.

also i didnt know if this meant mark+jeno threesome or mark or jeno so i did just one, but if you meant threesome just send another ask lol. i hope you enjoyed and thank you for the request<33

#lee jeno smut #jeno smut #nct smut #nct dream smut #unproofread because its notes app smut and thats embarrassing lmfao

[lets-try-some-writing]

Hi! I see you've been writing some stuff for Tfp humans and because I'm a Tfp human enjoyer I thought I could request something:)) (I personally cannot write so yeahh)

Fell free to do it and feel free to not do it if you don't feel like it :))

So,

How about an AU where June and Fowler (due to some relic to stuff) get aged back to when they were 16/17. They were probably wildly different than their adult versions and seeing kids interact with 80's teenagers would be fun (I personally hc Fowler & June to be in their late 30s like 39 so if Tfp is in 2011 yeah they would be teens in the 80s)

Also,here are some of my personal hcs for teenage June & Fowler which you can use but if you feel like they would be different feel free to do that too :))

Fowler was kinda the high school jock/a chad as one could call it. Also probably smoked even though he was under age lol. Probably a rock fan who plays the guitar to impress girls lol

As for June,I see her to be a rebel who wanted to be in a biker gang/generally into motorcycles. Probably like Miko but more reserved :)).

Also have my teenage Fowler doodle as an add on cause it's relevant

Sorry that the ask is so long btw I feel strongly about tfp humans 😭

Feel free to take anything/nothing into consideration for the main scenario :))

EXCELLENT ART!!! SORRY THIS TOOK TEN BILLION YEARS TO GET TO!!!

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

Relics are not known to mess with age. The few that have such properties do little to harm a mech aside from possibly get rid of a beloved mod or engraving. As such, the team left one of their various collected relics just... laying on Ratchet's workbench. It wasn't particularly dangerous, and Optimus's memories of the archives stated that it had slight rejuvenation properties. That was all. It was essentially a small healing device meant to be applied to minor wounds.

But of course, anything minor to Cybertronians tends to be definitively less so to humans.

June and Fowler were left to keep a vague eye on the relic while the team performed other tasks. They chatted and overall relaxed, but at some point, Fowler noticed the relic was a little too close to the edge of the table for his liking. Sure the thing was almost as big as he was, but in his mind, with the help of June, they could push it back onto the table proper and rest easy knowing there would be no surprise clank to startle them or upset Ratchet. Their attempt to be helpful very quickly ended with a flash of light, every living being in the base hurrying toward two sets of screams, and gasps of horror all around.

June and Fowler were younger, WAY younger. Upon analysis, both were in their late teens biologically. Ratchet and Optimus argued over what to do, and upon seeing the relic, the overall consensus was that the two rejuvenated humans would have to remain at base until Ratchet could figure out a way to reverse the effects. It was not ideal, but a few calls later, things were organized enough. The military would cover for the loss of both Agent Fowler and June for the time being, and the team would get to work.

The team got busy and went about their work and June and Fowler stayed put... mostly. Despite having memories and experiences to match their adult selves, both teens had opinions and feelings regarding things. All three of the kids collectively decided they did not in fact enjoy these younger versions of the adults they knew within... about two minutes.

Fowler was a piece of work. He paraded around like he was in charge, but had the unfortunate habit of shoving Jack around for the kick of it. He didn't mean it maliciously, but the constant shoving did get on nerves. It did not help that Fowler used his spare time to work out now that his back was not murdering him every two steps. A definitive six pack most certainly did not endear him to Jack with his twiggy body. Fowler tried to get along with them by playing the adult, but being young again put a certain spring in his step and before long, he was off to cause problems. Lifting weights and wearing absolutely cringe worthy headbands, Fowler took off gleefully. The children avoided him like the plague, especially when he tried to rope them into his terrible 80s workout video exercise routine.

June was arguably worse in that while she wasn't outright cringy, she did have a few... habits. Her haircut was enough for even Miko to look away in shame. June's choice of clothing prompted three in sync face palms. And to add to it, she was absolutely determined to continue being the adult in the room even upon immediately getting distracted with video games and Fowler himself. Her use of 80s slang and her determination to ignore the rules just enough to be annoying quickly got on the nerves of everyone, especially the kids. Don't touch that? Oh she didn't touch it, she just got really REALLY close to it while making direct eye contact. Don't bother Ratchet? Well guess what, Ratchet gets a few dozen questions anyway.

Both were menaces to society just by existing. The team personally didn't mind all that much. What difference did personality shifts in small squishies mean to them? However even Bumblebee cringed internally as he watched the various scenes with the duo play out. Arcee for her part got several pleas from June to let her try Arcee's alt mode. Fowler may or may not have also tried to get Bulkhead to let him use the forklift to play lob ball, kind of.

Chaotic monsters all around.

