#( ♡ ). chapter one: jean

[jks1uv]

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑂𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝐸𝑥𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 ; mark grayson / invincible

summary: in every universe, mark grayson turns into his father and seals his destiny as a true viltrumite. what if things are different this time?

pairing: fem!reader x mark grayson.

trope: childhood best friends to lovers + fateful lovers.

genre: fluff + angst + slow-burn romance + hurt / comfort + some comedy.

warnings‼️: crude language + spoilers for s3 (mark’s variants) + amber & eve never get w mark but r goated wingwomen & friends for reader + william, rick & rex r goated wingmen for mark + 2 jealous!mark moments + the tiniest moment of tension + multiverse talk + a mention of the chicago incident feat. scott / powerplex + REX LIVES 🗣️‼️🔥🔥 + a short & sweet kiss scene.

word count: 9,966.

random disclaimerrr: when eve said “you don’t deserve this” 😞 like he always just out here suffering 💔 kate, immortal, cecil & scott pmo so bad like bruh can y’all just pls stfu pls 🙏🏽 I CANNOT BELIEVE MY GOAT REX IS DEAD LIKE BRUH HOW 😭😞💔 but the 2 ppl majority of the fandom hates get their happy ending… mkay… edit: here’s the sequel! happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2025 @jks1uv

Mark Grayson has always liked you.

It was the first day of school, 2nd grade homeroom. The first day of school was always nerve wracking but this time was different.

His desk was next to you per the seating chart and you were the last kid to come in.

You were wearing a black t-shirt with some white bows on it and sky blue jeans with pink flowers embroidered on the pockets. White twinkle toes with pink and purple rhinestones.

Your hair was styled in 2 ponytails with cute bows on the bands.

Your eyes bright and a shy smile on your lips.

“Hi.” You bashfully said to him.

“Hi.” He said back in a daze.

His seven year old heart was fluttering and he was as red as a tomato when he realized it was you! You were the girl whose empty desk he was seated next to!

You always shared homeroom, if not, recess with him in elementary school.

Then came middle school, where you had at least 2 classes with him.

High school was a bit easier as you saw him 3-4 times a day, and that’s not including clubs or other extracurricular activities.

He spent 11 years like that. Seeing you in class, in the hallways, at lunch or after school.

Your relationship with him never wavered. Your character was still the same even after new chapters and opportunities for development.

He’s endured some insane shit, but he’s so happy the one constant in his life remained consistent.

“You still have a crush on her?!”

“Shut up, William. Or do you want the whole world to know.” Mark chides.

William snorts like it’s the most obvious thing in the world (it is). “The whole world already knows, it’s just your dumbass that’s somehow oblivious.”

“Give the lover boy a break.” Amber lightly teases.

Mark sighs and rubs his face with his hands, trying to hide the redness creeping up on him without his consent.

“Is that her?” Rick points towards Mark’s dream girl.

But what he forgot to mention was the living explosion (literally) walking alongside you.

“What’s he doing here?” Eve’s surprised Rex decided to step foot on college campus willingly.

William subtly side-eyes Mark and makes a desperate attempt to hold in his laughter by squeezing Rick’s hand.

Mark slowly stands, a confused look on his face.

“I’ll… go find out.” He says it like a question, like he’s unsure if that’s what he should do.

Amber and Eve share a knowing look.

“You’re funny.” You say as you catch your breath.

Rex shrugs nonchalantly and smirks. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

You’re shaking your head and are about to say something when you see Mark in front of you.

“Mark.” Your eyes crinkle as you smile.

You go in for your usual hug and Mark accepts it.

Unbeknownst to you that he’s making wide eyes among other facial expressions in a desperate attempt to make contact with the other male.

The hug lasts for a second longer and you ignore the butterflies that swarm your belly, deducing that he probably just wanted to hug you a bit longer.

No big deal you think as you’re screaming inside the longer you feel Mark’s arms around your waist.

When you meet Mark’s face, he allows himself to give you a tight-lipped smile.

“Mark, this is-”

“Rex! Heyy, how’s it going?” He chuckles nervously and rubs the back of his neck.

Your eyebrows furrow and you tilt your head a bit. “Yeah… wait, you guys know each other?”

Rex is enthusiast with his reply. “Fuck yeah! This is my best bro.”

He slaps Mark’s back with a confident grin and the “bro” laughs awkwardly.

You know, one of those ‘ha ha ha’ type laughs.

“Okay. So, um, Mark?”

“Yeah?” Aaand his voice cracks.

You politely ignore it but Mark wants to die inside.

“I was wondering if you were still down to go to the mall?”

Mark knows you’re attentive and take your friendships seriously, which isn’t old news. But he can’t help feeling special that’s you remembered a thought from a couple days prior.

“Only if you’ll buy me boba.”

Mark never lets you buy him anything if he can help it, and that’s how it’s always been.

You insist, he’ll deny; but that doesn’t mean his sentiment isn’t nice.

You blink and softly smile at his bargain. “Deal.”

Rex hums thoughtfully, a hand at his chin and his gaze on the sky.

“Can I join? I don’t have anything going onnn~” He suggests in a sing-song manner.

“No, you can’t!” Mark suddenly yells.

You look at Mark with furrowed brows. “Mark, don’t be rude.”

“Yeah, Mark, don’t be rude.” Rex repeats with a sly expression.

Mark deeply exhales through his nose and puts on a fake smile. “Rex, can I talk to you? Alone.”

“Sure!”

He follows Mark about 15 steps away from you.

You decide to sit down on a bench nearby and watch some TikTok to pass the time.

“Hey, so, um- quick question: what the hell are you doing here?”

Rex scoffs. “What, I can’t come visit my bro?”

Mark quirks an eyebrow and crosses his arms, unimpressed.

Rex puts his hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll be honest. I was here to talk to you about Cecil,” He looks over at you and sighs dramatically.

“But?” Mark presses when he sees Rex eyeing you.

“I see a hot girl and I can’t help myself, you know?” He smirks knowing he’ll rile Mark up and get the exact reaction he wants.

Mark immediately gets in his line of sight, making Rex back up a bit from the fast and unforgiving wind.

“Woah, man! A little warning next time before you almost blow me away?”

Mark ignores him. “Don’t call her that.”

The truth is, Rex came to campus with a purpose.

Mark never talks about you, but Eve may have let your name slip into conversation a few times.

Rex may be aloof and jerk-ish but he’ll be serious when it’s time.

He’s seen the way Mark’s face changed every time Eve mentioned you; his head would tilt slightly, he’d have a small, unnoticeable smile on his lips.

Rex suspected a crush and he was right! Of course he was, look at the way he’s being defensive of you.

There was just one problem, he didn’t know how you looked. He asked Eve and she was suspicious, but when he revealed his own suspicions, she indulged him.

So, the two of them made a plan with Amber, William and Rick; Operation: Get Mark To Man Up and Admit His Feelings Before You Slip Away.

- FLASHBACK -

“She’s wearing a PINK t-shirt with ripped blue jeans. Oh, and a black backpack.” William directs.

“Pink shirt, black backpack, ripped blue jeans. Got it.”

“PINK as in the brand, not the color.” Amber reminds.

“Wait, what? So what color is the shirt?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s dark green..? And the logo is an even darker shade. ” Eve remembers.

Rex is so unimpressed.

“So, let me get this straight; she’s wearing a shirt from the brand PINK, but it’s just dark green?”

“I’d say you’re on the right track.” Rick chimes.

“This shit is ridiculous. I mean, seriously. Why can’t you girls just wear stuff that warrant normal descriptions?”

“Shut up, Rex.” Amber and Eve say simultaneously.

- FLASH FORWARD -

“Alright, her unwanted, meddling knight in shining armor.”

Mark is about to defend himself against that true baseless allegation when William and Rick find him.

“What’re we gossiping about?”

There’s a glint in William’s eyes, the kind you don’t miss if you’re paying attention to the very specific lilt in his tone.

“Oh, I was just telling Marky boy here,”

Mark side-eyes Rex at the ridiculous nickname.

“How he’s Y/n’s unwanted, meddling knight in shining armor.”

William claps his hands together. “That’s actually an accurate assessment.”

Mark’s offended. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

Rick clears his throat as a guise to hide the very subtle laugh itching his throat.

“Sassy.” William says impressed in his best friends comeback skills.

Rex gets a phone call and excuses himself, giving William a crisp high-five and Rick a chest bump.

“Go get your Juliet, Romeo!” He cheers.

William shakes his head as he guffaws at the man.

“Dude, he's hilarious. How come you've never introduced him to us before?”

“Do I really have to answer that?”

William rolls his eyes at him.

“Anyways. When are you gonna tell Y/n you love her, again?”

“William!” Mark whines.

Rick smiles and expands his thinking.

“He meant to say, you should tell her soon. Before she's with someone else and leaves you to collect the pieces of your broken heart.”

“Not gonna lie, that's exactly what he needs to hear right now.”

Mark can't lie either. “Yeah. You kinda ate with that.”

William cringes and Rick winces with embarrassment.

“Hey! So, uhh, never say that again. Hope this helps.” William makes a finger heart.

“Wha- but I used the phrase correctly! Oh, come on guys, seriously?”

- MEANWHILE, WITH AMBER & EVE -

Amber and Eve thought it’d be a good idea to have a quick chat with you while you were waiting on Mark.

They casually brought up relationships and basically implied that ‘men ain’t shit’, but you disagree with that attitude.

“I dunno... Mark’s a good guy.”

“Oh yeah, for sure! Mark’s one of the good ones.”

Eve nods along to Amber’s statement.

She reminisced on her fair share with toxic relationships. She deliberately left out how it was with Rex but that’s okay, you don’t need to know that…

“Are you and Mark..?”

You feel your cheeks warm at the thought but you’d be lying if you deny your feelings for him.

“No.” You state with your head down and hands in your lap, playing with a ripped thread on your jeans.

“Huh. That’s a shame.” Eve comments.

That gets your attention.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just that you and Mark seem…”

“Ideal.” Amber completes smoothly.

Your wide eyes and mouth agape give you away.

“You've never thought about him like that?”

You have, but how do you admit this to Mark’s coworker and friend without it getting back to him?

You think Amber and Eve are cool, they’re nice to you; but they're more Mark’s friends.

To you, they're friends of a friend.

Amber senses your hesitation and sat down next to you.

“We won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Eve locks her lips with an imaginary key and throws it away.

That elicits a small laugh out of you, making you feel a bit more confident to share your secret.

You look over and see Mark and Rex still talking, now joined by William and Rick.

You contemplate for a moment before admitting it.

“Yeah.” You breathe out.

Eve hums in thought. “Let me guess, you don’t want to say anything in case it’ll fuck up the friendship?”

You gasp lightly at her spot-on description. “How’d you know?!”

She just shrugs nonchalantly and Amber bites her tongue to point out how obvious the entire situation is.

“I do like him, a lot... but what if he doesn’t feel the same? I would've ruined something special for something selfish and it would stay with me forever.”

You rant to the 2 girls you’re closest with and somehow, it feels right. You dismiss the thought of them turning out like the average mean girls in a teenage rom-com.

“But what if he does like you back?” Eve proposes.

“Then he’ll have to make the first move.” You shrug obviously.

“I know that’s right.”

You feel giddy from Amber’s approval.

She’s always been the type to keep it short and sweet but once you get her talking? She’ll always keep it real.

“We gotta go but we’ll see you later?”

Eve's already planning on the next hangout because she likes you enough to wanna help. She doesn’t like a lot of people so consider yourself special!

“Oh! Uh- yeah! Sure, that works with me.”

“It’s settled then.”

“See ya, Y/n.”

Coincidentally, you see the boys leave, leaving Mark to come to you.

“Shall we?”

“We shall.”

“Just let me try it.” Mark whines.

You shook your head and stood your ground. “It'll be gone in under ten seconds.”

He gasps dramatically, a hand to the heart like a lady of the opera. “You don't have faith in me?! I am a superhero-”

“I'm sure that's what they say.”

Your sarcasm isn’t foreign but he grows quiet at the remark.

It just slipped out so easily, without care or regard. You immediately try to make it right.

“I’m sorry, Mark.”

“No, no. It’s okay. You didn’t mean it like that.”

Ever the sweetheart but you refuse.

“No, it isn’t.” You stop walking. “I was careless with what I said and it’s not right.”

He looks at you with appreciation and gives you a smile. “Thank you, Y/n. It feels nice to be seen as I am.”

That both warms and saddens your heart.

You know how much he’s been through and even though you’ll never truly understand, you know he can still count on you. You’ll be there for him and that’s gotta mean something.

“Of course.”

You and Mark spend the next hour chatting and idly checking out things in the stores.

You wander into the dress and gown section and are completely in awe of the collection. Every color you can think of in every style: silky, thigh cut, halter top, strapless.

Your hands run through the material and you’re reminded of the spring formal coming up soon.

Not everyone gets the chance of going but you have a friend who extended the courtesy of inviting you and a plus one.

You recall the last time you went to a dance: your senior year of high school's prom. It was memorable. You were a part of a small group that went together; consisting of your friends.

You took photos with Mark and danced with him for a bit but not like anything you wished. There's nothing romantic about screaming club anthem lyrics while getting twerked on but since it was Mark's ass, you didn’t complain.

That was the first and last time he accepted drinks from William, by the way.

You chuckle quietly to yourself in memory of that glorious night when Mark comes up behind you.

"You ready to go or do you wanna try some of them on?"

You take another look at the gorgeous dresses and think.

Mark's hoping you say yes.

He won't admit it anytime soon and despite him already thinking you're the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, prom night solidified that for him.

You had him starstruck.

His hear stuttered, adrenaline rushed through his veins and conjured up a swarm of butterflies in his stomach.

SImply put, every feeling and action that describes a man in awe of a pretty lady was an accurate depiction of him.

“Nah, maybe some other time.” You decide.

Mark nods, looking forward to the future dress tryouts. “Okay.”

Later, you have dinner with Mark, Oliver and Debbie.

Mark flew out and brought home some authentic pasta and garlic bread from Italy.

You rolled your eyes playfully and claimed he was being “extra” but reevaluated your statement when you thought about it.

If you could move that fast, you'd go to another country to have their finest food as well.

“It's so good to have you, honey.”

Debbie was always so nice to you, it made you feel happy and proud of yourself knowing someone's mom wholeheartedly accepts your presence in their kids life.

“It's good to be here.”

“Are you gonna stay the night?!” The purple little boy asked full of hope.

You didn't want to let him down but you had no choice.

“I'm sorry, Oliver, but not tonight.” You ruffle his hair and give him an apologetic smile.

You know he's bummed out when he doesn't sound that infectious laugh and tell you you're messing up his hair.

“Oh.”

You feel Mark's gaze on you and when you look up, he offers a sympathetic smile.

“I can stay until it's time for you to sleep.”

You know you've got him, it's an offer he can't refuse.

He's all smiles now and hugs you by the waist, his head laying on your chest.

You smile and hug him back, your head laying on his.

Mark cleans the table and Oliver takes out the trash while you help Debbie with the dishes.

“It doesn't matter how many times I say “no”, does it?”

You hum and shake your head. “Nope.”

You make small talk while you dry after she scrubs and rinses. About college, your plans after college, Mark.

“What about him?” You wonder.

“I mean, how has be been since...”

You see a look of helplessness on her face.

Debbie may be his mother but even she is not immune to the conflict of secrecy in her son's life.

You instantly feel bad.

Mark always tells you everything but to have his own mom ask you things about her son makes the situation complex.

You turn your head over your shoulder and see Mark playing a video game with his baby brother.

When Mark told you about Nolan, what happened to them on Thraxa and the events that unfolded afterwards, you didn't know how to respond.

As if hearing Nolan reveal his plans for Earth and call Debbie a “pet” wasn't heartbreaking enough, you were there with Debbie when Mark was brutally assaulted by his own father.

Then you hear of Nolan's second family he while the first one was still trying to keep it together and deal with the devastating aftermath of the biggest betrayal.

You almost cried when Mark broke down about Angstrom Levy hurting Debbie and Oliver.

You were out of the country on a field trip with your classmates when that happened. Devastated was an understatement for how you felt to hear both Mark and Debbie in the hospital from William.

Mark shamefully admitted to killing Angstrom, thinking that would sever the bond between you two. He expected you to be afraid of him, no matter how awful he’d feel about doing that to you.

It was the total opposite, you embraced him and let him cry on your shoulder. You let him feel everything but you also let him feel your hand in his.

You looked him in the eyes and told him that he did what he had to do and if killing Angstrom was the solution, then so be it.

“Mark told me everything. From seeing Mr. Grayson—”

You see a flash of hurt in Debbie's eyes at the mention of his name and almost forget that before he was known as Omni-Man, he was Mr. Grayson. He was Mark's dad.

“—again and about Oliver. Up until Angstrom and how the last thing he did was hurt you and Oliver.”

Debbie drys her hands and looks out of the window above the sink.

You can tell she’s disassociating. Her eyes seem so far away and crestfallen.

You don’t know if she’s getting much sleep but you also can’t imagine getting any if you were her.

You put a hand on her shoulder and she’s visibly shaken out of her thoughts.

“He’s gonna be okay, and so are you.”

She looks at you like you’ve lit up a candle at the end of a very dark tunnel.

Debbie leans in for a hug, eliciting a small sigh when you strengthen the embrace a little.

You figured she should feel taken care of for once.

“Thank you.”

You hear her sincerity and make a mental note to talk about this with Mark later on.

Oliver is tired out from having a “good playdate” with you and his older brother.

You tuck him in for the night per his request and can't help but feel the warmth from taking care of him touch your heart.

He's a growing boy but despite the many changes one goes through due to that constant stage of life, his feelings for you don't change.

Mark loves how much Oliver loves you. He loves seeing 2 of the most important people in his life get along so well, secretly admiring the way you've grown a soft spot in his mother's heart, too.

“They grow up so fast.” Mark attempts to humor.

You hum and try your best not to cry dwell on the bittersweetness of that phrase.

“Yeah.”

You're sitting on Mark's bed, looking fondly at the one of many drawings the kid made for you.

You softly exhale and bring up the conversation you had earlier with Debbie.

“Mark, I have something I want to talk to you about.”

He looks at you knowingly. “I know.”

Your eyes widen a bit at that revelation. “You do?”

He nods, a pursed smile on his face. “I have super hearing, remember?”

How did you forget that?

You close your eyes and exhale sharply, feeling silly for forgetting that power of his. “Right, duh.”

You don’t want to push the conversation if he’s not feeling it but you want to know if you did the right thing.

“I... didn’t overstep… right?”

“Oh, no. No, you didn’t.”

He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I… haven’t had the best time talking to her about the things I say to you.”

You nod in understanding.

“I felt bad when she asked you how I’m doing. She should be able to ask me that.”

He’s guilt-stricken and it makes you feel dejected.

“Mark.” You put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I know it’s hard talking to your mom about your inner turmoil but you’re all she has.”

Who does Debbie go to when she wants to discuss the matters of her heart? Who’ll listen when she wants someone to talk to?

“You give her the strength to carry on so let her give you some peace of mind, hm?”

Mark’s eyes shine with a strong fondness for you, his mind wiped clean of all things difficult and heart ten times lighter.

You’ve always understood him, whether he explains himself or not. You could always just know.

Your heart and emotional intelligence are perhaps his favorite things about you.

“You okay?” You ask, worried you’ve overstepped again.

“Never been better.” He promises.

A soft smile graces his lips as he leans in to hug you.

You accept it with an equal gentle expression and when you feel his arms wrap around your middle, you feel good.

Mark is invulnerable but not when it comes to the war between his mind and heart, that’s when you step in. And when you do, there’s always a resolution found in great clarity.

You feel his heartbeat above yours and unconsciously, they sync. His breathing evens out with yours.

It feels intimate, this hug.

You’ve hugged him a million times before but none of them have felt quite like this.

A heavy weight on his shoulders has evaporated and you can feel his gratitude.

“I don’t know how to thank you.” He murmurs.

You tilt your head back a bit so he can see you. “Then don’t.” You shrug, like it’s the most obvious answer.

He chuckles lightly and blinks at you, a tight-lipped smile on his face.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of his arms loosening around you and replacing the warmth with his hands on your hips.

You subconsciously gulp and watch his eyes flicker towards your eyes, lips then back to your eyes.

You don’t know if it’s your mind playing tricks on you, but you swear he moves his head a little closer to you; just enough to barely touch noses.

Your stomach is in a frenzy and your hands feel clammy.

Is this really happening?

But then, like a switch being flipped off; he gingerly clears his throat and backs away.

You blink, catching yourself in a daze and he gets up to put on a movie.

He acts like he wasn’t just about to kiss you, as if that chemistry was just a figment of your imagination.

You don’t have the guts to say anything, to ask the obvious. So, you also pretend that you two weren’t just about to fulfill your biggest ‘what if?’ scenario.

“Oh, wow… that’s crazy.”

“I’m sorry, Y/n.”

It was nice to hear sympathies from the only people who you could afford to talk about this with. They’re also the only people who wouldn’t go and spread the telltale truth of the most embarrassing moment of your life.

“I can’t believe he fumbled this badly.” Amber facepalms herself in disbelief.

She sighs in exasperation and plops down on your bed with an arm covering her eyes.

Eve doesn’t move from her position; leaning on your wall with her arms crossed and her face in thought.

“What if he doesn’t like me like that?” You wonder aloud.

Amber peeks an eye out from under her elbow and Eve shakes her head.

“No, no, no. Trust me, that’s not it.”

“Don’t seem so sure.” You grumble as you pick at your nails to distract yourself from the heartache.

Eve sits down beside you and thinks about her words carefully. “Mark… well, I won’t defend him; he is kinda stupid.”

“Kinda?” Amber argues.

That makes you grin a bit.

“But he’s also your best friend, and you’re his. Maybe he doesn’t know how he feels but he does know that you’re not worth the risk of something he’s unsure will ever happen.”

Somehow, she put things into a perspective you’ve never thought about before.

“I never thought about it like that.”

You feel Amber sit up.

“That’s because it’s a confusing situation. Seeing both sides of the story might help you make some sense, give you consolation.”

You nod, already having potential answers to your unanswered questions. If not real answers, you’ll settle for theories. It’s still something.

“Thank you, guys.”

Amber winks at you. “Anytime.”

“Of course. We're rooting for you both.”

You shyly smile when Eve nudges your shoulder.

“So,” She claps her hands together. “What should we do to commence our very first sleepover? Omegle?”

Amber is concerned for the first time at Eve’s expense.

“Umm...” You pout your lips to the side.

“I don't find the idea of accidentally getting flashed the most... thrilling.” Ambers grimaces.

“Yeah.” You nod.

Eve has a sly look on her face, one that says her proposition comes with an entertaining twist.

“Trust me, I have an idea.”

“Okay, that was pretty fun.” Amber concedes.

You laugh softly to yourself, remembering the events from the previous night.

The 3 of you decide to go out for lunch, finding the night an excellent moment for bonding.

“What was fun?”

Mark pulls a seat up at the table you're occupying.

“Mark? How'd you know we were here?” You query.

Mark looks just as confused as you but before he could answer, Eve does it for him.

“I invited him.”

“Oh. Okay.”

You don't have a problem, it's just that you thought this was gonna be “girl time” as you like to call these moments.

It would've been nice to know, at least.

Amber attempts to start up a conversation but little did you know; this conversation was a part of Eve's “idea” she mentioned the night prior.

“We went on Omegle last night.”

Mark's eyebrows raise in surprise. “Did anything happen?”

You understand the underlying message to be, “Were you victims to any unsolicited sexual advance?” and find it kind of sweet that Mark cares enough to have that be his first train of thought.

“Yeah, actually.” Eve notes as she takes a bite of her burger.

“Y/n's got herself a loverboy.”

You choke on your drink. Exploding into a fit of coughs, you hope it kills you.

Mark is quick to pat your back and try to aid in helping.

When you catch your breath, you look over at him awkwardly and thank him.

“Don't mention it.” He humbly said.

You make it a personal mission to never bring it up. Ever.

Amber continues to fuel the fire.

“Yeahhh.” She sighs. “He's Russian and was all, like, ‘Your eyes are like the ocean and I am a merman.’.” She puts on her best Russian accent and giggles when she nails it.

“Mm!” Eve makes a noise of enthusiasm, adding on to the punchline. “And then he said, ‘They are so deep, I can drown in them.’.”

“The fuck?” Mark grunts under his breath. “But mermen can swim.”

Honestly, he thought it was fucking stupid. Even if this guy was a “merman”, he'd be able to swim. Drowning is totally out of the question.

“Yeah, but it was the thought that counts.” Amber spoke before eating a fry.

“It was pretty corny.” Eve seemingly agrees with Mark.

“See?! I knew I wasn't the only one.” Mark nods to himself.

“But...”

His smile drops.

“I gotta admit, it was kind of romantic.”

Mark can't believe this.

Is romance really dead? Aren't punchlines supposed to make sense?

He knows it's only romantic because the guy's Russian. Okay, so he has an accent. So what? That should pardon his inadequacy of flirting?

“You guys only ate it up because he has an accent.”

Mark narrows his eyes as he takes a curly fry from your plate.

Amber and Eve side eye each other with mischief as they see you enter the ring.

“I thought it was kind of sweet, you know? At least he tried.” You counter.

Mark tilts his head, clearly bewildered. “You mean to say that you actually liked that?”

You don’t like his accusatory tone. “It wasn’t that bad, Mark.”

He rolls his eyes and begs to differ. “Wasn’t that bad- it made no sense! He definitely pulled that shit out of Google’s top thirty best flirty lines.” He puts air quotes around best.

“Oh, would you look at that? I actually have to go do that... thing.” Eve slowly rises from her seat.

“Yeah, me too.” Amber flashes a sweet smile.

They’re gone before you can impose.

“They really just left.” You say to no one.

Mark is still somehow going. “I just… I dunno.” He says, defeated.

“Mark, it wasn’t that deep. He liked my eyes and said some line that made me feel nice. That’s all.”

He nods like he understands but he really doesn’t.

“He’s no Mr. Darcy.” You settle as you take a sip of your milkshake.

Mark smiles at that and you’re confused.

“Why’re you smiling?”

“I knew it! I knew you couldn’t possible swoon over that ridiculous, nonsensical one-liner.”

You laugh incredulously. “Seriously, what’s your problem?”

He raises his hands in surrender. “I just knew he couldn’t be your type after that. Sure, you like them romantic but with genuine thought.”

He says that so confidently, with such attention, it makes you feel nicer than the Russian’s compliment. He makes you feel seen with that keen observation.

You nod to yourself, lowkey impressed.

“Mkay.” You simply say.

His gaze flickers towards you at the seemingly confusing, neutral response.

“What.”

“What, what?”

“You said that like you’re not convinced.”

You deeply exhale, not wanting to argue anymore. “Mkay.”

His eyes widen a bit and he snaps at you like he’s just discovered the phrase: ‘eureka!’.

“That, right there. That’s what I mean.”

You rub at your head as if you’ve got a headache but you doubt you won’t get one soon.

“Elaborate.”

You’re sticking with as little words as possible if it means to get to the point.

“Are you mad at me?” He asks with worry coating his tone.

You shake your head, unsure of what’s happening. “I just don’t know what’s gotten into you today. You’re in this strange mood to argue.”

He blinks.

You’re right.

Arguments are a rare occurrence in this relationship.

“We never argue.” He realizes regretfully.

Your eyes trail up his form and you see the uncomfortableness etched onto his outline.

“I’m sorry-”

“Sorry-”

There’s a pause, one that melts the lingering awkwardness into friendliness.

You see the hints of a smile creep up on him and instinctually, there’s one in yours.

“You first.”

Ever the gentleman.

“Sorry for making it awkward.” Your fingers interlock with each other and you give him an apologetic look.

Mark immediately shakes his head. “No, you didn’t make anything awkward… It was me. I got-”

He doesn’t speak for a few seconds, trying to find another way out of this as two thirds of his sentence has already been put out.

“You got..?”

He puts on a tight-lipped smile but it looks pained. “I just wanna say that I’m sorry for getting defensive for no reason.”

He thinks that was a good excuse for his detour but you’re smart.

“Jealous.” You say firmly.

“Huh?” He squeaks and immediately clears his throat.

“You got jealous.” You shrug your shoulders and move the whip cream in your milkshake around with the straw.

He scoffs with the intention of obscurity. “That- I- What? Pfft, jealous. Who, me?! Yeah, right.”

His stuttering erupts a snort from you, an “I told you so” fresh on the tip of your tongue.

He wanted to spout declarations of how incorrect you are but he couldn’t. The cat had his tongue.

“Whatever.” He bites with little heat.

He crosses his arms over his chest and appears to look unaffected by your ability to see through him.

“Mkay.” You hum to tease him.

Your best friend groans and you giggle at him slouching down in his seat, his hands covering his face and in turn; a sheepish grin.

You’re in your home when your TV bears awful news.

“Breaking news: intruders that look like multiple Invincibles are wreaking havoc across the globe.”

As soon as you hear that, a loud boom is heard from across the city and sends shockwaves to where you are.

“We urge you to stay in your homes and hide. Do not make contact, I repeat; don’t engage with them.”

You’re scared.

How the hell are you supposed to stay hidden in your home when there’s the start of destruction visible outside?

How can they tell you to stay inside when there’s a chance you can die in there?

It’s not like the variants aren’t gonna come inside. Who’d stop them from hurling your place of residence like a football?

Despite all of those thoughts, you stay inside.

You hide in your living room. You sigh to yourself as you hide inside a spare closet, leaving a sliver of space open to breathe.

You turn your phone’s ringer off but feel the vibrations in your pocket. You look to see who it could be and feel so much relief flood your stomach when it’s Mark.

“Mark?” You say shakily.

“Y/n? Oh, thank god. Where are you?”

Your eyes water but you keep them at bay. No point in crying over spilled milk.

“I’m in the spare closet of the living room, what’s going on?”

He starts to explain when the call abruptly cuts.

So fucking cliche you think as you the see the dead battery sign.

The sound of a window opening makes you heave out a sigh of relief.

You get out and are about to hug him but the first thing you notice when you open the door is his face. Er, the lack thereof.

“Is… this a new costume?” You ask wearily.

You didn’t know Mark had a black mask installed. It covered his whole head and the lens was turquoise blue instead of white.

He just stares at you, unflinching and scarily still.

You gulp as the realization sets in your stomach.

This isn’t the Mark of your world. This isn’t the Invincible you recognize.

The masked stranger can sense your irregular heartbeat and hear the small panicked breaths that well up in your chest.

He slowly stalks towards you; like a predator to their prey, except there’s nothing dangerous about his stance. He doesn’t radiate harm or anger and he puts his hands up, as if to show you he won’t harm you.

For your own sake, you don’t believe that. You can’t believe that’s what he wants.

You’re frozen, wide eyes filled to the brim with fear and shock.

You grip your phone tight in your hands, ready to turn it into a weapon if you must.

He’s interrupted when another one shows up.

This one has a black and yellow suit with a yellow cape.

Your eyes dart to his figure and you’re sure this one’s gonna do the honors.

“You’re alive.” He says to himself.

His eyes are covered with white lenses but you know he’s looking at you.

His hands ball up into fists and he walks to you with an urgency in his stride.

You instinctually back up and hit a wall when the masked variant gets in between you both.

“She’s scared.”

The tone in his voice almost makes you think he cares. Almost.

“Get out of my way.” The bright-caped intruder basically spat his face.

“And let youuu have all the fun? I don’t think so!”

What the fuck?

You see what looks like Mark… in a mohawk.

His lips spread into a smirk, a cocky tone in his words.

Your nails press into your arm to prevent you from sputtering out a giggle.

How are you supposed to take him seriously when he’s willingly sporting a mohawk? Right.

If you knew there was going to come a time where your home is used as some sort of Invincible convention, you would’ve moved out a long time ago.

“You’re here.”

This one scares you a little.

His demeanor may be softer but his eyes, they’re wild with a fire furling around his pupils.

What makes the fear prick at your heart is the fact that he’s wearing the Viltrumite uniform.

Wherever he came from, he became his father.

That fact chills your bones and you think, how could that happen? Why did that happen?

His wild eyes are wide with surprise and there’s the ghost of a relieved smile on his face.

Very quickly have you gone from 0 to 100.

There are 2 seemingly decent Invincibles and 2 Invincibles that give off evil vibes.

What’s better news is that they all have some sort of fascination with you.

Awesome! Fantastic, even!

Your adrenaline has taken a back seat but you’re still unnerved by the destruction just outside your neighborhood.

You’ve never wished for a quicker death as this cat and mouse game is becoming all too much. The anticipation will kill you if they don’t.

“Alright,” Mohawk Mark yawns. “Enough dickin’ around.”

The 4 variants surround you, encasing you in an otherwise unbreakable square.

“You’re coming with us.” Decides the caped crusader.

He puts his hand out to grab you but is thrown through a wall by an unstoppable force.

It feels a bit blurry after that.

You feel yourself being lifted and moving at an alarming speed, your body lurching forward and side to side by the breeze taking you.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He murmurs.

He hugs you close to his chest, a hand cradling the back of your head and the other clutching your back protectively.

“M-Mark?”

You find your voice amongst the dizziness clouding your head.

He holds your head and tilts it towards him, kissing the crown and meeting your eyes.

“Yeah, it’s me. You’re okay, you’ll be fine. Just stay here.”

You hold his wrists and blink, looking around you to find yourself with Debbie and her boyfriend, Paul.

“Please.”

Mark’s desperation appeals to you. His voice cracks with an urgency for your life. One that is begging you to listen, and you do.

“Okay.” You agree.

He nods and kisses you once again, a sweet promise pressed against your forehead.

You may have had the wind knocked out of you but that doesn’t mean you’re unaware.

Oh yeah, that kiss sobers you up real quick.