Jack could do nothing but pray for the team to work quickly for the sake of his sanity. Miko is enough trouble on her own.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #team prime #miko nakadai #rafael esquivel #jack darby #june darby #agent fowler #alternate universe #de aging #relic bs as usual rearing its head

[myfandomprompts]

Is there anything left for us? || Will (Salad Days) || (1/2)

Will x Reader

Warnings: nsfw, swearing, angst, mention of alcohol, smut Summary: You've been struggling with your feelings for Will for years. Then he calls you after the worst mistake of his life and you feel the world crumble around you. A/N: I'm trying something that has been going around in my mind for quite sometimes. Please see it more as an essay about Salad Days and my vision of Will. Sorry for the length... I just wanted to share my love for this short that I find very good, story wise, many included arcs so it give Will reasons and depth for his actions. It was just so good. I realise that my writing are not for everyone. In any case, part one is more to be seen as an "essay" about the character, but part 2 is more story inclined.

You missed him, but over the years, you had learned to get used to it.

Will had always been a lone wolf kind of guy, and when he disappeared like that you knew that it was because he didn't want to be bothered, or to be found. You tried to respect that at most of your capacities, to give him the space he needed to deal with whatever he had going on.

Even back in high school when you watched him from afar, the cocky guy at the back of the class with his group of troublesome friends, you could see how much he felt rejected, out of place. It was no secret that he had complicated family issues and he hated it when people brought it up. So no one dared to. Only when you befriended him during the last year of high school did you realise how complicated it truly was.

He didn't know his father, and what happened with his mum was a mystery to everyone. Ever since that time, he had lived with his grandmother and you had never seen Will care for someone as much as he cared for her. It was touching and sweet, making you wonder if his nan was the only family affection he had ever known. If he were to lose her, he would be alone.

There was that eagerness within him, the one that craved affection, the one that longed to erase this feeling of loneliness that weighed inside of him. You witnessed it with the girls he fell for every once in a while, in the fleeting relationships and obsessions he experienced with the occasional gal, and each time it ended badly, because Will was Will: wild, hot-blooded and strong-willed.

But he was the most resourceful man you've ever encountered, always finding solutions, always taking advantage of what he thought he could, and always taking the lead when needed to. You admired that in him, this raw strength smothering his weaknesses, heightening his confidence, but sometimes you feared that his habit to always act with his head down first would play to his disadvantage one day. Because where he could be shy at times, often keeping to himself when he felt he did not have the upper hand, he could also be as keen to make rash decisions, his pride and stubbornness taking the better of him. And sometimes it affected the people around him.

And that included Leah. And you.

 In high school you have always regarded Will, Matt, and Tom as the troublesome trio, so in the last year when Leah, your best friend, got close to Matt, all that was left for you to do was to follow. You became the added part of the group, doomed to see how all the boys would find Leah endearing and sweet, whereas you tried to remain unimpressed by them and wary of their actions because you were “stubborn as hell”, as Leah often put it. But the more Matt and your friend grew close over the years, the more you warmed up to them, finding them sympathetic, nice and caring. And definitely funny. And you liked to believe that they liked you as well. 

It was around that time that you came to know Will better and realise everything he was carrying on his shoulders, too heavy for him to handle for someone so young. You could see it in the way he avoided some topics in conversations, how he sometimes paced around a room without paying any mind to his friends, or how sulky he seemed to become every time you all talked about the future or how a member of your family had reacted to this or that.

It attracted you somehow, this double side of his. The strong, tall, and proud man he was versus the reserved one with anguish, hidden behind the boiling rage he displayed at times. So you opened up to him, more than to the others, your heart desperate to know his, to see if you could do anything to help him, to make him feel like he didn't need to prove anything to anyone. At first he was surprised that a girl like you, all serious and phlegmatic, would take an interest in him, but you had some humour in you and he did find you funny. Besides, you didn't take any shit from anyone, especially from the guys, and neither did Leah, shutting down each time they teased both of you or made gruesome jokes you were not very fond of. But each time, Will or Matt would stop, seeing that you were not very receptive and proceed to do something you liked, right before you would tease them back, surprising them and making them laugh as well. Your coldness toward them slowly thawed within months.

You liked to believe Will admired that in you too, how you were able to put them off this easily.

High school ended and everybody stuck around; none of you were willing to venture out and all of you had a project of your own. You knew the guys were applying for several jobs, Leah had found one in a fish and chips for a while, whereas you would take online classes and tutoring students on the side.

And as your group grew forever closer, trying for your part to see through Will as much as you could over time, slowly but surely, you were doomed to see how his eyes shifted whenever he would look at your best friend.

It was so obvious you wondered why Matt hadn't noticed it before, even back in high school. Matt and Leah had got together right after the end of the year, and you believed that only Will’s well-hidden insecurities had prevented him from going after Leah first. Or maybe he knew that his friend had liked her for a long time and chose not to interfere, you didn't know. Still, you could see how Will would look away or look too intensely when Matt and Leah were together, holding hands or kissing, and only you and Tom would joke about it. Not Will. Never Will.

More often than not, it would only be you and Will; Matt and Leah would be off together, having some alone time, and Tom would be off with his family. You would go to his place, talk with his nan, give her news about Leah and your friends, about your family, and then spend time with Will, reminiscing about high school or talking about your lives. You had a lot in common, from playing video games you both like to make fun of the dumb British celebrities on reality shows, even sometimes organising a contest of darts in his basement. You, always so confident that you would win, versus Will, being exactly the same. It always ended similarly, a tied game, as you both were equally stubborn.