Your eyes are wide and cheeks are warm; you’re flushed and hope he doesn’t detect the jump in your heart rate because of his tenderness for you.

“Be careful.” You blurt out.

Mark looks back at you with a smirk on his face.

“I will.”

He kept his promise for the most part.

“Ow.”

“Maybe don’t move around a lot?”

“…Sorry.”

He winces as you treat his facial wounds.

Mark got pretty banged up; his left eye was swollen and purple from Conquests fists. He has similar shades of bruising on his face and a nasty cut on the bridge of his nose, another on the corner of his lip.

His arms and leg are almost fully healed.

It’s been a grueling 2 weeks.

Oliver helps out as much as he can.

Eve and the rest of the heroes are helping piece the cities back together but no matter how much they help rebuild, the atrocities committed won’t be forgotten.

Conquest was here on a personal mission and almost leveled the state because of it and roughed up Oliver pretty badly.

“I don’t know what to do.”

You hear him, you hear the things he wants to say and the things he doesn’t say out loud.

You feel so bad, so awful for him. He’s still a kid trying his hardest, doing his best.

Why can’t that be enough?

“It isn’t fair.” You respond.

His gaze turns to you.

“You do your best and when you think it’s over, the worst is still yet to come.”

Your fingers lightly touch the one of many bruises on his cheek, his eyes close at the contact.

“I can’t imagine how many times you’ve had pieces of you broken for us but it’s a sacrifice that unfortunately comes with the job.”

It hurt your heart, saying the second part.

Hard truths are a pill you’ll always find difficult to give.

He sharply inhales and the tears he tried so hard holding, come pouring down. Soft sobs and wails plague his throat.

His head falls atop your chest and his hands wrap around your middle, clinging to your shirt.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders and you do your best to ground him, to be his anchor.

His mental state is unimaginable, the thought of him slipping away has been a reoccurring nightmare for you but you push through. You have to.

“So many people died.”

The death toll worldwide was into the hundreds of thousands. That was the doing of the variants but Mark was inadvertently responsible, too.

It breaks your heart at how unfair this all is.

A Viltrumite’s personal vendetta against Mark resulted in such catastrophe.

Scott -also known as Powerplex- fried his only family left and somehow thinks that is also Mark’s fault.

As if the Chicago Incident wasn’t enough, there was almost a Chicago Incident Part 2 had it not been for Eve.

“You can’t blame yourself Angstrom’s doing.” You try to reason.

Mark shakes his head and gets up.

“I thought I killed him, but I should’ve been sure. I should’ve finished the job.”

Mark palms at his wet eyes, sniffling lightly as he calms down.

You don’t know what to do, you don’t know what to say.

You don’t want him to wallow in this pain by himself but you also don’t want to say something wrong.

“You should leave.” His cold tone and neutral face really sells it.

You’re confused. “What?”

You’ve never seen him like this and are worried the wretched day you’ve been imagining is finally here.

“I’m sorry, w-was it something I said? Or did?”

“No. I just want you to go.”

You watch his fists bunch up the material of his joggers on his knees and the veins protruding from his hands.

“I…”

You want to say something, you want to stay for him but you can’t. You know it’d only make things worse.

So you just nod and whisper a meek, “Okay.”.

Mark still isn’t looking at you when you make your way to the door. His face still expressionless, calculated, distant.

Your fingers reach for the handle when you hear him.

“Y/n?”

It’s embarrassing how quick hope flashes in your eyes at the sound of him saying your name.

You try to suppress the obvious reaction as much as possible.

“Yeah?”

It still seeps through your voice but you’re human.

Your emotions are a part of you, even if they end up being a helping hand to your disappointment.

You don’t see the pool of guilt swirl around in his almost annoyed eyes but maybe it’s for the better.

He stares at you and feels bad but after everything that’s happened, is it worth keeping you in his life?

He wants to tell you so badly what’s making him push you away.

Sure, William is his best friend but you’re so much more. You’re a part of him, you’re his soulmate.

Mark wants nothing more than to see you happy but he ultimately decides that it’s nothing compared to seeing you alive.

“Can you close my door all the way?” He begrudgingly says.

The average person would blame him for pushing you away, him getting your hopes up only to crush them so inadvertently cruelly.

But you only chastise yourself.

You want him to know that despite people like Scott or Angstrom; who put the blame on wrong people for their circumstantial demise, there's people like you and Debbie.

He has a support system ready to recharge him but maybe you were overcharging him?

You go to sleep in tears, crying silently to yourself over how fucked life is.

Mark doesn't sleep the whole night, knowing he can hear your heart break.

It's been a slow week.

You don't talk to anyone or do things you used to; only getting up to go to class and eat, do some occasional grocery shopping.

You make an excuse for Amber and Eve when they text you to meet up and watch their caller ID's flash across your phone before it rings all the way through.

Mark hasn't spoken to you at all. No call, no text.

Despite him quitting school, you used to see him all the time on campus. Whether it be for you or William or Rick.

Now, you don't meet with anyone.

“She doesn't wanna talk to me or Amber anymore.” Eve voiced one day.

"Nor us." Rick pointed towards him and William.

“Something’s wrong. I'm worried about her.” Amber adds as she comes across the last message you sent in the group chat with her and Eve.

hey guys, just going through the flu rn. i’m fine tho! no worries :)

But of course they worried. They're your friends and that's what friends do.

Which is exactly what they said when they arrived at your doorstep, so you can't afford another excuse.

Your duo sits on your bed, trying to come up with a solution to best help you out.

“He’s closed off and maybe that was expected, but it's been a week.” Amber says.

“Yeah, you'd think he'd open up by now.”

You sigh pitifully and look out your window and down the street.

You’re a 10 minute drive and he’s a 1 minute flight away, yet nobody is willing to close that distance.

“It should be him, though.” Eve says.

“Hm?” You hum absentmindedly.

“Mark should be the one to come talk to you, not the other way around.”

Eve gauges for a reaction from you, one that will oppose her idea.

“Maybe you should go.” She switches up.

You look at Eve hesitantly, like it's a flop idea.

“You tried, Y/n. You did your part and he let you know but this isn’t the way things between you should end. Should he want it to end.”

It's like Amber knew what you were thinking and tried to dismiss the thought for you.

You weren't gonna lie and say that you haven't thought about blowing up his phone, driving to his house and banging on his door to open up to you.

But would he even want to? Would he even listen?

“It's not about what he wants, it's about what he needs.”

“And what he needs right now, is you.”

- MEANWHILE, WITH WILLIAM, RICK & REX -

“Come on, man. Don't be like this.” William tries.

Rick can see how much Mark is beating himself up over everything that’s happened.

With the fight against Liu’s dragon and Powerplex. And now recently, Conquest.

Mark never complained, it was the job. But you made getting back out on the field a bit easier.

“It's not worth losing her.” Rick gently reminds.

Mark's trio of lending hands have come to his service but it's unwanted, and Mark lets them know.

“Look, I don't need this. Especially not right now.”

This makes Rex mad.

“Oh you don’t need this? Well, excuseee me! We don’t need you to be so goddamn stupid, especially not right now.”

Mark narrows his eyes, visibly agitated. “Stupid? I’m being stupid?”

Rex widens his eyes, his pitch growing higher. “Yeah! That’s what I said.”

“Okay, I think we’re elevating the situation so let’s all just calm down.” William suggests nervously.

Mark has other thoughts as he rises from the bed. “And how exactly am I being stupid?”

Rex knows he shouldn’t be egging him on, he shouldn’t be encouraging his anger; but if this was the way to make his friend see his foolishness then so be it.

“By distancing yourself from the one woman who’s nice enough to let you, instead of manning up and telling her how you really feel.”

That stung.

“You don’t get to tell me how to handle my love life.”

Rex smirks lazily, a hardball on the tip of his tongue. “You don’t even have the balls to have one.”

“Rex.” William warns.

The cheeky bastard ignores him and continues on, a bit excited to see where this would all lead.

“I think she’d want a man who sees her, who doesn’t hurt her by ignoring her entire existence.”

Rick facepalms himself and wonders where the line between bravery and stupid was drawn.

Mark’s knuckles are white from how hard his fingers are curling in on themselves, his fists ready to pound into the explosive asshole.

Rex steps closer, now toe-to-toe with Mark and ignorantly unafraid. “I wouldn’t make her wait.”

Mark punches him right in the mouth, hard.

“Mark!” The yell of his friends fall on deaf ears.

Rex grunts as he stumbles back a bit, expecting this outcome.

“You don’t know her. You don’t know what’s good for her.” Mark spits bitterly.

Rex spits some blood out, sighing heavily. “You do.”

That makes Mark soften up.

He blinks like he’s snapped out of a trance. His fist wavers and is set down beside his thigh, a deep sigh exiting his nose. He looks at his friend and witnesses the ugly truth; his jealousy won.

“What am I doing?” He whispers.

Rex coughs lightly, the cut on his lip stinging.

“Talk to her, Mark. Don’t let her live with the regret of not knowing.”

Rick puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, hoping this will finally tip him over the edge.

Rex comes off the wall, slapping Mark’s back with a warm pat.

“I’m sorry, Rex. I shouldn’t have-”

He dismisses him with a wave. “Nah, I was being an asshole. An asshole on purpose, but still an asshole.”

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

You’re gathering the courage to mull over the most impactful relationship in your life.

Is there even a correct way to do that?

You don’t know, but what you do know is that you have to try.

You look yourself in the mirror and feel the weight of your younger self.

She’d be devastated. you think. If she were here in the flesh to see this, you don’t think she could withstand it.

A sharp knock to your door pulls you out of your head.

You’re not expecting anyone, and you’re unsure about the one person you did want to hear from.

Regardless, you walk over and open the door and your heart drops out of your ass. Not in fear, but in surprise.

“Mark.” You breathe.

Here he is; in the flesh and without the scowl you picture. In fact, he looks guilty.

His once glee-filled eyes are now empty of it, making you reminisce the time before last week.

“Can I come in?”

His voice resounding of forlorn hope. He expects you to deny him, to make him walk away with his hands held in a helpless prayer.

Instead, you show him mercy and welcome him inside your place of refuge.

Tentatively, he makes his way inside and awkwardly stands beside your desk.

You’re quiet, still trying to process his presence after an entire week of radio silence.

You don’t know how to feel. Should you be happy? Ecstatic? If anything, frustrated and hurt are also a great couple of options.

“Y/n?”

You look up at him and see his concerned face. “Hm?”

“I asked if we can talk.”

“Now you want to talk?” It came out before you could even think about it.

Your annoyance seeps through and he shuffles the weight on his feet a bit uncomfortably.

“I know-”

“No, you don’t.”

He looks at you like you just told him to kill himself.

“Y/n, please. Just hear me out.”

Your arms are crossed over your chest in a defensive position, he clocks that. He also notices the way you make eye contact with him throughout your sentences.

You were really hurt, he gathers.

He takes your silence as a sign to continue talking.

“After I left you at Paul’s, I went back out there and fought off the rest of those… variants. While I was fighting them, they told me about you.”

Your interest is absolutely peaked now.

“What do you mean?”

“They... they said that you existed in their world but-” He cuts himself off with a vexed sigh.

“But what, Mark.”

You want, need to know what was worth hurting you for days on end.

Mark looks at you and it's the most disheartened he's looked since that night he told you to leave.

“You died, Y/n.”

It all makes sense now. You grapple with the stomach-churning epiphany of the century.

The different Invincibles that wanted to take you was simply because you ceased to exist in their worlds.

“I... I died in every single universe.”

He takes some steps in your direction, not wanting to overwhelm you.

“You either died on accident by being murdered among civilians or you killed yourself.”

“Why would I commit suicide?”

He deeply inhales. “Because you'd rather die than join the other me.”

That sounds on brand.

“I couldn't live with myself knowing I'd lose you in this world, too.” He admits raspily.

That touches your heart.

You want to hug him, to comfort him but you're still kind of confused. You needed more answers.

“I was so scared, I had never felt fear like I did when I saw them with you.” He whispers.

“Why'd you tell me to leave?” You ask gently.

“Because I love you.”

His confession is so light, said with such helplessness, that you tear up.

Mark maintains eye contact with you, tired of hiding his true self. He wants you to see him.

“So many people have died because of me, it may not be directly my fault, but it still had to do with me.”

He comes a little closer, just a couple of steps away from touching you.

“What if I was too late that day? What if they managed to take you away?” He mutters in a hushed tone.

Mark shakes his head as if to get rid of those thoughts.

“If anything happens to you, it will be because of me.”

“So, you thought it was best to create such a large gap between us, that there'd be a sinking hole inside of me. Is that it?”

Your eyes well up against your will but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he can finally see just how much you've been suffering.

“You think I wanted to do that?” He asks defensively.

You scoff indignantly. “I think you could've told me from the jump. That's what I think.”

You know it's a little unfair given how vulnerable he's being right now but he was unfair when you were vulnerable, too.

He shakes his head, eyes closing in on themselves as his tears threaten to fall. “I can't risk your life, Y/n! Why don't you understand that?”

You messily wipe your tears, your lashes wet and nose tinged with the lightest of reds.

“All this time, you didn't have a problem with how close we were. Now that you saw how close I was to something dangerous, it got too real for you?!”

He's in your space now, his chin set down and eyes on yours.

Contrary to how mad he looks, he relays his message in an low tone. “Yeah. It did.”

Your eyes widen a bit at the length he's cut between your bodies and you're back in time. You go back to the moment he almost kissed you.

“Don't push me away, Mark.”

You beg him and you don't care if you look pathetic. You love him and don't want to lose him like this.

Mark just presses his forehead against yours and shuts his eyes, he concentrates on you. Your smell, your hushed breaths, your heartbeat.

You feel his hands slide up and down your arms, grounding you.

Even when he's opening up to you, Mark still chooses to comfort you. He still wants to calm you down, to make you feel better. He still chooses to have your best interests at heart.

“I came here to tell you the truth, that you deserve better.”

You wordlessly deny his idea, shaking your head once.

He grabs ahold of your head, making you look at him.

You see it all, you see all of his pain, grief, anger.

“I love you but you're not safe with me.”

“You don't get to make my decision for me.” You stubbornly point out.

“Y/n-”

“I love you.” A shaky whisper snuck into the air between your lips.

His wide eyes stare back at yours in surprise.

“I've loved you for a long time and I don't wanna be in love with another.” You wrap your hands around his, feeling the warmth bloom onto your cold ones.

“Please. Please don't ask me to stay away from you.” You cry.

He kisses your head and brings you close, your head on his shoulder and slotting between his bicep and forearm. He curls his other arm around your waist and lays his head on yours.

“Okay, fine.” He fondly agrees. “You win so stop crying.”

“Fuck you.” You jab.

He airily laughs and brings your face close to his, pressing an equally feathery kiss to your lips.

You timidly kiss him, shying away a little to breathe but Mark wants you to take his breath if you must. He pulls you in, hands gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him, wanting to shape a new mold from your figures.

Your fingers nervously brush his hair and he groans at the contact.

You chuckle at the sound and he pulls away leaving a soft peck.

He's in a daze and has hearts in his eyes but he ultimately decides; he wouldn't want it any other way.

[wordsofwhimsy]

ᴄᴜᴛ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ, ᴋɪꜱꜱ ʜᴀʀᴅ ʚ♡ɞ - Brunch Edition!

Pairing: Lenless [No Goggles]!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: More smuttt for my people!!

Tags: More of that fucked up toxic bullshittt but we love it don’t we? Mark makes reader jealous, lots of juicy brunch drama

Word Count: 2,664

Chapter Synopsis: Next morning brunch with the girlies! Only make it unhinged, make it hot 👏

a/n: i literally had this wrote up last night after i finished the first part & was dying to post it this morning lmaoo. had so much fun writing this

Part One

The air shifts before you even see him.

You don’t know how—maybe it’s the way Sadie suddenly stops mid-sentence, mimosa halfway to her mouth. Or maybe it’s the pit in your stomach that drops like a stone.

And then—

“Oh my god,” Maya whispers. You turn, already knowing. And there he is.

Mark.

In a black tee and dark jeans like he didn’t just threaten murder and make you see stars less than twelve hours ago. Hair a little messy. Bite marks still faint on his neck. He smirks when he sees you—like he planned this.

“Hi, besties,” he says, sliding into the booth next to you like he belongs there.

The silence is deadly.

Lauren stares like she’s watching a car crash. Sadie physically recoils. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Mark says, reaching across the table to snag a piece of bacon from Maya’s plate. “Figured I’d stop by. Catch up.”

You’re frozen. Mouth open. Praying to disintegrate like dust in the wind. And then—he does the worst possible thing. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and kisses the top of your head. “Missed you, baby.” Lauren chokes on her coffee.

You can feel the tension spike. It's so loud you swear someone at the next table over flinches. Lauren mutters, “What in the actual fuck…” under her breath, stirring her coffee like it's laced with poison. You elbow Mark in the ribs, whispering,

“What are you doing here?” He grins, unbothered.

“Thought I’d meet the people you’re willing to throw scissors over.”

Sadie slams her fork down. “You’re joking.”

“Oh no,” Mark says smoothly, picking up a menu he clearly doesn’t care about. “Dead serious. Though, between us?” He leans across the table just slightly, smirking at her. “I dunno why she acted like that. I mean, you’ve clearly already made up your mind.”

Sadie blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t like me, Sadie. I get that. You think I’m dangerous, manipulative, unpredictable—”

“You are all of those things!”

Mark raises your glass of water like a toast. “Exactly. And yet…”He tilts his head, eyes dragging down her face—slow, deliberate. “You stare at me like you want me to prove it.”

The table goes silent.

Sadie’s face flushes so fast, you swear steam rises from her mimosa. “You’re disgusting,” she spits, crossing her arms. “You’re not even trying to be subtle.”

Mark shrugs. “Why would I? You think about me when you’re alone, don’t you?” You kick him under the table. Hard. He winces—but doesn’t stop smiling.

“Jesus Christ,” Lauren mutters. “He’s like if a red flag gained sentience.”

Maya—completely unbothered and already two mimosas deep—leans over to you and whispers, “Okay but like… he is kind of hot when he’s being evil.”

“MAYA!”

Mark raises a brow, absolutely delighted. “See? At least someone at this table has taste.”

Sadie’s glaring at him like she’s two seconds from launching her croissant at his head. Mark’s just sitting back, arm draped behind your chair, sipping water like it's champagne. His eyes never leave her.

“You know,” he says, casual as hell, “I used to think you hated me because you were such a good friend to [y/n].”

Sadie scoffs. “Used to?”

“Mmhm.” He sets the glass down slowly, like he’s warming up for something. “But now I think maybe you just wish it was you I had pressed up against the wall last night.”

You choke on your drink. Lauren’s fork clatters to her plate. Sadie turns bright red—rage red.

“Excuse me??” she says, voice low and incredulous. Mark leans forward slightly, all fake innocence and devil-smile.

“You’re always looking at her like she’s in trouble when I’m around,” he says. “But I see the way you look at me. Like you’re trying to figure out what it’d feel like if I bent you over a table and made you scream my name instead.”

The table goes silent. The kind of silence that rings in your ears.

Your stomach flips, heat pooling low in your gut—half rage, half something you don’t want to name in front of the bottomless mimosa crowd.

“Mark,” you hiss, gripping his arm. “Shut the fuck up.”

He doesn’t even blink. “I bet you fantasize about it,” he says to Sadie, voice lower now, silkier, dangerous. “About what it’d be like to give in. Just once. Let someone wreck you and not say sorry after.”

Sadie’s hand slams down on the table.

“Say one more word,” she hisses, eyes glassy and full of murder, “and I swear I will gut you right here with this butter knife.”

Mark grins. Like she just made his entire week. And you—sitting there between them—feel like you’re about to explode. Jealousy is clawing up your throat, bitter and burning, but so is something else. Something worse.

Desire.

Because watching Mark push Sadie like this—filthy, unbothered, completely in control—it’s doing things to you. Things it shouldn’t.

He turns back to you, finally, and sees it in your face. Oh. He knows. His eyes darken.

“You mad at me?” he murmurs, dragging a knuckle down your jaw, completely ignoring the others. “Or just mad you weren’t the one I was talking to like that?”

You could slap him.

You could also drag him into the back alley and let him absolutely ruin you.

You’re not sure which you’re going to do yet.

But either way—

He’s winning.

You don’t even realize you’re moving until the bathroom door slams behind you, hands gripping the edge of the sink like it might save you from a public breakdown.

You stare at yourself in the mirror. Lipstick slightly smudged. Hair wild from your hands combing through it with pure anxiety. Your face is flushed—and not from the champagne.

You're furious.

Not just at him. At yourself.

Because no one should be that turned on by watching their maybe-psycho not-boyfriend flirt graphically with one of their best friends.

And yet…

A knock on the door. Lauren peeks in, arms crossed tight, eyes sharp. “Okay,” she says. “What the hell is going on?” You sigh, still avoiding your own gaze.

“I know it’s insane.”

“Oh, do you?” she snaps. “Because I just watched that man talk about bending Sadie over a table while your fucking mimosa got warm.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I didn’t think he’d come here!”

“But you knew he was like this.” Lauren’s voice softens, just slightly. “And babe... I know you like danger or whatever, but this? This isn’t just hot anymore. This is toxic. This is red-flag city.”

“I know,” you say, voice cracking.

“So then walk away,” she says gently. “Right now. Don’t go back to that table. Don’t let him sink his claws in deeper. You deserve better.” And for a moment—you almost believe her. You take a deep breath. Straighten your dress. Numb yourself.

You’re ready to let go.

Until you step out. And you see him.

Mark. Now sitting next to Sadie. Closer than necessary. Elbow on the back of the booth. Whispering something in her ear that makes her laugh—real, flushed, flustered.

His hand is on her thigh and damn if Sadie didn’t look like she was enjoying the attention. Something snaps in your chest. You walk back to the table calm. Collected. Smiling.

You slide into your seat and grab your water. Take a slow sip. Mark glances over. And you look right at him. Then, under the table, slowly slide off one of your heels.

His brow lifts. Your foot drags up the inside of his leg, slow and shameless.

His smirk dies.

You press your toes higher—just enough pressure, just enough suggestion—and keep sipping your drink like you’re bored.

His hand tightens on Sadie’s thigh. But he’s not looking at her anymore. He’s looking at you.

You mouth one word:

“Outside.”

One minute later

The alley behind the brunch spot is warm, reeking of dumpster grease and sin, and the second the door swings open—

Mark’s on you.

“Fucking crazy,” he growls against your lips, hands yanking you in by the waist. “You’re gonna touch me under the table while I’m with your friend?”

“Don’t pretend you weren’t putting on a whole show in there,” you snap, grabbing his collar and dragging him down to your mouth. “You wanted me to break.”

“You jealous?” he smirks, teeth scraping your throat.

You shove him against the wall. Hard.

“Seething.”

He groans like it turns him on.

“I love when you snap,” he breathes, hand sliding up your thigh, under your dress. “Love when you act like I’m the only thing that matters.”

“You are,” you hiss, nails dragging down his back. “And I hate it.”

“Then take it out on me.”

Mark's mouth is on you like he’s starving—teeth scraping your jaw, tongue dragging over your pulse point, breath hot as his hands grip your thighs and lift. You don’t even pretend to resist—you wrap your legs around his waist, back slamming against the brick wall, your dress hiking up around your hips like it wants this to happen.

“You’re so fucking messy,” he growls, grinding against you. “You storm off like you’re done with me, then come back and pull that little under-the-table foot trick like a fucking slut.”

Your hand fists in his hair, yanking his head back to look at you. “You’re the one who started it.”

“Oh, baby,” he pants, grinding his hips harder into yours, “I haven’t even started.”

He yanks your panties aside with one rough pull—no teasing, no games, just access. His fingers slide through your slick like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You’re so wet,” he snarls, eyes dark and wild. “You liked watching me touch Sadie, didn’t you? Liked getting all jealous and filthy under that table like a little freak.”

You gasp as he slides two fingers into you, curling just right. Your head slams back against the wall, breath stuttering.

“Fuck you—”

“You wish.”

He presses his forehead to yours, mouth inches from yours as he starts working you open, fucking you with his fingers like he owns you.

“You gonna cum like this?” he murmurs. “With my fingers in you, in a back alley, while your friends sit inside wondering where the hell you went?”

“Mark—”

“I bet you want them to hear you,” he hisses. “Want them to know you’ll always choose me.”

You cry out as he crooks his fingers just right, and he groans, pulling them free.

“Turn around,” he growls.

You don’t hesitate. Hands hit the wall, legs shaking, your breath fogging the brick in front of you.

You hear the sound of his zipper, the rough drag of denim, and then—fuck—he’s inside you in one harsh, unforgiving thrust.

You both gasp.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice ragged, “so tight—like your pussy missed me.”

You moan, high and wrecked, as he starts to move—deep, punishing strokes that send your body slamming against the wall with every thrust. One of his hands fists in your hair, the other sliding around to your throat, fingers pressing just enough.

“You’re mine,” he hisses. “Say it.”

“Y-You’re—fuck—Mark—”

He slaps your ass, hard.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours!” you cry out. “I’m yours, I’m—fuck, don’t stop—”

He loses it.

Thrusts getting rougher, faster, his mouth dragging over your shoulder, biting down like he needs to leave every trace of himself possible behind on you. You can feel yourself unraveling, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your stomach, and he knows.

“You gonna cum on my cock out here like a dirty little slut?” he growls. “Do it. Show me.”

That’s all it takes.

You fall apart around him, body shaking, eyes screwed shut as the orgasm rips through you. And he follows seconds later, buried to the hilt, groaning against your skin like you just saved his fucking life.

Silence.

Just your ragged breathing. Your body still trembling. His hands holding you up. And then, softly:

“…Think they’re still on dessert?”

You wheeze out a laugh and smack his chest. “I was dessert.”

He grins, teeth wicked. “Damn right you were.”

The second you step back into the restaurant, the air feels different. Or maybe that was just you.

Your hair is a wreck. Your lipstick? A memory. Your thighs are still trembling and you can feel the heat between your legs like a living thing. Mark’s behind you, looking completely unbothered—shirt rumpled, hair wild, lip definitely bitten.

Smug. Glowing.

The man has never looked more pleased with himself in his life.

You’re halfway back to the table when Maya sees you first. She stops mid-sip of her mimosa. Her eyes flick to your flushed face. Then to Mark. Then to the way you're walking like your soul just got pounded out of your body.

“Oh my god,” she chokes. Sadie looks up. And stares.

Mark slides into the booth again, reaching for your water like this is just another Tuesday. “So, what’d I miss?” Lauren is frozen. Fork in hand. Horrified.

You take your seat like you’re not dying inside. “...Someone pass the syrup.”

“Are you serious right now—” Sadie starts, voice sharp.

“Oh c’mon,” Mark interrupts, eyes sparkling. “Don’t act surprised. You wanted her to go after me, didn’t you?” Sadie goes silent, jaw clenched.

You stare at him, voice low. “You’re an asshole.”

He leans in, grinning. “You love it.”

Maya just fans herself dramatically. “Okay, but real talk? That was the hottest exit and re-entry I’ve ever witnessed in my life.”

Lauren finally breaks. “You guys seriously just—in the alley? Like a couple of feral raccoons??”

You pick up your drink and sip it with a completely deadpan expression. “I mean, I wouldn’t describe it like that...”

Sadie slams her napkin down. “You’re insane. You let him humiliate you in front of us and then—then you go and just—!”

“What?” Mark cuts in, eyes locking with hers. “Get fucked so hard she forgot why she was mad?”

Pin drop silence.

You don’t look at her. You don’t have to. You can feel it clear as day—the tension, the heat, the way her nails dig into her thigh under the table. Like maybe, just maybe, she wishes it was her.

Mark smiles like he knows it too.

You finish your mimosa in one slow sip, set the glass down, and say, “Check, please.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, but this is actually insane,” Lauren says, standing now, arms crossed like she’s about to launch into a TED Talk on Red Flags and the Girls Who Love Them. “You can’t seriously leave with him after this. He’s manipulative, he’s inappropriate, he literally—you had sex in an alley!”

Before you can even open your mouth, Mark cuts in.

“Oh my god, can you shut up already?” He doesn’t even look at her—just leans back, arm resting on the booth like he owns the place. “You’re so annoying. This is why I like Maya better.”

Maya chokes on her drink, a loud pfft sound spurting past her lips.

Mark points at her casually. “You at least support your friend’s slutty decisions.” Lauren makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a scream.

Sadie is just staring at you. Like she can’t decide whether to pity you, strangle you, or beg to be next.

You snap, grabbing Mark by the wrist and yanking him out of the booth. “Okay! We’re going! Brunch was so fun, love you all, gotta go—bye!”

He’s laughing as you drag him toward the door.

“Aw, we’re leaving already?” he says over his shoulder, waving. “Bye, besties! Don’t wait up!” You don’t look back. You can’t. You’re too busy trying not to let your knees give out from sheer humiliation and adrenaline.

[soulsnatcha3000]

Second Glances

human!remmick au x black fem oc

Summary: Liana has been a good wife to a man who stopped noticing. When the quiet, observant new neighbor moves in, she doesn’t mean to get close—but Remmick sees what her husband never does, not anymore. One conversation turns into many, and soon, the lie isn’t where she goes—it’s where she feels like home.

Warnings: Mentions of marital strain and emotional neglect, romantic tension, implied infidelity, slow burn, southern cultural references, heavy themes of loneliness and longing

a/n: hiii, I’ve been thinking about this all day and had to start writing it! Im also working on the preacher boy ff requested by @thugger-wugger (here) and the Remmick x Bo Chow x oc ff. Imma make this a series!

I’ve got plans to get to the other requests too—it might take a little time, but I promise they’re coming!

until then I hope you all enjoyed reading this!

chapter 2

✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡

Liana folded his shirts the way he liked them—sleeves tucked in, collars crisp, stacked in color order. She set them in his drawer without a word. No thanks. No glance. Just the sound of the closet door shutting behind him.

She didn’t expect much anymore. A nod at dinner. Maybe a goodnight if he wasn’t too tired. But every now and then, something inside her ached loud enough to remind her she was still in there—beneath the routine, beneath the silence.

Ever since the accident, she’d hoped he’d open up, that something would change. A year had passed, but the gap between them only widened. He was still the same—quiet, distant, lost in his own world. And she? She was just there, waiting for something to spark again, but it never did. He shrugged her off, and she wondered if that was what she deserved. Everyone else seemed to get his attention—his work, his friends, his own unresolved grief. But her? She’d become just another part of the background.

Her husband hadn’t always been like this. They’d once shared a closeness, a warmth that made their small home feel like a world of its own. But ever since the accident, the distance between them had only grown. It had been nearly a year now—long enough for her to stop hoping he’d open up, long enough to wonder if she was merely a shadow in his life.

She couldn’t blame him for the way things had changed. People grieve differently, and the accident had been traumatic for both of them. But every day felt like a slow unraveling, like a thread being pulled from something that had once been whole. And now, with every quiet meal and unspoken word, it felt like that thread was about to snap.

That afternoon, she noticed the moving truck across the street. Someone new, finally. The house next door had been empty for months, lawn overgrown, porch sagging with disuse. Now, a man stood on the curb in worn jeans and a grey t-shirt, lifting boxes like it was nothing. He looked… serious. Not unfriendly. Just quiet, like the kind of person who listened more than he talked.

She couldn’t help but watch for a few moments. The unfamiliarity of it all, the newness, the hint of something fresh that she hadn’t felt in so long, made her pause. She never expected much of the world outside anymore, but maybe—just maybe—it was time to take a step beyond the silence.

It was the small things, like this—watching the man work, noticing the way he moved with purpose—that made her realize how much she’d shrunk back. How much she’d let her own life grow stagnant. And yet, when she looked back at her own front door, the echo of her husband’s absence weighed heavier than any moving truck ever could.

She wasn’t sure how long she could keep pretending.

Maybe it was time. Time to finally acknowledge that this marriage, this routine, might not be enough anymore. Time to admit that she was already living in a divorce without ever signing the papers.

Later That Day

The clock ticked slowly, marking time as the day moved on in its usual silence. Liana had cleaned, organized, and puttered around the house as she always did. Her husband came and went, absorbed in his own world, his quiet disregard for her presence like a background hum.

And then, just as she was finishing up dinner preparations, she heard a knock at the door.

She wasn’t expecting anyone. But when she opened it, there stood Remmick, his posture just a little stiff, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing there. His hands were empty, but his eyes held something warm—a curiosity, maybe, or maybe an unspoken question.

“Hi,” he said, his voice low, the British lilt in his accent smooth and grounding. “Sorry to bother you, but I realized we never properly introduced ourselves. I’m Remmick, your new neighbor.” His eyes flicked briefly to the house behind her, his gaze soft but calculating, as though reading the space between them.

Liana blinked, taken off guard by the sudden appearance of this man at her door, the same one she’d seen through the window earlier. Her stomach tightened, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say.

“Oh,” she finally stammered, forcing herself to sound composed. “I’m Liana. Nice to meet you.”

Her heart skipped in her chest, but she tried to focus on the casualness of the moment, forcing herself to stay calm. “We haven’t had a chance to say hello yet.”

Remmick’s gaze softened as he looked at her, his eyes briefly scanning her face, studying her in a way that made her feel seen. It felt odd, but not unpleasant—like someone paying attention to the details that others might overlook.

“I thought I should introduce myself before the whole neighborhood gets to know me,” he said with a half-smile. “Plus, I could use some help with figuring out where the best place is to grab some food around here. Any recommendations?”

Liana hesitated, her mind racing. Should she invite him inside? Offer to help him settle in? Would it be too forward?

But before she could respond, her husband appeared at the door, walking down the hallway from the living room. His expression was guarded, like he wasn’t sure why she was talking to the neighbor. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

“This is Remmick,” Liana said, trying to keep her voice steady, feeling an odd lump in her throat. “He just moved in next door.”