When you were still at your parent’s, he would often ditch your group when you invited the whole of them but did not come, and you wondered if it was too hard for Will to be inside of a happy home, one he did not have. But you quickly abandoned this theory, because when you invited Will to come over when the rest was not around, he always came, spending whole afternoons and evenings with you, for the greatest pleasure of your little sister that adored him. And you could not blame her. At nine years old, she would always come to him and he would always joke with her and carry her around, with a blush on her cheeks, and you would watch, their laughter warming your heart.

Now that you had your own flat, he still came, but less often. You and Leah knew the guys were always hanging out together, doing who knows what, but it didn’t prevent you from missing them dearly. Recently, Matt and Leah had gone through a rough patch, and you had to admit that you had feared for their relationship more than once in the past couple of weeks. You didn’t want your friend to be miserable, and you would do what you could to prevent that.

This is why the bonfire party from three weeks ago had been a relief to you, happy to finally see all of your group together again at the rim of the forest outside of the city, perched on the hills where you could watch the stars and make as much noise as you wanted. But as the night went on and the alcohol claimed your blood, you hadn’t expected Leah and Matt to argue again in the middle of it all, and more importantly, you hadn’t expected for yourself to have an argument with him, for the first time of your life.

The words he had shot at you still rang in your ears, as yours felt like poison, something not of your own but that you have uttered nonetheless. He had come to you with worries about Leah again, about how unhappy she seemed to be, and you couldn’t help it. All you heard in his worries was his own hope that they would grow apart, and this time you had been unable to hide your jealousy, ignoring him and growling in annoyance. When he asked what was wrong with you, you only lied to him and assured him that you were fine. But he didn’t like that.

“You always fucking do that, try to pretend like nothing bothers you but it’s bullshit,” he had suddenly shouted, crushing his cigarette under his shoe. “What are you fucking afraid of exactly Y/N, hm? Maybe you should grow some and start telling me!”

You had turned around in shock, the alcohol and the weight in your heart heightening your frustration and anger.

“I’m not afraid of telling you anything! And you’re the one to talk, always hiding things, closing off to me. You hide more from me than I have ever hidden from you, don’t you dare think I don’t know that.”

You earned an annoyed from from Will, lined with guilt, his tongue running across his teeth while you waited for him to respond, to say anything.

“I get it, you don’t need to tell me anything, but don’t blame me for keeping things from you that hurts, because it does Will!” you had confessed with tears threatening to appear at the rim of your eyes. “Just… Just don’t even bother.”

And with that you had turned around toward the cars, clearly remembering the way Will’s arm had caught yours in an attempt to stop you, but you only ignored it and left the field, the party, and your friends behind.

The day after that, you learned everything from your phone call to Leah as she recounted this painful night to you in more detail, telling you how Matt had ignored her for most of the night before leaving, making her feel abandoned and alone. Then she told you that Will had been the one to come to her, to comfort her, and the knot in your stomach tightened. When you pressed a little, she shamefully confessed Will had kissed her.

You couldn’t say that you weren’t surprised, but you made a great effort not to let anything appear in your voice. She continued, telling you that she had pushed Will away as nicely as she could, that she felt awfully guilty, that Matt was all she cared about and that it all seemed like a blur to her. You tried to reassure her, telling her that it was not her fault, that it meant nothing along as apologising for not being there for her when it happened. In your upset state, you hadn’t been able to stay, and you now regretted that you hadn’t. You would make it up to her, bury those feelings that clung to your heart and tried to ignore the pain you felt for Will at his rejection. Or was it your pain? You didn’t know.

Whatever happened seemed to have awoken something within Leah because two days later she was back with Matt, stronger than ever. Now it has been three weeks, and you have started a very busy week with work, three weeks without a word from Will. When you popped by Leah’s work when you could she would tell you that she had seen the three of your friends, and you tried not to ask about Will.

Two days later, Leah called and told you that she was pregnant. You congratulated her but you heard the anguish in her voice, so you tried to sooth her as much as you could. She would be all right, you knew it.

You wondered how Will had reacted.

Then it all escalated.

One minute you were working at home, trying to focus, the next you received a text from Will, breaking these three weeks of silence between the two of you:“Can you come get me Y/N please.”

You frown, heart beating because it was him, and because it was the last message you would have expected. 

Where are you? you typed black.

Idk, somewhere near the bonfire’s place.

Memories of that night float back in your mind, anguish taking hold of you but you gathered yourself.

What are you doing there? you reply, heart beating.

I walked… just come Y/N please.

Will, what’s going on?

He didn’t answer. It was beginning to get dark outside, and you wondered what the hell he was doing, walking all the way up there. Part of you did not want to find out, but it was Will, and he never asked for anything, or very rarely. It did not matter how you felt, or how you two had left things off. All that mattered was that he was your friend and he was asking for your help.

So you shot up from your chair, grabbed your keys and left your apartment.

When you arrived in the area, having called Will three times during your drive there, unanswered, it was almost dark and you could not see very far. But like drawn to something you could not see, you found him on the first path you turned to, ahead, near the trees, not far from where you both had that argument, near a fallen log. He was on the ground, head in his knees and you tried not to feel the uneasiness overtaking you. You see him acknowledge your car as you hesitate to turn the engine off, leaving your lights on and stopping right next to him, exiting the vehicle as you carefully watch him.

“Will? What the hell? What is going on?” you call, levelling with him. “Will?”

He didn’t answer, his nose buried in his sleeve and watching the void, glancing so briefly at you. You crouch down, raising a hand to cautiously put on his shoulder. You could sense the sorrow and the anguish from where you stood, and you grew worried for your friend. You never wanted to see him like this, never. Whatever it was, you would do anything to make it okay. 

You lower your voice. “Will… talk to me.”

He meets your gaze, his blue eyes reddened by sorrow or anger. Unable to look at you more he withdraws his gaze at once, cracking under your eyes as he buries his head in his arms once more, a deep trembling sigh coming from him. You put both of your hands on his, coming closer, desperate to sooth him.

“Hey, it’s okay. Just breathe.”

You hear him taking deep shaky breaths, steeling himself. You put your chin on his elbow that was supported by his knee, waiting for him, close enough now to notice the red marks that scorched his knuckles, the marks of a fight, something ugly, violent. What happened?

From your position you can feel how cold his hands are and you wonder how long he had been out there. You watch him through your eyelashes, breathing with him, stroking his skin with your thumb as you think fast, his hair tickling your face.

“Come on, let’s get you out of the cold,” you timidly suggest, not moving as you observe the way his chest heaves. Then he silently moves to get up and you give him space, leading him carefully to the passenger seat.

You had to swallow the worry in your throat. His gaze was less hooded, firmer, but still miles away from where you were. You open the door for him and take your place behind the wheel, watching him look miserable beside you.

“Ok, let’s get you home, then we’ll talk about this, yeah?”

You release the handbrake before he talks for the first time, his voice hoarse with his evident turmoil. “No, not there, not home. Anywhere else... Your place,” he said, and you stopped your movements, looking at him expectantly. “I just… I can’t go to her right now.”

You watched him for a moment longer before nodding silently, driving away. His cheeks were reddened by the biting cold outside and the warmth of his skin, riled up from his sorrow.

“Are you hurt?” you ask, eyes on the road.

You hear him click his tongue, shaking his head as he grabs his knuckles. “Nah…”

He takes his head in his hands again, passing his fingers in his hair before starting to rock his knee anxiously. He would do that when something was on his mind, but never with a shaking sigh.

“Why were you there?” you ask softly,taking the opportunity now that he seemed more responsive, even if it was just barely.

“I just walked… I didn’t care where. Didn’t want to be found.”

His last words were only whispered, and as you turned a corner to enter the city again, he dug himself back into the seat, putting his hood up and stilled, although his leg continued to bounce up and down.

You pulled onto your street and turned off the engine. “What happened Will…? You can talk to me. Please talk to me.”

He lowers his head, looking at the inside of his palms. You could not see his face, hidden by the hood. “I did sumethin’… I can’t take back.”

You swallow, turning to him. “Whatever it is, we’ll make it right. We’ve always handled ourselves. You and the guys always managed.”

Your words seemed to aggravate him, because he looked briefly in pain before getting out of the car, eager to get away.

When you reach your flat door without a word exchanged between you, trying to catch up with his agitated pace, he goes straight inside, going to the couch to sit in it, hood off and head entrapped in his hands again.

You were eager to take away his sorrow, but you can’t think of anything to say. You go grab some things in the bathroom and come back to sit on the couch next to him and take his bloodied hand. He doesn’t flinch at your touch at all, it seems to even ground him, his gaze now on how you disinfect the wounds and bandage each of his hands. His lips are drawn in a thin line, his breath heavy but less rattled.

It looks  like it hurt, maybe he had fractured a bone you wondered, but he didn’t wince, didn’t make a sound. You do not let go of his hand at first, your way of telling him that you would take anything he was willing to give you. He caressed your hand back absent-mindedly in return, gaze lost at the motion before he sank into the couch.

“Don’t tell anyone I’m here,” he whispers.

“Why?”

He doesn’t respond at once, still looking miserable. “Just don’t Y/N, alright?” he snaps, his blue eyes reaching right through your soul, raising the fear in you.

“You’re gonna give me more than that, I want to help you.”

“You can’t help me.”

“Then why did you call me?"

Silence again, just him clenching his jaw and you searching his face thoroughly, for anything that he would let you see, to indicate what he needed. You knew him. Better than you would admit, and better than he realised. You just thought that he refused to acknowledge it.

“Because you would know where to find me. And that you wouldn’t judge me, or fucking push me away like everyone else did. At least that’s what I thought…”

“I won’t, okay? I won’t tell anyone you’re here, and I won’t push you away, never again,” you promise, your argument lingering between the two of you. “But I don’t want to see you like this, Will. It’s terrifying. Please talk to me.”

He looks at you with sorry eyes, almost desperate. “That’s exactly why I can’t tell you. Because you would be fucking terrified of me if I did. And I can’t have that. I fucking can’t have that.”

You frown again, parting your lips in dismay. You could never be afraid of him, it was Will, and you knew perfectly well what he was capable of. You have been ready for anything, all those years.