Her husband’s response was distant at best, just a quick nod of acknowledgment before he turned back to head inside. No introduction, no real interest in either of them. And that was the moment it hit her.

She had been standing here, so eager to engage with Remmick, so hungry for something, anything that felt real. But the person she’d once shared everything with hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge the new man who’d just entered their lives. The realization cut deeper than it should have.

Liana took a breath, ready to change the subject, but then something clicked. She had caught the slight lilt in Remmick’s voice, that rhythm of his words, something that reminded her of conversations she’d overheard in the past, something distinctly different from the local cadence.

She tilted her head, her curiosity bubbling to the surface. “Are you Irish?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

Remmick blinked, clearly taken aback by her sudden question. He blinked, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I am,” he replied with a soft chuckle. “From Dublin. How’d you know?”

Liana smirked, crossing her arms. “It’s the accent,” she said, a little more confidently now. “I’m not an expert or anything, but it’s hard to miss.”

His grin widened, the light in his eyes flickering with something that felt warm, inviting. “Fair enough. I suppose it’s a bit more obvious when I’m actually speaking, huh?”

Liana laughed lightly, feeling the tension ease just a little. For the first time that day, she didn’t feel like she was just playing a part. She wasn’t pretending to be something she wasn’t for her husband’s sake. Remmick had cut through the usual static, just by being himself. And, damn, that felt good.

Her husband, now standing at the doorway, cleared his throat, but Liana didn’t look his way. She didn’t need to. She didn’t want to.

“Well,” Liana said, shaking her head slightly, “if you ever want some recommendations, I’m happy to help. I know all the good spots around here.”

Remmick’s eyes softened, his voice lowering just a little. “I’ll take you up on that,” he said with a sincerity that caught her off guard. “Tomorrow then?”

Liana nodded, feeling something in her chest twist as she gave a slight smile. “Tomorrow.”

As he turned to leave, the brief, fleeting moment they shared lingered in her mind. His presence had felt real, something tangible in the midst of all the quiet that had taken over her life. She closed the door behind her, standing there for a long moment before she shook her head, pushing away the thoughts that kept resurfacing.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the second she turned around, there he was—leaned against the counter like he hadn’t just acted like a damn ghost five minutes ago.

Liana crossed her arms. “You know you could’ve tried to engage with him.”

He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t know meetin’ new folks was at the top of my to-do list.”

She gave him a look. “He’s our neighbor, not a stray dog. You could’ve said something. Shown the man you got some sense.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t in the mood.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “Right. Never are.”

He sighed, already pushing off the counter like he was done. Like that was the end of it. “You’re reading too deep into it, Li. It’s not that serious.”

“It is when it’s every damn thing,” she said, heat in her voice now. “Not just today. Every day. You been walking around like you don’t live here. Like I don’t live here.”

He stopped in the hallway, didn’t even turn around. “Ain’t like I asked for all this.”

Liana paused mid-step, her back toward him, hand still on the fridge door. She turned slowly, squinting. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, all tired breath and no eye contact. “Just sayin’. I ain’t the one asked you to fold my shit or play hostess or act like this house is some damn showpiece. You the one doin’ all that.”

Her mouth parted, and for a second, she couldn’t even speak. The words hit her in the chest like a slap.

“I’m sorry—what?” she said, voice sharper now. “You act like I’m out here beggin’ for gold stars. I do it ‘cause it’s what you’re supposed to do for someone you love. But I ain’t seen you lift a damn finger or even thank me in—God knows how long.”

He finally looked up, his face set. “You act like I’m the villain every time I breathe.”

“Nah,” she said, stepping closer, fire rising now, “you act like you don’t even see me. Like I’m some ghost floatin’ through this house, just cookin’, cleanin’, takin’ care of shit—and for what? So you can keep pretendin’ like that accident didn’t mess us both up?”

He flinched at that, but she didn’t stop.

“It’s been almost a year. A year, and you still shut down on me like I’m askin’ you to relive the whole thing every time I try to talk.”

He set the towel down with a sharp flick. “I talk to people.”

“Yeah,” she snapped, “everybody but me.”

The silence between them crackled—loud, hot, stifling.

She crossed her arms. “No. You just let me stand there, lookin’ stupid, tryna be polite while you can’t even fake interest in someone new movin’ next door. God forbid you pretend to give a damn about something.”

He scoffed and turned away, and Liana stood there, jaw tight, pulse hammering. She wasn’t yelling. But she felt like she could’ve.

Like her whole body was one deep breath away from breaking.

Silence. Again. The same kind that had been filling their house for months—thick, choking silence. The kind that said everything without saying a word.

She shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek. “I’m not gon’ keep beggin’ you to show up.”

And with that, she turned away, jaw tight, eyes stinging. She didn’t even realize her feet had taken her out the kitchen to the living room and right back to the window until her hand was already moving the blinds.

And there he was.

Remmick. On his porch, sipping something from a mug, arms folded like he was thinking deep about something.

Liana exhaled, low and slow. “Mm,” she muttered under her breath, lips curling just a little. “My goodness that man is fine…”

Then she caught herself, straightened up. “Girl, get it together.”

——————

That night, Liana went to bed without another word. No resolution. No warmth on her side of the bed. Just the hum of the ceiling fan above her and the dry, distant sound of crickets chirping through the open window. Her husband hadn’t even bothered to say goodnight. But then again, he rarely did anymore.

She lay awake for a while, staring at the ceiling, eyes dry. Nothing left to cry about.

The next morning, sunlight pushed through the gauzy curtains in long, golden strokes. Liana stirred beneath the covers, body heavy, mind numb. But the rhythm of routine—the one she’d lived in for years now—eventually tugged her out of bed.

She made the bed first, corners tight like her mama taught her. Dusted the shelves in the hallway, wiped down the kitchen counters, watered the thirsty plants that sagged in their terracotta pots. The bathroom faucet still squeaked when she turned it on, and she made a quiet note to remind him to fix it. Again. Though she knew he wouldn’t.

By the time she got to folding laundry, the heat had already settled into the house like an uninvited guest—thick and slow. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and made her way to the bathroom.

She took a lukewarm shower, letting the water slide over her skin and wash away the sour taste of yesterday. She took her time—washed gently, scrubbed her skin soft, brushed her teeth until her mouth felt fresh again. She oiled her scalp and moisturized her legs with cocoa butter, letting the scent rise like something holy.

Her box braids—neat, waist-length, and dark as coffee beans—were gathered up into a high ponytail to keep them off her neck. No fuss, just practical. She checked the mirror once, then turned away.

She didn’t bother dressing up. It was too damn hot for all that. She slipped into a faded ribbed tank the color of sage and a pair of soft, worn-in denim shorts. The kind that hugged her hips without trying too hard. Her gold hoops went in out of habit. A swipe of gloss to keep her lips from cracking. That was it.

Liana slid into her sandals, grabbed her canvas tote from the hook by the door, and stepped out into the sun.

The air hit her like a wall—thick, buzzing, the kind of southern heat that made you feel like you were walking through molasses. The town was still waking up. A few folks already out on porches, rocking slow, sipping sweet tea from mason jars, flies buzzing lazily around them like they’d made peace with the annoyance.

She climbed into her car and rolled the windows down, letting the wind touch her face as she eased onto the road. The radio played low—some old soul tune humming through the speakers. She wasn’t headed anywhere in particular. Maybe the market. Maybe the café where the cobbler tasted like something her grandma used to pull from the oven with bare hands.

Anywhere that gave her space. That let her move without questions.

And as the streets rolled by—storefronts she knew by heart, sidewalks cracked by time—Liana felt it settle in her bones

She wasn’t in a rush. Not today.

The place was small, cozy, the kind of spot with real wood tables and sunlight that warmed your skin through the front windows. A little chalkboard by the door read “Peach Cobbler’s back.”

And then, she saw him.

Remmick.

Liana smiled to herself.

He was posted up at one of the tables on the patio, coffee in hand, shades on, leaning back like he’d been waiting on her and didn’t mind one bit.

“You punctual or just greedy?” she asked as she walked up.

He grinned without missing a beat. “Little of both. You came, though. That’s what matters.”

“I said I’d take you,” she said, pulling out the chair across from him. “I ain’t in the habit of sayin’ things I don’t mean.”

He raised his cup in a small toast. “Duly noted.”

She ordered her coffee and a biscuit from inside, then came back out to join him, settling in with a soft exhale. The morning sun was bright but not unbearable yet, and a slight breeze stirred the air just enough to make it tolerable.

“So,” he said, sipping. “You the type to start with breakfast or dessert first?”

She tilted her head. “Ain’t even ten yet and you talkin’ cobbler?”

“I’m just sayin’—priorities.”

She laughed, warm and real. “We gon’ do both. But we’re startin’ here, ‘cause this biscuit about to change your life.”

He leaned in like he was ready for the sermon. “That so?”

“Trust me,” she said, breaking the biscuit in half. “This right here? It’s strawberry jam with hazelnut spread.”

Remmick leaned back in his chair, giving the biscuit a skeptical once-over like it might bite him first. “Strawberry jam and hazelnut?” he repeated, tone flat.

Liana didn’t flinch. Just tore off her piece and popped it in her mouth. “Trust me. You’ll live.”

He snorted, still staring at it. “You sure? Sounds like somethin’ a kid made by accident.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it.”

He finally took a bite—hesitant at first, then slower as the taste hit. He chewed in silence, chewing like he didn’t wanna admit it was good. Then, with a deadpan shake of his head

“…Nah, that’s proper, that is.”

Liana smirked. “Mhm. Thought so.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, still chewing. “Still sounds mad, though. You ever think maybe you got strange taste?”

“Only when I’m dealin’ with you.”

That pulled a laugh out of him—low, rough, honest. He leaned in, elbow on the table. “Yeah? Could be worse.”

They shared their food, passed bites back and forth, talked in between sips of coffee. She told him about her favorite hidden spots in town, the ones tourists didn’t know to ask about. He listened, not just hearing her but paying attention—and that felt rare.

Every now and then, his knee bumped hers under the table. Not on purpose, but not exactly by accident, either.

They stayed longer than planned. The sun climbed higher. Her coffee got cold. But she didn’t rush. Neither did he.

Eventually, she glanced at the time. “Alright, next spot ain’t too far. You still got room?”

He stood with that slow, easy confidence of his. “Absolutely. Lead the way.”

And just like that, they walked off down the sidewalk together, the summer heat curling around them, the day just beginning.

✿✿✿✿✿ ✿✿✿✿✿ ✿✿✿✿

⋆˚✿ y’all come back now ✿˚⋆

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.11.

viktorxfemale!reader very explicit as usual, Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 9,5K (I'm so, so sorry)

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: timeline moves forward, Reader's POV, sensory deprivation oral sex (blindfold), light bondage, deepthroating with extra steps (full asphyxiation and yes, MORE BLOWJOBS), face-sitting, penetrative sex in good and bad version, Reader's anxiety and also: introducing angst that DOESN’T resolve within one chapter. Please don’t jail me ok? I’m doing a thing. Also, sadly, I'm explaining my own joke at the bottom.

author’s note: As usual, playlist here and artist is @petitesieste ♡

Cross-posted on AO3

—

In the hush of Viktor’s bedroom permissions are being asked in a tender brush of knuckles on your cheek and granted by a breath fanning the heel of his palm. You kneel on the bed with your hands bound in your front as he tightens the knot on the back of your head. The silk of his tie stretches across your eyes, nose, hugs your cheeks and the tips of your ears.

Then, hands come to cup your face and lips come to kiss yours. He lingers, mouth parted, thumbs sinking into skin. Your head follows when he parts you and he dares to chuckle when you whine at the loss. You reach out for him blindly, fingers curling behind his waistband and Viktor lets you, because at least you can’t see the look on his face. The goony, lovestruck, idiotic face he wears more often than not around you. The one he’s afraid will give him away sooner than any constipated confession.

He's too busy blinking it away to notice your mouth parting and coming to kiss him through his jeans. You rub your face on his groin, hands sliding beneath the shirt, cradling his waist and Viktor gets hard from this only. He groans and lets his head loll back on his shoulders. Just stands there cradling the base of your skull.

Greedy, your fingers find the front of his pants, knuckles brushing denim, the button too stubborn beneath your bound hands. You huff in frustration and Viktor laughs, low in his chest, like he can’t help it. “Did you miss me?” he teases, risking it.

“Insurmountably,” you murmur, and kiss the base of his cock through the fabric—right where the heat pulses strongest. The chuckle dies in his throat, softens into a moan as his hand tightens reflexively in your hair.

He breaks, right there. “I missed you so fucking much,” he mutters, voice catching on the edge of dignity. His thumb sweeps over your cheek as he loosens the trousers through shallow breaths. “Remember to—”

“To tap,” you interrupt gently, tipping your chin up even though you can’t see him; your smile like a secret passed between teeth. “Yes.” And then your tongue is on him, broad and sure, licking a long, torturous stripe from the base to the tip. Viktor’s breath stumbles and his hips push forward. Above you, he curses softly, hold tightening, his palms covering your ears.

And you wonder, briefly—so briefly—a thought unbidden and soft-edged: if this were your endgame, your ultimate kismet, would you have anything against it. The answer rises quick and sure. It comes shaped like Viktor’s cock nudging at your mouth, heat pulsing at your lips, weight pressing into the centre of you where your hunger lives. What was empty gets filled. Concepts fall into order. Gravity returns. You are back in your rightful place.

He enters slowly, groaning as you open for him. It begins with restraint—he feeds himself into your mouth in shallow, cautious thrusts, like he can’t hold back enough to not spill too soon. You feel him tremble and his knees lock. The sounds he makes are devotion incarnate.

Your blindfold heightens everything: the scent of him, the velvet drag across your tongue, the way your jaw stretches and your throat readies. You grip his thighs, hold tight, anchored by the flex of muscle under skin and the tremor in his stance.

Then, it deepens. His hands cradle your jaw, careful but persevering. One thumb strokes along your cheekbone, the other shifts to your neck. Fingers wrap around the column of it like he’s learning its weight, its warmth. You feel the tip of him push past your soft palate, deeper, deeper—and you relax into it, surrender, open and willing. There’s a noise from him, rough and broken, like prayer meeting ruin. “Fuck,” he breathes, thumb brushing your throat where he’s checking he hasn’t shattered you. “Look at you. Just—”

But you can’t. Not at yourself, nor at anything else. And maybe that’s what gives him permission say it. “I don’t deserve this,” Viktor whispers, hips rocking forward, the stretch of him becoming steady and starved. “I don’t deserve you.”

You hum around him, and he chokes on a praise. He begins to fuck your mouth in earnest now, the rhythm built on grief and gratitude and every word he hasn’t found a way to say. You take it all. You give him a place to come apart.

And still, somewhere beneath the slick and the heat and the obscene, there’s a tenderness so bone-deep it makes your ribs ache. Because he isn’t using you. He’s worshipping.

“Take a deep breath for me,” Viktor murmurs. His thumb strokes along your jaw, a soft touch. “Good girl.”

You inhale slowly, obedient, your chest rising against the binding of your arms. Then—he pushes in, deep, all the way, until the soft press of your nose meets the hard plane of his stomach. You feel his hand slide up, fingers brushing your cheek before he pinches your nose shut.

And then there is nothing.

No air. No sight. No sound—just your own pulse in your ears. The stretch of him fills you, roots into you, as your throat tightens gloriously around him. Wetness gathers in your eyes—first a shimmer, then tears slipping hot and helpless down your cheeks, dampening the silk. Your cunt aches from clenching around nothing. You are full and empty, and still you want more of both.

Because this—this must be the place. The one he made for you—where there is no world but Viktor. Blind and deaf to everything but the dictation of his body, his will. A space of surrender so complete it tastes like peace. You give in. You let go. You float.

He holds you there, trembling. You feel the twitch of his cock against your tongue, erratic and on the edge, like he’s fighting himself not to come. The pleasure rolls off him in waves and you drink it down, throat fluttering around him. You lose track of time. Seconds pass like heartbeats, loud and slow.

Just before the ache in your lungs becomes too much, he pulls back. Air rushes in. Spit wells from the corners of your mouth, trails down your chin as your head falls forward. You’re gasping, blinking behind the tie. Tears slide freely now, a mingling of release and craving and something naked you have no name for.

Viktor groans, his hands shaking as he catches you. “You didn’t tap.”

You smile. “Didn’t need to.” Your fingers find his waist again, reaching—needing—but he grabs your wrists before they find home.

“No.” His voice is wrecked, a soft tremor within it. “I’m almost there.”

Then he leans down, one hand cradling your damp face, guiding it up. It’s a calm, controlled mess-making, the kiss he gives you—all tongue and breathlessness, spit shared between parted mouths. It’s like you’ve come back from the dead and the first gulp of air hails from his lungs. Then, his forehead rests against yours. “And I really,” he murmurs, “really need to fuck you.”

I need to fuck you might be one of your favourite phrases to ever leave Viktor’s mouth. The honesty of it, always so uninhibited. And it’s not so much about the need or the fuck within it, it’s the you that usually gets you. Like it has to be you, or nothing.

His touch is gentle as it comes to the knot binding your wrists. “I want your hands on me,” he says, fingers working carefully, cotton slipping loose. The blood rushes back into your palms, tingling.

You flex your fingers once, joints making the softest sound of protest, then he’s guiding you back, lowering you onto the bed. The mattress shifts beneath you, the fabric cool against your skin. Viktor leans, head dipping down as he hooks his fingers into your waistband and tugs your trousers and underwear down together, slowly, scrupulously, revealing you by degrees.

When the last scrap of cloth falls away, he runs two fingers through the slick mess between your legs, catching the wetness and humming from the depths of his chest. “Would you look at that,” he mutters. “You really did miss me.”

You’re still panting, blinking under the blindfold, but you nod—it’s all you can do. Then his hands find yours again—this time to pull you upright. “Come,” he says, lips brushing your knuckles. “Stand.”

Confused, but trusting, you rise to your feet. Another kiss, deep, as he’s tasting the salt of tears and the warm echo of himself present in your mouth. His hand drifts down to your hip, then lower, and his voice drops to a whisper. “I want you to sit on my face.”

You inhale sharply. “Viktor?”

He smiles against your skin, teeth grazing your jaw. “You heard me.” A pause. “Unless you’d rather not.”

You shake your head, breath trapped. “No—I… I do. I want to, that is.”

Your knees feel strange as you climb back onto the bed. Viktor lies back without fanfare, tugging off his shirt as he goes, settling against the pillows. One hand reaches up for you, steadying as you straddle his chest and crawl forward, uncertain, muscles trembling.

You still can't see him. That's the part that breaks you open. All you have is the rasp of his breath, the groan he tries to swallow when your thighs frame his face, and the way his hands come to grip your hips. His voice is far gone, lost to want. Just a hum now. Just heat.

“God, yes,” he breathes, all muffled beneath you. “Come here. Come here.”

And then he’s on you, or rather, under. Tongue splitting you open, licking as if you keep the future between your thighs and he’s starved for premonition. He consumes you, and there’s no grace in it. It’s the absolution-chasing, home-seeking, affection-starved work—dedicated where you are tender, brutal where you are resistant. Unwavering, because it’s a ritual—obliteration, then resurrection—your body learning itself again under the weight of his hunger.

Your mouth parts on a moan that doesn’t even sound like you. His nose nudges your clit, tongue drags up through everything slick and wanting, and it’s beyond vulgar how wet you are for him. You don't even know when you’ve began to grind down—just that his grip tightens every time you roll your hips, that he’s groaning now, mouth open wide to catch more.

“Viktor—” you sob, but you’re not sure what the rest of the sentence was supposed to be. Everything is too much. It’s too fucking much.

And Viktor moans like he’s the one being fucked. Hands sliding up your back, then down again, pulling you closer, keeping you locked in—a man drowning and clinging to the weight that’s killing him. His tongue moves in delirious, godless circles, your clit pulsing against the firm press of his mouth. Every time you flinch, he does it again. It’s all he wants—your need, your ache, your tender undoing.

“Oh—fuck—Viktor—”

The space of forgetting is within reach—announced by the bite of nails on skin and relentless tongue. You think you feel him muttering against your cunt—something slavish and trembling—but the words are lost to your womb. There’s a shudder and coiling tension that makes the muscles burn. You could end him right now and he’d thank you for it, you are certain. Is he still breathing? Irrelevant.

Then, a new sound: a desperate, wrecked whimper—his—and your hips stutter. A punch of unfiltered lust lands in your gut, making your skin ooze sweat and your eyes weep. You have no memory of when your hands found his hair—only that they’re there now, fisted tight at the roots, uselessly anchoring yourself as your body moves with a will of its own. The tie is soaked at the edges where your tears have leaked and dried and leaked again. You can only feel him—the effort of it, the dedication focused on breaking and mending.

He’s moaning again—loudly now—into you, like the sound itself might get you there. Like he’s chasing your orgasm with everything he’s got. “Viktor,” you gasp, barely hanging on. “Don’t stop—I beg you, don’t stop—”

And then—no pretty sound, no buildup—just your entire body bowing forward like your ribs are collapsing inward from the force of it. Your legs go stiff, then loose. Your cry breaks in the middle, hips still twitching, mouth slack with shock. It rolls through you like heat lightning—shuddering, seizing, then gone—and still he doesn’t stop, licking you through it, humming like he’s coming too just from tasting you fall apart.

Only when your breath turns ragged, and your hands lose their grip does he slow. He kisses your cunt now. Just kisses. Little open-mouthed things, loving and sloppy. He eases you down, hands warm and sure, guiding you with more care than you expect from someone still panting like that.

You feel him shift—then suddenly your body’s moving, being guided down the line of his chest. The scratch of his hair, the thud of his heart under your palm.

Then—

Mouth.

A deep, weeping mess, tasting of sweat and want and you. You sigh into it, stunned at the blunt honesty of it—your very essence on his lips, the thick fever of his tongue. His breath is uneven, his hands cradle your face again like something dearest.

“Fuck,” he whispers, mouth catching on mouth. “I might want to make this a regular occurrence.”

Your fingers thread into his damp curls. You offer a weak smile and a kiss of what’s left in you. Let him have it, all of it. Let him drink you down and pull you close and fuck the air from your lungs if he wants. He’s earned it. Apologized enough. You’ve both earned it.

You end up curled on your sides, still tangled in sweat and spit and the smell of each other. His thigh slots between yours, cock thick and flushed where it presses against your hip, twitching now and then with leftover hunger.

He reaches up slowly, fingers finding the knot at the back of your head. “Let me see that pretty face,” he murmurs, voice spent and wanting all the same.

The silk loosens. Light returns in a blur—the soft and hushed gold of the nightlamp. His eyes drink you in, and then another kiss—your cheeks first, where your tears have dried into salt, then the corners of your eyes, your temple, the swell of your mouth. All of them, many thanks.

“Brave girl,” he whispers into your lips. “So good for me, letting go like that. Letting me take care of you.”

You don’t say anything, just exhale a sound that isn’t quite a laugh or a sob. Your fingers clutch at his forearm where it wraps around your waist. He noses at your cheek, finds your mouth and it’s deeper this time, needier, so when he pulls back, he’s panting.

“Do you have one more in you?” he asks. His voice is a petition held at bay, full of quiet plea. He nudges forward just enough for you to feel him—hard and insistent between you, leaving a smear of precum on your belly. “Can I have you?”

You hum against his mouth, lips brushing lazily as you tilt your hips forward, the length of him catching perfectly between your thighs. “One more?” you echo, voice syrup-thick. “Greedy.”

Viktor grins, eyes half-lidded, hair damp against his forehead. “Insatiable,” he corrects, the barest push of his hips proving the point.

You smile, then rock forward just enough to make him hiss. “Are you asking or begging?”

He exhales, then kisses you like he’s trying to bite the question from your mouth. “Begging, if that’s what gets me inside you.”

“Thought so.” You reach between you, fingers curling around him—hot, flushed with wanting, and suddenly you know why he was whimpering like a dog beneath you. He shudders when you guide him to your entrance, the wet slide so easy it should be outlawed.

Looking you square in the eye, he sinks in—a slow, torturous stretch of muscles still wound up tight from all his effort. Through a long, dragging glide of his cock, he claims the space he’s already ruined and worshipped, and you have to take a deep breath to welcome the stretch.

“I’ll go slow,” he whispers, as if it’s ever different. It’s always slow, always thorough, because Viktor wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t fuck you at a funeral pace, just to study your expressions frame by frame. He rolls through your core in short thrusts, falling deeper and deeper until he’s buried to the hilt, and you are joined by everything possible—foreheads, arms, chests, stomachs, pubic mounds, thighs, knees, and feet. One body again, only like this entertaining the concept of becoming perfect.

Your fingers tangle in the hair at the back of his neck, holding him while his hips work in steady waves. He keeps his face close to yours, eyes shut, breath hitching every time your body clenches around him.

It’s not just the molten warmth, not just the friction—it’s the proximity, the distance between you shrunken into nothing and still he tries to crawl deeper, seeking the hidden bottom. More of your breath in his mouth. More of the soft gasps to swallow like wine. His name falling off your tongue in the dark.

And you do your best to meet him, to match the challenging rhythm that puts you to a test not through pace, but through natural rawness that makes all things nude ashamed. “My girl,” he croons, the word barely a sound, all wet vowels trying to convey much more than the bare claim. He kisses your mouth, your chin, the hinge of your jaw, and it’s all tender and keen like a fresh lover would be.

It’s then when he fractures—his voice splintering like brittle timber. “Will you fuck me?” he whispers, a beg so exposed, the words tremble in the tiny universe between your lips. “Please—just—fuck me, I need you—”

You still for a moment, stunned by the surrender his voice carries. Unable to deny him, you initiate another gentle collision of mouths and tongues to soothe him through the wildness.

It takes only one roll of your hips for him to shudder. Do it again, and he moans like he’s dying. You set the rhythm now, steady and grinding, every press of your body against his—a drip of permission to make himself gone. His hands slide to your hips to hold onto something, and his gaze fixes on your face, like he’s watching salvation unfold.

“F-fuck,” he breathes, head falling against the pillow. The thought remains unfinished.

You keep moving through shallow breaths, arms wrapping around Viktor’s neck. Bodies locked in, bathed in the heat of one another, his cock buried deep in you with every full grind. He’s so hard inside you, you almost pity him. Cock pressed up into the place where everything folds open, each time you drag yourself on him, the stretch burns just right.

Ever the giver, Viktor squeezes a hand into where you are grown together, just barely. Fingers slipping between your wet and his, he circles your clit with precision that borders on cruel. Wrapped all over you, holding you in the crook of him, he works only by memory, and it’s frightening how well he remembers you by now.

“You are so lovely,” he whispers, voice breaking on a moan. “Taking me so well, ah fuck—”

And you’re going in blind yourself, dizzy on how intense it’s getting. No blindfold needed, you feel him in the dark and the quiet—getting close, closer, always so close. All you can do is move, let him whisper filth and worship into your skin while you pulse tight around his cock, the friction sharper, wetter, as your hips begin to slap against his with a vulgar echo.

“God, yes, just like that—fuck me, fuck me till you break—”

What Viktor says, you do. It rises like a tide, sweet and devastating, building at the base of your spine until your breath is gone and your body seizes with your face pressed to his neck. A strangled cry announces the orgasm slowly tearing you in half, and he holds you through it, cock twitching, as if your body summoned his ruin.

He follows you with a deep groan, loud in your ear, filling you up with his cum. You feel it flood you in thick, hot pulses, spilling out where you’re joined. Too much to hold—it trickles down your thighs, dripping onto the sheets and you mourn each and every drop of Viktor that didn’t make it.

There, you both still, with hearts racing and chests heaving. You become an unmovable object that swells where Viktor softens to compensate the threatening loss of fullness. Needy, God knows for what, your limbs hold him tight, and he finds whatever strength is needed to wake his body back up. He kisses your temple, your jaw and cheek—every place a blessing.

Finally, you exhale through your mouth, lips forming an o as you settle, your breath brushing across his throat. Viktor watches you through hooded eyelids, the corners of his mouth lifting into something soft and real.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs, fingers tracing lazy shapes on the slope of your hip where it traps him.

“Yes,” you say, nuzzling into his collarbone, nose brushing the line of his neck. “I feel more like myself. You?”

“Same,” he says. “Have I atoned?”

“Oh, God yes,” you breathe, eyes falling shut. But your brows pull together the next moment. “Still, I want no more of that. Why wouldn’t you even respond to my texts?”

“I… don’t know,” he says, jaw tightening. His fingers go still.

“Viktor,” you press, lifting your head just enough to look at him. “You said something about honesty a while back?”

He huffs through his nose, a faint smirk curling one corner of his mouth. “Are you going to use everything against me, officer?”

“If you force me to,” you reply, nose wrinkling as you mimic his accent just a little.

“I—” he hesitates, eyes flicking away. “Eh, perhaps you’ve figured this out already,” he adds dryly, “but I don’t like weaknesses.”

“You think this is a weakness?” you ask quietly, thumbing at the crutch rested by the bedside table.

“Is it not?” His voice is careful, devoid of drama, as though he’s said it to himself a hundred times before.

“Viktor.” You brush his hair back, fingertips pausing at his temple. “It’s only a weakness if you let it.”

He scoffs under his breath. “I think you are much too kind. I am more self-aware than you think.”

“No, this is nonsense,” you mutter. “Viktor, you are—” Frustration rises, since what you want to say, you cannot. You hesitate. “I—”

“You are doing very well,” he mocks lightly, dragging out in a tone of fond sarcasm.

“Shut up, I’m not best at this,” you grumble, swatting at his chest as heat creeps up your neck. You exhale sharply, squinting at the ceiling like it might help. Then, with great effort and zero ceremony, you settle on a very costly and thoughtful: “You are very good.”

Viktor outright laughs. It bursts out of him, honest and loud, and his face buries against your neck, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“What?” you demand, swatting again, though your tone betrays your grin. “Stop laughing at me, you bastard.”

“Nothing,” he wheezes. “Ah, I’m sorry.” He kisses your shoulder. “You are so sweet.” Another kiss. “Thank you. You are very good too.”

“I will take it,” you mutter, cheeks still warm.

A pause. His thumb strokes along the back of your hand. “Are you busy tomorrow?”

“I have to meet Mel, she’s been on my ass the entire week,” you say with a sigh. “But that’s in the afternoon.”

“I will take it,” he echoes, with a quiet contentment that glows behind words.

It’s tangled sleeping after that, Viktor wrapped around you like a vice, his neck already moulded to the shape of your head. In the morning, he makes the coffee. It grows cold while he lovingly spanks you and fucks you again, gets reheated, and there’s a real threat it’ll cool once more when he pulls you into the kitchen chair and lets his fingers roam between your ass cheeks until you squeal and bite his neck in self-defence.

It’s all patched up loosely, the weird, fragile space between you—exposed now more than ever, vulnerable to collapse under silence. And there’s plenty you could do to reinforce it, but that would require words. So it brings you back to square one, where every emotion is expressed through the body alone. A slow walk through the purgatory of affection.

When you leave, Viktor kisses you like you’re sailing off for another decade—his hands lingering on your cheeks, his mouth hesitant, greedy. It feels good. Real. And still, the moment the lift doors slide shut, something presses down on your chest like a sandbag. You’d left once before under the same spell, warm with the promise of soon, and he vanished. So the seam holding you together now—it’s not watertight. It’s stuck with chewing gum and good intentions.

You meet Mel in Fitzrovia, at Kaffeine on Great Titchfield Street—an achingly sleek spot, all matte black walls, and the hum of restrained ambition. You're dressed in something easy: wide trousers, soft jacket, hair pulled back without much strategy. Mel, of course, is immaculate. Oversized sunglasses despite the cloudy sky, nails like lacquered glass, a coat tailored to make a statement even when hung on a chair. She watches you approach from behind the veil of lenses, lips pursed around the straw of a green juice.

“Well, well, well,” she greets you like a cartoon villain, row of whites flashing and disappearing when her lips form a pout. Coffee already waits for you.

“Three holes in the ground,” you reply, setting your bag down beside the table, beyond pleased with your joke.

Mel laughs and shakes her head, extending out a hand to grab yours. “Oh, you know where you can put that bullshit.”

You quirk a brow, innocent smile playing on your lips. “Up the Elephant and Castle?”

“Cor blimey,” she exhales, absolutely butchering Cockney accent, and you laugh. She slides her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. “You seem to be in a brilliant mood today. Has Viktor fucked you so well?”

Your throat catches around the sip of flat white you’ve just taken. “W–what?”

“You heard me,” she says, entirely unbothered. “I told you—I’d find out sooner or later. Now is later. Spill.”

“You don’t take prisoners, do you,” you mutter, looking anywhere but at her. Oh God.

“Honey,” she leans in, catching your gaze, “two minutes in the room with that man and you were drooling. I knew as soon as you walked into the parlour. And well,” she drags, hand waving around self-explanatory, “then Jayce saw you practicing some full frontal snogging by the loo.”

“For fuck’s sake.” You bury your face in your hands. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I tried! You were working like an idiot last week.” She flips open the menu with one hand. “How long?”

“Uh… since your birthday?”

She makes a sound that’s somehow both your name and a reprimand.

“What?”

“That’s… three months? You’ve been dating Viktor—Jayce’s best friend—for three months and didn’t tell me?”

“Dating is a big word, okay?” you say, already feeling the defensive edge creeping into your voice. “We’re just… hanging out.”

Mel snorts, waving the server over. “Oh no, you are not. What are you, twenty?”

You order without looking up. Your pulse hammers despite the casual front. She’s too close to the truth and your brain is already spiralling to every vulnerable thing you’ve said, done, felt in the past twelve hours. “Mel,” you say, trying to level your tone. “It works, alright? He offered. We tried it, and it works. It’s all good, I promise.”