“Not a chance, Will. Look at me,” you ask, forcing him to level eyes with you by tugging on his arm, one side of your face resting on the back of the couch as he turned his own, inches apart from each other. “I just want to help you.”

He observes you for a painfully long time, wide blue eyes digging into yours, but he still seemed unconvinced, making your heart ache a bit. He sighs, a stressful grunt coming out of him. “I don’t know what to do right now. I shouldn’t even have fucking called you. It just fucked up so bad.”

“What went bad?” you quickly press.

His tone drastically changes, like he was hesitant to even talk. “I fucked up, Y/N. I really did.”

“Ok, let’s just… Take a breath, think about it,” you gesture, hoping that he would calm himself and see more clearly. You knew him, and right now, he would blame the world as well as himself, too proud to admit anything. He needed to see that he was safe with you.

He only straightened up and ran his fingers through his hair again, putting distance between the both of you in the process. The night had settled outside, and it felt like you had not progressed at all with him. You settled on the idea of allowing him space, to wait.

“You can spend the night here Will okay? Just… take a step back. Gather your thoughts”

He doesn’t answer you, so you decide it safe enough to go to the kitchen, maybe bring him back a glass of water and let him come to you, like he did before. Once alone near the sink you take a look at your phone and you widen your eyes at the three missed calls from Leah and seven of her texts, all roughly the same content. 

“Y/N, where are you? Tom is in detention, he got arrested for robbery or something.”

“What?” you instantly reply, eyes glued to the screen as you await her response.

“Yeah, the post office thing. Y/N I’m freaking out, I’ve not heard from Matt in hours and he is not answering. I don’t know what to do.”

You thought about calling her for a minute, but you chose not to, not trusting that you would be able to remain calm, and something about a post office rang a bell in your mind.

“Do you know where Will is?” came another text while you tried to gather your thoughts, hearing Will shuffle in your living room. “I’ve tried Jonno but he knows nothing, and the police won’t tell me anything. They asked me to come in.”

You bit your lip. You promised Will you wouldn't tell. Damn, you were not making smart decisions right now, knowing the police were involved, but you were desperate to sort it out yourself first. To understand. You owed it to him.

“I’m sure he’ll come around, I’ll try to reach out for him. Don’t say anything, go to your parents. I’ll keep you updated if anything happens, yeah?”

You lock your phone after that written lie, and reach for a glass before filling it up with water.

You had suspected for a while that the guys were a little too cunning about doing illegal things, and even if they never talked to you about it, they didn’t try to really hide it either. They had the occasional jobs, but they never discussed it, they knew fishy people, fishy places and hung out God knew where for days. Matt was able to pay rent despite those shitty jobs, Will had his nan to take care of and Tom… was Tom. You believed you were unnecessarily worrying, especially since Leah didn't seemed bothered by any of it, so you let it go. But it seemed that she was even more clueless than you were.

You noticed how hard you were squeezing the glass of water in your hand and wondered for how long you had stayed like this, lost in your thoughts. But you decide that you had to know.

You unlock your phone again and search about that post office story you’re sure you’ve heard of before. It was too recent and too local for it to have been related in length, but you found some information nonetheless.

Three men robbed a post office with a firearm, and kidnapped one of the workers. The car has been found and leads are currently followed. Nothing more, the article was dated from yesterday.

You leaned into the counter and sighed, feeling the weight of all of this on your shoulders. Why, Will, why did he inflict that on himself? Where did they find a fucking gun? Why would they kidnap someone?

And why did you have this uneasy feeling that Will’s recent breakdown had something to do with Matt?

You stayed in the kitchen like this for a while, lost in thought. Your phone had several new panicked messages from Leah and you felt like a shitty friend for not calling her or even going to her. But somehow you felt that Will needed you the most. And he was wrong, you were not terrified of him, Never.

You gathered yourself and entered the living room, seeing Will fiddle with the bandages on his hands and he only seemed to notice your presence when you sat down beside him.

You handed him the water that he barely drank, analysing him and processing all of the information you had learned in the last minutes. You just had to try. 

“Will… Where’s Matt?”

A/N: Thank you to @babyblue711, @enchantingcupcakecollectionfan & @arcielee for beta reading. They have been of incredible help and support. Part 2 is written and ready to go.

Part 2

#salad days #fic #will salad days #will #ewan mitchell #smut #angst #os #oneshot #usermyfandomprompts

[d-dixonimagines]

I really believe that Daryl struggles with anxiety and is just real good at covering it up. They’d be so incredibly rare but I bet he’d sometimes go through panic attacks.

I was wondering if you could do one of those headcanon things about assisting Daryl through one of his rare panic attacks??

I love your work btw ❤️

YES! You definitely get a glimpse of one when the sanctuary was attacked and him and Rick were searching for the guns and he found that tiny closet with remnants of someone being kept there and he like detaches from reality! I also think this would be a great idea as a full fic that I really want to do! So there will be two versions of this request! And I do also have a version of this where Daryl is calming Reader down from an anxiety attack! Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of anxiety, anxiety attacks, triggers in general

Anxiety can be shown through many different ways. Some people show more obvious signs; hyperventilating, pacing, fast breathing. Others show signs that are less obvious and more internalized; being tense, shaking, feelings of detachment. They might appear fine at first but then once they're alone or out of the stressful situation, their anxiety will show more prominent.