She points the waiter to positions on the menu, and then looks at you as if she’s seeing what’s inside. “What if it stops working?” She asks, honest, not a trace of judgement.

You shift in your seat, folding your hands beneath the table. “Are you worried about the group?”

“Vaguely.” She slips her thumb under one of her rings and twists, idle and graceful. “It took us some time to get you guys to meet, I’m sure it would be possible to reverse. I’m mostly worried about you. And well, about Viktor too, I suppose.”

That part you weren’t expecting. You blink at her, brow pulling in. “If anything happens, I’ll be fine.” You pause, test the weight of the question before letting it out. “Why are you worried about Viktor?”

Mel stills, thumb freezing against gold. It’s almost nothing, but you see it—how she recalibrates in an instant. When she lifts her head, it’s without artifice. The sunglasses come off entirely and are placed next to her water glass. “Oh, darling,” she says, quiet, like a sigh brushing the surface of a wound, “you really don’t see it, do you?” It’s a side of her she shows seldom. No polish. No posturing. Just her, plain and luminous. There’s something terrifying about being seen so clearly.

“What don’t I see?” you ask, the question coming out sharper than intended. You squint at her, as if narrowing your eyes will guard your chest.

She only exhales through her nose, lips twitching into a lopsided smile that isn’t smug—just sad. Then, with rare tenderness, she reaches across the table and covers your hand with hers. “Just be careful not to hurt him, alright?”

“Mel, don’t be like that with me,” you say, a note of pleading buried under exasperation.

“Hon,” she begins, almost gleefully, “let me tell you something. You wouldn’t spot a good guy if he sat on your face.”

You glare. “I know he’s good, Mel. It’s not about that. None of us has time to get fully engaged, I��”

She leans back, giving you room but not retreating. “As long as you’re both happy, I’m no one to judge.”

“And you will judge if I’m not happy?”

“No,” she says firmly. “I’ll be there to pick you up. I’d rather not, though. I think you make a cute couple.”

“Are you even listening to me?” You are whining now.

“I will if you spill me some tea,” she grins. “Is Viktor as freaky as I suspect him to be?”

You groan and reach for your coffee, hiding your face behind the cup. “Sod. Off.”

Mel leans back, pleased with herself, twirling her straw. “I knew it,” she sings, biting into her food with all the satisfaction of someone who’s just won a bet.

You laugh helplessly, the sound spilling out of you before you can contain it. It bends you at the waist, warm and shaking, and for a moment you’re not thinking about Viktor or your own nerves; you're just laughing.

Mel watches you with something between amusement and relief. She takes a sip of her coffee, merciful now, choosing not to dig further. “Alright,” she says, lifting her sunglasses back onto the bridge of her nose like lowering a curtain. “No more cross-examination. Tell me about Baal. Are your actors still determined to out-weird each other?”

You lean back in your chair, shoulders finally beginning to unknot. “They’ve started doing warm-ups in character. Full shouting matches. There was fake blood on a chair last week, but no one claimed it.”

“Delicious,” Mel purrs, as if it were gossip about Parliament and not a deranged theatre production. “Who’s sleeping with who?”

You pretend to hesitate, then lower your voice. “Oh, everyone with everyone I believe. Except the lighting tech and the lead. Apparently they made a pact not to hook up until after opening night.”

Mel’s eyebrow arches above her glasses. “Professionalism is so passé.”

You talk like that for another hour, until your coffee turns cold, and the streetlights start to blink on outside. When you part ways near Goodge Street, Mel hugs you lightly and says, “Take care of yourself, alright?” You nod, pretending that her voice doesn’t sound too much like a warning.

Sunday returns you to the theatre—notes, scenarios, and planning on everything you haven’t done last week. And the theatre, as usual, returns you to chaos.

Rehearsals for Scottsboro Boys are deep in the unhinged stage—final blocking meets creative panic. You spend the week stitching together bits of ego and confusion, fixing things that should’ve been sorted a month ago. No crisis, just a hundred small ones.

Until Wednesday. The first sign of trouble is the way Charlie leans against the office doorframe, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding his tablet like it’s committed a personal offence. “You’ve seen the tap shoes?” he asks.

You look up from your screen, already wary. “They were supposed to be back yesterday. Rehearsal wardrobe inventory was cleared last night—are you sure?”

Charlie doesn’t say anything. Just slowly shakes his head.

You pull up the prop and costume ledger and scan the notes, frown deepening. Delivered to J Rogers & Sons, cobbler’s note said to expect them Thursday. Confirmed dispatch. You pick up your phone.

It takes two redirects before someone at the repair house picks up. You rattle off the show name and the order number, brisk and increasingly sharp. They make all the right noises at first—"Yes, that was sent off last week" and "Should have arrived already"—until a pause stretches. A longer rustle on the line. Then a muffled curse not meant for your ears.

“…Right,” the voice returns, sheepish now. “Found them. Looks like they never left the main storage. I'm so sorry about that.”

You close your eyes, steady your voice, knuckles cracking against the desk. “Okay. When can you drop them off?”

“Er—” There’s hesitation. “We’d need to organise a courier, might be Friday? At the earliest?”

“That’s too late,” you say flatly. “We’ve got rehearsal tonight. They’re needed.”

“Well,” the voice hedges, “we’re still open for another two hours if someone can collect?”

You press the heel of your hand into your eye socket—of course. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

You hang up and glance over at Charlie. “Can you sort a driver? Or a cab?”

“Already trying,” he says, tapping at his phone. His mouth pulls tight. “No one’s free. Every driver’s already on a run and the apps are choking—rush hour.” Of course they are.

“Do you want me to go there on city bike?” Charlie offers, only half-joking.

“Christ, don’t be ridiculous,” you scoff, but smile despite yourself. “Also—I need you here, light setup. Let me think.” You eye the clock. There’s no way a courier will make it in time, and you’re not about to send ten pairs of hand-stitched period shoes across half of London in the back of some random delivery scooter. But the idea of weaving through afternoon traffic on a city bike with a duffel full of irreplaceable footwear is... deranged. Your fingers hover over your phone. It’s either make a stupid call or ruin tonight’s rehearsal. You sigh and tap in Jayce’s number.

“Hello! You are on speaker,” Jayce beams, like he’s halfway through a pint and enjoying himself immensely.

“Uh, okay? Hi Jayce, I’m sorry to call you like this—”

“Ah, what do you need?” he cuts in, too cheerful to be innocent.

“Am I that obvious?” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I need a lift.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry but I don’t have my car today,” he says, sounding truly bummed. “Mel dropped me off.”

There’s a muffled shuffle, followed by Viktor’s voice calling out in the background, slightly distant but clear enough: “I could… drive you? Or you can just use my car if you promise to get it back in one piece?”

You hesitate. “Ah, you see… I can’t promise that. I—” You drop your voice to a mutter. “I can’t drive.”

A beat. “I’m sorry, you what?” Viktor’s voice now sharper, closer to the mic.

“I don’t have a driving licence,” you repeat, a little louder this time, eyes fixed on a crack in the laminate flooring like it might swallow you whole. Charlie mouths a what?

“Seriously? How did I not know this?” Jayce jumps in, theatrical with disbelief.

“Can’t drive is not something I put on my résumé, Jayce.”

There’s a quick puff of laughter from Viktor, then a pause before he says gently, “Well then. I’ll drive you. Where do you need me?”

Between my legs, preferably. “I think it’ll be faster if I just take the tube to the Institute. Less backtracking.”

“Alright,” Viktor replies without hesitation. “Meet in the parking lot in twenty?”

“Perfect. Thank you. And, uh, thanks, Jayce, I guess.”

“Anytime,” Jayce replies brightly, as if he actually helped. “Tell Viktor to drive safe. Fragile cargo and all that.”

You put your phone down and sigh to stop yourself from groaning. “Ah, would you look at that?” Charlie chirps. “Thank God for a chivalrous fuck buddy, am I right?”

“Charlie.”

“Here are your city shoes my captain,” he says with a grin, waving two ballet flats in each of his hands. You snatch them and shake your head but smile again.

On flat feet it’s easier to run toward the tube and step from one leg to the other, the too-thin soles of your shoes slapping against the pavement in uneven staccato. The wind is picking up, biting at your ankles, but the momentum keeps you warm. Still, your stomach twists as you approach the designated spot—what are you even supposed to do when you see him? Handshake? Hug? Wave like he’s your fucking landlord?

You spot him before he spots you. Of course he’s already here—of course he is. Leaning one hip against the car like a goddamn editorial spread, one hand curled loosely around the handle of his cane, the other tucked into the pocket of a wool coat that looks both well-worn and devastatingly expensive. The rest of him is just as maddening: dove-grey jumper stretched over the long frame of him, dark trousers that taper perfectly to a pair of boots sheened with the kind of shine that says I care, but not too much. He looks... effortless. Effortless and hot.

He catches your eye and lifts a hand to wave, cane tipping upward with it.

You walk up briskly and aim for safe ground—a kiss in the air beside his cheek—but he catches you with an arm around your waist, pulling you into him. His mouth finds yours like it’s been waiting all day, urgent and warm and demanding, and you melt before you can think better of it. Hands roam, steady and shameless, and you only manage to pull back enough to mumble your worry against his lips, “What if Jayce—”

“Jayce knows,” Viktor rasps, mouth trailing the corner of yours, lips dragging over skin. His breath is warm, uneven, and then he’s kissing you again—sloppy, open-mouthed and a little too eager, as if the mere idea of losing the chance is intolerable. “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you,” he murmurs straight into your throat, words slurring. “He saw us in Soho.”

You blink, dazed, trying to remember how to connect vowels with consonants as his hands crawl all over your waist and pull you flush. “Well, shit,” you manage, breath hitching when his teeth scrape your bottom lip. You clutch at his coat, trying to stabilise yourself—or maybe him. “Mel knows too.”

His brows knit, but he doesn’t stop. A hand cradles your cheek, tilting your head so he can have more, deeper, messier. Elegance all lost—just need and heat and the hint of a groan when you surrender into it. Then, finally, he pulls back just enough to search your face.

“Is that bad?” he asks, voice low, thumb ghosting your temple.

“A little,” you admit, quiet.

That’s when it stops. He really looks at you—one of those unnerving, surgical stares he gives when he’s trying to solve something. His hand lingers against your cheek, thumb swiping your jaw like he might coax the rest of the answer from your skin.

But before he can speak, you shake your head. “I don’t have much time.”

“Of course,” he murmurs, stepping back and opening the car door with a tilt of his cane. “After you.”

You slide into the passenger seat, momentarily confused about the sides, trying not to let your face betray the way your heart’s still tripping over itself. The door shuts with a weighty thunk, and the cabin is warm, quiet. Intimate.`

The car hums to life beneath you—a sleek, vintage Saab 900 Turbo, navy blue with a matte finish. Unassuming at a glance, but once it moves, you feel it: precise, responsive. Like him.

“Seatbelt,” Viktor says, one corner of his mouth twitching.

“Yes sir,” you mutter, clicking the belt into place with exaggerated obedience. “Is this car an antique?”

He hums, both hands resting lightly but surely on the wheel. “It was my father’s,” he says after a beat. “So, I suppose, yes.”

You look around the interior—leather worn to softness, details immaculately kept. “It suits you.”

He glances at you again, one brow faintly raised. “Are you saying I’m old-fashioned?”

“In a way, yes.”

“And where am I taking you?”

“30 Liverpool Street.”

Viktor nods and merges into the street’s slow-moving rhythm, one hand steadying the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, long fingers flexing with each change. You look out the window at first, the city sliding by in shapes and colours—but then your gaze drifts. Inevitably.

His hands. His profile. The focused slant of his eyes. His posture, stupidly both good and hunched. And that ridiculous combination of wool jumper and coat, somehow professorial and not all at once.

He’s not just attractive. He came for you. He’s supposed to be working, and instead, here he is—his hand brushing your thigh, his presence quietly absorbing. You blink the thought away, catching yourself just as he speaks.

“What’s the emergency, then?” Viktor asks, glancing over without losing focus on the road.

You sit up straighter, heat creeping into your cheeks. “Tap dance shoes,” you mumble.

He chuckles immediately, warm and low. “Of course.”

The pick-up is uneventful—the cobbler’s assistant offers an apologetic smile, and the boxes are light enough that Viktor insists on helping you, cane hooked on his arm. The drop-off is just as smooth: Charlie is already waiting by the stage door of the Young Vic with two lighting techs and one of the younger cast members in tow.

He jogs down to meet the car as Viktor idles by the kerb. Leans in through the open window, smirking. “You look a bit pale,” he says. “Do you want an evening off?”

“Are you my boss now or something?” you shoot back, brow arched, arms crossed on your chest.

Charlie only grins, maddeningly pleased with himself. “Yes, and a merciful one. We got this. Go home, seriously.”

You hesitate—glance toward the building, the techs unloading—but it’s clear he means it.

“Fine,” you exhale, letting it go with a little nod. “Thank you.”

He waves you off with a mock salute. “Go rest that theatre-damaged soul.”

Back in the car, Viktor settles without a word, hands resuming their position on the wheel. “To Hackney then?” he asks, already checking the mirrors.

You nod, quietly, and he pulls away from the kerb. He doesn’t ask if you want to come to Islington instead. Doesn’t angle the moment for more. And that somehow feels worse—because it’s kind. Because it’s easy.

You stare at the road ahead, then sideways at him—at the clean line of his jaw, the sleeve of his coat brushing the gearstick, his quiet breath in the cabin. This is the first time you’ve spent time together outside of his flat without pretending you don’t know each other. No pretext. No cover. No sex.

Just a ride. Just Viktor, offering help, being present. There’s a new kind of intimacy in that. Unspoken, unbidden. It presses against your ribs. You should be glad, but you’re not sure what to do with it, or with him. With how he’s suddenly threaded into your life, effortlessly, sincerely—beyond the walls you’ve so carefully kept.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Viktor says as he turns the engine off. He doesn't move to unbuckle. Just waits.

“I’m… knackered,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face. The pressure doesn’t help. Something rises anyway—panic, low and tight, rattling in your chest like a wind-up toy.

He reaches for you—just his little finger brushing your thigh, shyly, pleading. His head is bowed, gaze somewhere near your knees, and you wonder if he can see the edge of the eyelet running up from your heel.

“No attitude today, hm?” he murmurs, and there’s a kind of gentleness in it. Almost sad.

And you can’t bear it. So you do what you do best. Where words should be—Do you want to come in?—there’s nothing. You don’t have them. Instead, you shift. Take his hand and guide it between your legs.

Viktor smiles. Soft, sombre. Because he already knows he won’t be warming your bed tonight.

You lean over and undo his seatbelt with a click. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t smile. Just watches you like you’re something unfolding—inevitable yet fragile. His fate meets acceptance.

Your knee brushes the handbrake as you turn toward him. You move slowly, like sleepwalking into a decision you’ve already made, coat slipping open, skirt rucking up, spine popping at angles. He gets it. Slides his seat back in silence, the leather creaking under his weight. It’s all a wordless choreography. You rise from your seat and crawl into his lap without ceremony, thighs straddling him, hand braced against the fogged glass.

He tears your legs wider with a grip just shy of harsh. You can’t tell if the sound that leaves your throat is a gasp or a sob, doesn’t matter. There’s no room for language here, just breath and friction. Your hips start to roll—slow, testing the fit of his lap beneath you, the heat, the give. The steering wheel groans when his knee knocks it aside. His fingers bruise into the meat of your thighs.

Then mouths find each other. At last. And now no words feels justified.

It’s not a kiss so much as a crash. Your tongue slides into him, deep and unrelenting. He groans into it, low in his throat, and you swallow the sound. His hands are beneath your coat, beneath your skirt, one callused palm cupping your ass to rock you harder against him. You feel the strain of his cock beneath you, thick and growing, and your own body responds with a wet, desperate pulse.

Your whimper is muffled against his mouth. His hand tightens. For a second there you spot him from under hooded eyelids and he looks like he wants to speak, but doesn’t. Instead, he grips you like a man begging not to be left behind.

Your breaths fog the windows. The coat slips from your shoulders, the skirt hikes higher, and Viktor’s hand finds the seam of your tights. One sharp tug—violent and necessary—and the crotch gives way with a tear. The sound sits somewhere next to the scramble of breathing between you, as if it’s not coming from the inside of the car.

You don’t stop him, don’t speak either.

He works between your legs, fingers slicking through you just once before he groans, lifts his hips, and unfastens his belt with a roughness that makes the car shudder. You reach down without thinking, curl your fingers around the thick, hot weight of him. He’s already hard, leaking. It’s almost cruel, how ready you both are for something neither of you know how to carry.

There’s no room to adjust. No room to take a breath that pleases the lungs. You rise to your knees on the narrow strip of leather and angle yourself down, the head of his cock catching, slipping, before he grips your hips and pulls you down onto him in one sharp thrust.

The jolt punches the air out of you. It’s not graceful, nor tender.