Daryl was the silent type in almost every sense. When he was stressed or anxious, angry, in deep thought, you noticed his habit of chewing on the inside of his bottom lip. He didn't always address things right away, sometimes he'd keep it all to himself until it built up, or when it was just the two of you.

Gradually you learned how to pick up on his different emotions; when to ask if he wanted to talk, when to wait until he calmed down, or even just waiting for him to bring it up first when he was ready. It all worked like a system.

After he had returned from being held captive by Negan and his men, he didn't talk about any of it, and you didn't pry. That was something he'd have to open up about in his own time. It was a difficult time for the both of you; him working through the night terrors, closing himself off for a bit, and you trying to figure out how to help him.

No one knew when to expect a visit from the saviors. They did things by their own rules and everyone else was expected to go along with it no matter what. So when they showed up that day unexpectedly, it was more inconvenient than surprising. What was actually surprising was the fact that Negan was there too. Normally he left his men to do everything for him.

As the saviors taunted and ranted about nothing, you kept your gaze on Daryl, who held a hard gaze locked on Negan, noticing him biting at the inside of his lip. His hands were balled up in fists and his breathing quickened as he kept his guard up.

One of Negan's men made comments towards Daryl and his fists tightened. You placed your hand on his arm, a quiet attempt to try and keep him grounded. Once they left, he turned to leave, making his way back to the house you shared. When you were alone, you hesitated before seeing how he was doing.

He didn't respond, but he honestly didn't need to for you to know that he wasn't alright. His silence was loud. You could see that he was working himself up, by the way he was pacing the room, as if everything that was going through his mind would burst out of him if he stopped.

You understood his anxiety but you didn't know the extent that it went to in regards to Negan and his men. Seeing him like this cut deep because all you wanted to do was take away his pain and you knew you couldn't. You just were able to be there in any way that he needed.

Finally you approached him, placing your hands on his face to try and get him to focus on you. He tried to pull away but you wouldn't let him, telling him to look at you and only focus on you.

What he needed was a distraction, anything to get his mind off the current situation. He was safe and everything was going to be OK. You told him to look at you and instructed him to take a deep breath in. When you first started doing that with him he would look at you like you were crazy, but it worked. It was normal to forget to do the things that worked when your mind was too fixated on the negative.

He took a deep breath in and let it out, then you instructed him to do it again and again until his breathing became more regulated and he looked like he was fully focused on you. You told him again that he was safe, reminding him that he was home.

After a few moments of making sure that he was ok, you wrapped your arms around him and embraced him in a tight hug, syncing your breathing with his. He wrapped his arms around you, and after a few more minutes of silence, he felt like he was ready to open up about his nightmare in the cell.

#daryl dixon #d-dixonimagines #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon headcanon

[dandylovesturtles]

For @thecaptainstevie , Future Leo & Present Leo, trick

Doing it this way so I can keep the ask in my inbox in case I want to do any of the others later. Some of these are duos that other people have asked for, though, so I'll probably answer those and circle back to this if I have another idea.

I did see this prompt though and knew what I wanted to do. I don't think I've seen this particular twist on the Future Leo/Present Leo relationship, or at least haven't seen it very often.

CWs: sibling death (mentioned), discussion of the bad future timeline

Enjoy!

---

Leo's in the sewer tunnel by the wall, leaning forward so his shell doesn't touch, scrolling through his phone. Leonardo can't see what he's looking at from here, but it's probably Instagram, based on what he remembers.

He clears his throat a little awkwardly. Leans on his crutch and waits to be acknowledged. The still-healing wound in his side throbs, but he doesn't like how foggy the painkillers make him so he doesn't bother.

Leo's got his own crutches and his own wounds that Leonardo hopes he's taking medicine for, but Leo doesn't want to listen to him, so he doesn't bring it up.

Leo sighs dramatically, eyes not moving from his phone screen. "You're really bad at taking hints."

"I'm really good at ignoring hints," Leonardo rebuffs. He doesn't go any closer. "Come on, April's here and she brought Chinese."

"They couldn't just text me that?"

"I wanted to come talk to you."

Leo scowls and scrolls through his phone with more fervor. Leonardo rubs the back of his neck. Geez, why is this so hard...

"I know you want me out of your hair," he pauses for Leo to point out that they're bald, but he does not, so Leonardo continues, "but I'm stuck here until this wound heals. The least we can do is pretend to like each other. For everyone else's sakes."

"I already promised Raph that I wouldn't pick fights with you," said Leo with a petulant tone. "It'd be easier if you wouldn't come bug me."

Leonardo sighs. Maybe he should just drop it here, but every time he thinks maybe Leo will warm up to him, the temperature gets chillier.

"...Can I just ask why you hate me?"

Leo stops scrolling. He's quiet for so long Leonardo thinks he should just leave, but finally Leo speaks.

"From how Casey tells it... you were incredible. The greatest ninja to ever live. I didn't know how I could live up to that." Leo finally looks at him, and his expression is distinctly unimpressed. "Now you're here. Just a sad old man with nothing left."

Leonardo tries to let it slide off him. Like always, he pulls for a joke, a habit that he's never grown out of. "Okay, sad, I'll give you, but old? Splinter's older than me."

Leo doesn't laugh. He just regards Leonardo coolly and says, "Mikey died opening the time portal."

It's not a question, but Leonardo answers anyway. "Yes."

"Because you asked him to."

It rubs at a nerve still exposed. "I had to. He knew the plan, we talked about it before-"

"It was still your decision." Leo straightens as high as he can, even on the ground, even with his cracked shell and injured limbs. "You ordered Mikey to die."

Leonardo can't say anything to do that.

Leo grabs his crutch and pushes himself to his feet. He's angry; Leonardo can tell from the set of his shoulders and the fire in his eyes.

"How many others died from your decisions, huh? Donnie? Raph? April?"

Every name is a stab to Leonardo's heart. He's silent, doesn't bother to defend himself, doesn't bother to explain because what does it matter? They're all dead, Leo's not wrong there.

He's not going to use their sacrifices to win some kind of argument.

It's not satisfying to Leo, though. He squints up at Leonardo's face, challenging, like he wants Leonardo to push back, prove him wrong, and Leonardo leaves him wanting.

"...You're a failure," says Leo finally.

Leonardo looks down at him, and smiles sadly. "And you're a hero."

Leo scoffs. Swings his crutch to maneuver past Leonardo and back down the tunnel.

"My little brother died to send me a message, and I almost got everyone killed again anyway." He gives his head a shake. "Some hero."

He's retreating now. Leonardo fumbles, says, "Leo-" and Leo raises a hand in dismissal.

"Don't worry, old man. I'll smile for everyone else."

Then he's gone around the bend ahead.

Leonardo sighs, and follows him back.

#rottmnt #rise leonardo #future leo #cw sibling death #mentioned #dandy trick or treat #LITERALLY FORGOT THE TAG ON THE VERY FIRST ONE #this is going great

[persnicketypomelo]

Object of Admiration (Yandere!L)

Yandere!L/Reader, obsession, kidnap

You hadn’t always been this way.

That is, confined in a mad genius’s flat with no choice in the matter. 

And you surely wouldn’t have expected yourself to be calmly cooking yourself dinner as your captor sat on the couch, rewatching the same 240p granular CCTV footage in a loop. The black-haired detective beckoned for you to be seated by him, and you complied. 

A measly few weeks ago, you would’ve scoffed and turned heel at his command. But now, you begrudgingly follow his whim. The sight of the front door, locked only from the inside, taunts you. How easy it would be to march out the door, and how infuriating it was that he had you so under his thumb that you willingly decided not to.

Your captor was thin, lanky, and peculiar in many ways. Despite his constant consumption of sweets, he never seemed to put on a single kilogram. He tended towards the same uniform of blue pants and a white shirt, day in, day out. He was obviously not a man keen on self-care, given the constant disarray of his hair and the dark, tired bags under his eyes. Yet you knew better than to judge him by his messy appearance and shabby sweatpants. 

Beneath your kidnapper’s unremarkable appearance, he was smart—extremely so—and meticulous in his every action. The first week of your imprisonment, you combed through every cranny of the flat when he left the house. What you were looking for, you didn’t know, and it didn’t really matter anyway. Just…anything you could find about the man who stole you away from your life. Hell, even a letter from his mom would be something, but all you had was nothing.

He was always one step ahead of you. Everything you knew about him was information he chose to let you know. It was always clear who always had the upper hand between the two of you. 

“Do you want one?” The low, monotone voice interrupted, breaking the ice treat in half, “You’ve been staring. Normally I wouldn’t share these ones as they’re my favourite, but you’re the exception.” 

How you wish you weren’t the exception.

Absentmindedly, you take the ice treat from his hand, tasting the sugar as it melts in your mouth while his voice drones on. How funny, your captor, L, was regarded as so intelligent as to be sought out by Interpol, and yet he had the habits of a petulant child. He couldn’t survive without an alarming dose of sugar every day, and became sullen and jealous if you admired any person’s intelligence other than his own. His quirks would have even been cute, were he anyone else. 

Surely someone else would’ve been interested in him for his eccentricities. So why did he have to go out of his way for someone who wanted none of his attention?

L’s voice once again breaks your reverie, “…and I can tell you’ve not been listening given by how you’ve been making the same noise to everything I’ve said. What are you thinking about?”

You blink. It wasn’t like you to be so spacey, but today, everything in the now familiar house flooded your memory of one month prior.

You glance over to the miniature calendar propped on the coffee table. Some couples celebrated the anniversary of their relationship. You counted the weeks, now month, of your kidnap. 

“Why?” You ask, drunk on the wistful nostalgia of this particular date, “Why choose me? Why go this far for just one person?” 

L returns his gaze to the monitor with a thoughtful expression.

“Truthfully, I do not know why.” The popsicle in his hand had, by now, evaporated under his ravenous cravings to the bare stick.

“I like seeing how you think, and I value your presence…enough to want to keep you from ever leaving, from ever being someone else’s.”

L was never downright sappy or cloying with his words, yet you knew firsthand the depth of his affection. 

His first recourse upon returning, every day, was to hold you in a deceptively crushing embrace. To any outsider, it might’ve seemed like a sweet gesture between a loving couple. To you, his lanky arms entrapped you with a strength that betrayed their appearance. His fingers gripped the fabric of your clothing with a tightness that revealed the true extent of his possessiveness beneath his apathetic demeanour, deeply inhaling against the skin of your neck. The more you resisted, the less reciprocative of his embrace that you were, the longer and tighter his hold was. You learned, through time, that it was better to ease your unwilling muscles into the embrace. If you could stomach it that day, you would even wrap your arms around him in a weak act of reciprocation. L was more willing to hear out your requests the more compliant you were with his delusion of mutual love. 

In the end, he always got what he wanted from you, and you were powerless to do anything about it. 

If you rebelled and attempted to flee, he would find you and send people to bring you back. No matter how clever you were to avoid him, he still managed to track you down, and drag you back. He delighted in listing how you improved from your last attempt, analysing your performance as one might an episode of their favourite television show. When you acquiesced and gave up on attempted escape, that just meant he succeeded in conditioning you into his fantasy of you as his partner. Either by complying or resisting his kidnap, he had you right where he wanted you. More and more, you learned to fit more into the role of his partner: grudgingly obliging in returning his forced affection.

But no matter how reciprocal you forced yourself to be, you had yet to figure out relinquish his hold on you at night. 

Every night, without fail, L would wrap his arms around your midsection and bury his face into your back, like a personal teddy bear. When you tried to pry yourself free, his arms would tighten uncomfortably until there was not one centimetre of room between the two of you. You had tried to stay up late, hoping he would fall asleep first and give you some breathing room (or time to flee), but he never seemed to need the rest as much as you did. No matter how long you forced your weary eyelids open, he ran on constant energy, seemingly without exhaustion. 

He liked listening to your heartbeat, he had confessed once. He said it calmed him and eased his mind. In some small way, it gave you a twisted feeling of power to know that you, a regular citizen, could have such an effect on one of the greatest minds in the world. 

“There,” L pauses the security footage, jolting you out of your reminiscence, “he’s reaching out like he’s seen Kira,” he comments, “perhaps Kira was on the train with him.”

How he could come to such conclusions with such scant information, you would never know. 

Before you can reply, Watari’s entrance punctures your question, accompanied by a tray of sweet refreshments for the shaggy haired man.

After a moment, you try again, “Why do you think he does this? Kira, that is.”

Taking a bite of the green tea ice cream, L looks up thoughtfully.

“Kira and I are very much alike. Despite his ideals of justice, he is childish and hates losing. I am the same. I believe his motives for killing are a mixture of both his personality and his ideals. Every death is a challenge to justice, to me. Yet his choice of victims, shows that he believes he is making the world better. He wishes to force his own ideals upon the world, and I am here to stop him. It is as simple as that.”

A game…that was exactly how your relationship with L was. But for you, the stakes were your life and freedom. You were a prize that L won, and he would ensure at any chance that he would never lose you, even if it meant cheating. None of this kidnapping was about morality or misconstrued perception of righteousness. Even though L may have one of the most brilliant minds in the world, he has the emotional maturity of a spoiled child. What he covets, he ensures that he gets. Rejection or refusal is not an option. 

You supposed you should’ve realised much sooner with how immature he could be.

L always needed to prove that his intellectual prowess was stronger than anyone else’s. Anytime you admired anyone, be they fictional or non-fictional, he seemingly found all their flaws right after. It was clear he did not take any sort of rivals well. His jealousy of “rivals” was almost even cute.

Well, save for the fact that he kidnapped you. 

“Sometimes I wish I could open your head and see inside,” L interrupts your thoughts, the large, unblinking eyes peer through you, “especially when you’re so deep in thought like today.”

You look away from his fish-like eyes, crossing your arms. Even after becoming accustomed to living with him, his long, fixed stare never got any less unnerving. 

“Has it ever occurred to you,” you query, “how ironic this is from an outside perspective? You represent justice; you’re supposed to bring Kira down. And yet, you kidnapped me—took me from my old life to be your companion against my will.” 

The question doesn’t seem to phase him at all. “Each person will have their own perspective on morality, and this is mine. You should know that I won’t change my mind on this matter, even though you don’t agree with my actions.”

L turns the screen off, retiring from the collage of granular security footage. He turns to you, wrapping his arms around you and touching his nose to your neck. Your body, on instinct twitches to pull away, but you stiffen your muscles to halt the reaction.

You usually try not to think about the past, as it only makes you misty-eyed when you can do nothing to free yourself from your current predicament. But today, you can’t seem to help the bitter nostalgia from overflowing. How you miss the time where you could just follow the battle between L and Kira from a television. You missed how impersonal it was, as a law-abiding citizen, when you didn’t have to worry about L or Kira taking interest in you. Now you would never know that freedom until the finale of the two opposing forces. 

“How fortunate I am to have found you before anything could have happened to you.”

How fortunate for him indeed.  

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