You rock, hips shoving forward like a fight, grinding down hard to keep him inside. The angle’s awful—shallow, hot, brutal—but you don’t care. He’s in you. That’s all that matters. His mouth finds your neck, teeth dragging hard enough to bruise, the rule of leave no trace forgotten. One hand claws your back. The other fists the torn waistband of your tights. He wants more of you. He always wants more.

The windows steam over entirely. The seat squeaks. Your knees start to burn from the angle, but you don’t slow down. You chase the sharp edge of this thing, the way his eyes pinch closed, the sounds he makes when your cunt clamps around him.

It’s ugly and desperate. It’s a breath away from something real, and that’s what makes it bitter. Because the flat is a few steps away. A bed. Clean sheets. Warm light. His body in yours, soft and open. But you won’t cross that line.

So instead, you fuck like you’re punishing yourselves for wanting.

You ride him into the seat, frantic and shallow, the rhythm all friction and ache. It's almost like the first night—tights torn, shoes still on, no time for undressing. Just the throb between your legs and his cock buried deep, anchoring you. It’s just that then, it held a promise of something new to be built—now it threatens to break it.

You brace a hand on the window handle, the other fisting in his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. He hisses, sharp teeth grazing your jaw. But then, his fingers curl around your wrists—tight. With one swift pull, he wrenches both arms behind your back and holds them there in one hand. Your balance shifts. Your chest hits his, and he licks a line up your neck, slow and filthy.

Then his mouth finds yours. His tongue pushes deep, and his teeth catch your bottom lip. He bites—hard enough to sting—and you gasp into him. "Do you want me to touch you?" he rasps, voice low and rough, his mouth dragging along your cheek.

You nod, and breathe out a quick, "Please."

Something flickers across his face—an old woe or a darker sorrow. You can’t read it, no time. "Beg me," he says.

Your thighs twitch where they straddle him. You rub your face against his, wanting something you have no name for, breath catching on your own need. "Please, Viktor. Please, touch me—need it, I need you—"

He says nothing, but his free hand slips between your legs, thumb finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times before, and it’s not short of the truth. He circles it, firm, and unforgiving, and your whole body shudders.

Where good girl should be, there’s only the sound of your breath falling apart.

The worst thing is—a week ago, you would’ve been ready. Back when his silence didn’t trigger a massive influx of anxiety. Back when your last memory of Viktor was him taking care of you in a sodden restaurant bathroom and then bringing you home like you were his. Back when he said I like you, and you believed him.

Now, all you have is a seedy fuck with no děvče moje in sight, and the naïve hope that none of your neighbours will recognise you stumbling through your front door, thighs clenched to hold in his cum until you reach the bathroom.

His fingers circle tighter, meaner, the rhythm relentless. You grind down on him like you’re trying to rub the ache out, like you’re trying to find something he’s not giving. It’s too much friction, too messy, too fast. The car shakes. He watches your face like he’s waiting for something, but gives you nothing in return. No kiss. No name. Just his cock buried deeper and his hand cruelly patient between your legs. It builds in spite of him. In spite of you. Shame hot in your throat, the climax drags itself up from your spine like a sob.

And when it comes, it’s like it’s taken from you—wrenched out brutally, no praise to encompass it, no soft words to carry you over. Just the tightening of your body around him and a cry that sounds almost angry in your throat, like your pleasure has betrayed you.

Viktor groans, teeth bared as he follows, hand tightening on your wrists, hips stuttering against yours with a final, aching push.

He comes with a sharp breath against your throat. Heat spills in and over, thick, pulsing, and he holds you there—keeps you locked against him like he can force it to mean something. His cock twitches as the last of it leaves him, breath hoarse, jaw clenched. One of his hands slips, cradles your nape instead, trembling faintly. He doesn't speak. The air reeks of sweat and sex.

“I suppose we can cross car sex off the list?” Viktor offers finally, forcing a smile that splits you in half.

You let out a hollow laugh, too quick, too thin, and nod as you push the damp hair from your forehead. His hands hover—unsure, unlike him. Normally, he'd hold you until your pulse settled. Gently kick you out to the bathroom and then drag you back, greedy with touch, curling you into the heat of him until breath and sweat and sleep blurred together.

Now he just looks. Still inside, softening. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. "How are you?" he asks, tone alien. "Do you need anything?"

You shake your head, slow. “You?” You glance down between your bodies. “Your leg—was that—?”

He waves a hand, brushing the thought aside. “It’s fine.” A pause. “I think I’ve got some tissues…” he mutters, half-turning toward the glove box.

But you shake your head again. “It’s fine, I live right here.” Silence drapes over the car like condensation on the windows—cloying, and suffocating. His hands move to your hips again, but this time not with hunger. With reluctance. Mercy.

“You should go rest,” he says, quieter now. “Catch up on sleep.”

You scramble off his lap, legs trembling as you adjust your skirt. The sudden loss of him hits harder than the sharp scent clinging to the car. A flicker of heat rises behind your eyes. You press it down. Swallow it.

“I guess… goodnight then?”

“Goodnight,” he says quietly. No kiss. No brushing of your wrist. Just that one word, clipped neat.

You open the car door. The night air stings like a slap, and you don’t have it in you to look back. The fogged windows blur any trace of him anyway. Up the steps, fingers numb around your keys, you let yourself into your flat. The door clicks shut behind you. Shoes off. Straight to the bathroom.

There, under the too-white light, you lift your shirt—nothing.

No mark, no claim, no outline of Viktor on your skin. Only the angry bite on the side of your neck and a faint reddened dent left by the waistband of your tights. You run your palms over your belly like you’re searching for some imprint, some proof, but it’s smooth beneath your fingers. Ordinary.

Your throat clicks shut. You slump onto the toilet lid, hands splayed over your stomach.

And sob. Not a pretty cry. Not cinematic. Just a full-bodied collapse that leaks from your mouth in silence, shoulders shaking like you’re trying to contain something much too big. You feel scraped out. Cold in places you didn’t know could get cold. Touched, but not held. Known, but not kept. And it’s by your hand only that you’ve made yourself cold, untouched, and unkept—because Viktor’s hands were there, ready to cradle, ready to hold, when, in your panic, you slipped through his fingers.

—

So, for the exchange between Reader and Mel: it’s a classic, Cockney banter. When someone starts the conversation with “Well, well, well,” a way to respond is “Three holes in the ground,” because it’s three wells. And wells are holes in the ground. Get it? Following in, Mel responds with “Cor blimey,” which is a Cockney-d version of “God, blind me,” – and exclamation one would make to express something like, “Oh my God.” And she does it poorly, because she is posh. And finally, “Up the Elephant and Castle,” – Elephant and Castle is a centre area of Southwark (a borough of south London) which in Cockney slang means “ass.” Reader is not Cockney by any means, but through years of living in Hackney, she’s adapted some of the slang. And if you remember, in the last chapter, Jayce had greeted Viktor with the same phrase, to which Viktor replied: “Well, well, well, what?” There, jokes also have lore apparently.

[adragonprinceswhore]

Rumours

Aemond Targaryen x (Ex)Wife

Chapter II: Go Your Own Way 🎼 Masterlist

Summary: Aemond's written another song about your separation, and it becomes clear to you that he'll do anything to make you suffer.

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, angst, toxic relationship dynamic, depictions of anxiety, smut, oral (f receiving), facesitting, phone sex, description of naughty videos

Word count: 3600 A/N: Thank you so much lovely Justine for looking this over for me @theoneeyedprince ♡

‘DRAGONSTONE: VIBRANT START OF TOUR FOR DRAGON DREAMERS’

Eyes glued to the screen of your phone, you absentmindedly sip your cup of tea, newly awake and curled up on a puffy armchair in your hotel room. 

Life on the road proves to be draining. You still feel exhausted from having to fly from Dragonstone to your current location, Gulltown, right after the show, currently operating on merely 4 hours of sleep. 

You had told yourself that you wouldn’t check reviews from your opening night before you felt ready to deal with all possible speculations of your and Aemond’s divorce. 

You know that the concert had been fantastic, the audience demanded two encores and you left the venue with a sore throat and an unquenchable thirst for more. There’s nothing as exhilarating as the high you feel after a live show. 

Still, you couldn’t fight the urge to google reviews, curiosity getting the best of you. 

‘Tensions were high as Dragon Dreamers entered the nearly full venue on Dragonstone last night. Kicking off with a song from their new album, The Chain, devoted fans are quick to speculate whether guitarist Aemond Targaryen wrote it to-’

You can’t bring yourself to continue, knowing that whatever they’d written would only leave you feeling melancholic. You need all the energy you can muster, which means torturing yourself reading about your divorce isn’t a good idea.

As you’re about to put your phone down, it lights up with Helaena’s name. 

“Are you okay, love? We’ve been waiting for 10 minutes”, she asks, voice sounding a bit strained. 

A meek “What?” is all you manage to get out. You were supposed to meet up in an hour, not now.

“The press? We’ve got 5 interviews lined up and need to leave now. Didn’t Tyland tell you about the change in schedule?”

No. 

And you have a feeling that it isn’t Tyland who’ll be delighted when you show up smelling of sweat from yesterday's gig, with your hair in tangles and face fatigued. 

“Sorry, Hel. I’ll be there as soon as I can, give me five minutes”

No shower. 

No hair. 

No makeup. 

Great. 

In haste, you throw on a pair of jeans, a burgundy top and messily apply some blush and mascara, hoping it’ll distract from the bags under your eyes. You throw one last glance at your reflection before heading down. 

You look exactly like you feel,

Shit. 

You try your best to not let your cheery facade crack, smiling brightly at the journalists as they ask you about yesterday’s show and the ongoing tour. 

No one dares to ask about your personal lives, something you find yourself feeling immensely grateful for. 

Three interviews down, two to go.  

You throw a quick glance at Aemond. You’d been careful to sit on his blind side so you wouldn’t have to feel the searing sensation of him staring you down. Observing him in secret still burns though.  

You know he won’t move quickly enough for you to get caught. After the accident that left him blind in one eye, he always moved slowly. His blind eye has a tendency to lag slightly, not always looking in the same direction as his seeing eye. Self-conscious and afraid of being awarded the epithet ‘lazy eye’ on top of ‘one eye’, he’s trained his body to always move slowly, giving his blind eye a chance to keep up.

The next interviewer enters the small room you’ve been assigned, donning a wide smile as she makes her way to the chair in front of the two sofas where you and your bandmates are seated. 

After quickly introducing herself and the magazine she works for, Harrentown Underground, she jumps straight to the questions, asking you how yesterday’s gig felt and what fans should expect from the upcoming tour.

As she talks, her gaze is trained on Aemond, nodding and smiling brightly when he answers. 

Her eyes narrow slightly as she purses her lips together, visibly tensing up as she asks,

“Has the recent, um, changes in your personal life aided your creative process?”

The tension in the room grows as Aemond stays silent despite the journalist looking solely at him. You’d asked management to let the journalists know that you wouldn’t be taking any questions about your personal lives. She either doesn’t know or doesn’t care; you can’t make out which it is. 

Aemond finally breaks the silence,

“Yes. I guess so” 

“Many fans online suspect the new song you performed yesterday is about your failed marriage, is that correct?”, she continues, completely ignoring you and the other band members as she looks up from her notepad, meeting Aemond’s eye.

He’s completely still as he regards her, taking time to answer so that the awkward atmosphere of the room lingers.

“It is”, he finally admits, catching you by surprise. He’d always been so reserved; never wanting to let the public in on his private life. 

The journalist gives Aemond a sympathetic look, nodding as she replies,

“Heartache really fuels the creative process, is that it?”

Aemond lets out a detached hum, 

“I’m not one to go back on my promises. I value loyalty. The song is about when promises are broken”

Helaena has started to pick at her nail beds next to you. On your other side you feel Jace straighten up, eyes cast down to inspect the floor with newfound interest. 

Nobody wants to say anything; nobody wants to continue this conversation. Except for the journalist, who nods in understanding as she scribbles on her notepad.

“It must be hard, being left by your partner”, she says, throwing a brief, disapproving look your way, “Have you had time to process it all?”

She is clearly not interested in speaking to anyone else in the band. She regards Aemond as if they are the only two in the room. It feels so belittling, being talked about like you’re not even present. 

“Hmm. Betrayal takes time to recover from”, he replies curtly, sounding cold and harsh. 

You feel your throat close up, eyesight going blurry as you take in his words. 

Betrayal? 

You try to the best of your ability to not let any tears escape down your cheeks, tilting your head slightly backwards as you take a deep, quiet breath. 

You will not cause a scene. 

You will not give him the satisfaction of knowing that his words got to you. 

You will not give him what he wants. 

As soon as the journalist from Harrentown Underground leaves and Tyland tells you to take a break, you make your way to the bathroom in quick steps. 

You rush inside a booth, quickly locking the door before you fall down on the toilet seat, hand over your mouth in an attempt to muffle your wailing as you begin to cry heavily, sobs ripping through your body in angry waves, and tears pouring down your cheeks.

He’s such a fucking prick. 

He’s such a fucking prick.

He knows exactly what buttons to push to upset you. He also knows exactly how to do it in front of others, without them knowing of the quiet war being fought between the two of you. If that journalist knew the full story of what led to your divorce, would she still pity poor Aemond? 

You cry hard, trying to release some of the frustration built up inside. After a couple of minutes, the tears start to lessen and you roll out some toilet paper, patting it over your soaked face before throwing it in the toilet. 

You exit the booth and move to stand in front of the mirror. 

Seeing your reflection makes you feel worse. Your hair is frizzy from the way you tossed in bed, your mascara has run down your cheeks in black streaks, and your eyes are puffy and red. 

You sigh in surrender, pulling out a concealer from your purse and patting some under your eye to hide the smudged blackness and swollen skin.

If strength was measured by resilience, you’d be a warrior. You wouldn’t let Aemond’s attempts at hurting you hinder you. He’d already controlled your life when you were married. He wasn’t going to continue to restrict you now.

The last interview is with a journalist from King’s Landing Weekly, and you remember meeting him last year when you’d just released your first album. 

He’s a true music nerd, always asking insightful questions about your inspirations, what you want to convey, how you went about the recording process. 

“How has recording been this time around?”, the journalist asks, oblivious to the fact that you’d spent most time alone in the studio, recording your parts separately. 

“It’s been interesting. Production has taken longer than we anticipated, but we’ve got some real bangers we’re eager to share with our fans”, Jace answers with a smile, going on to reveal that you’ll perform some of the new songs during your tour. 

You think back to when you recorded your first album, spending almost every waking hour in the studio with your bandmates. 

Well, mostly with Aemond. 

The nostalgic past when you were madly in love. It seems so distant now. 

On your knees, you hover over Aemond’s face. His nose repeatedly brushes against your clit as his tongue moves in and out of you. He’s lying on his back on the dirty floor of the studio, his arms locked around your thighs, and his hands grip your hips tightly.

You’re so close to breaking. So close. 

Hands resting on your thighs to keep yourself upright, you let your hips rock in tandem with Aemond’s tongue as it fucks you. And when your orgasm crashes over you, one hand moves to his hair, grabbing it harshly as you moan his name. 

Unabashedly, you cry out in pleasure before stilling. Breathing heavily, your mind feels delightfully empty in the bliss-filled aftermath of your peak. 

As you move to get up, Aemond’s grip on your hips tighten, focing you to stay put as he continues his assault on your cunt. You moan, half in pleasure, half in pain, from how his nose brushes against your over sensitive clit, sending jolts of stinging delight through your body. 

“Aem, I can’t-”, you weakly protest as he brings his tongue up to your clit, gently swiping over it. 

His voice is muffled underneath you as he replies, “Yes you can” 

His hands push your hips to forcefully rock your body against his face once more, and you feel the stinging between your legs morph into fierce pleasure, consuming your senses. 

You had tried to keep yourself up slightly to not place all your weight on Aemond’s face, but you slowly lose control over your body and slump down against his face as a second orgasm approaches. 

Satisfied at your defeat, Aemond moves one hand down to your entrance and pushes two fingers inside at once, stretching your slippery hole. You gasp, and when his fingers find your g-spot, you moan without inhibition. 

“Fu-, k-”, you sigh, voice strained. 

Your hands hold on to the edge of the desk in front of you, head thrown back. Aemond’s fingers continue to move in and out of you in calculated strokes as his tongue determinedly massages your clit, and when he closes his lips around your bundle of nerves and suck, you come for the second time; the edge of your vision going black from the intensity.

Your body jerks uncontrollably as you gasp and sigh and moan. 

After your body’s stopped twitching, Aemond’s face pokes out from beneath you, covered in your slick. You’re still breathing heavily, trying to regain your posture and stand, but he tugs you down to the ground and places you in his arms.

“Go on, pretty girl. Clean me up”, he whispers into your ear. You oblige with a smile, kissing away all the remnants of your arousal on his face, revelling in the taste of you on his skin. 

You wish your mind wouldn’t go there whenever you think about the last time you were in the studio together. You wish it wouldn’t drift to the happy memories. 

They hurt the most. 

Leaving someone you still love is so much harder than leaving someone you don’t. You have to continually remind yourself of what a toxic husband he could be. Of how unfair, and controlling, and dangerous he could be. 

In fact, you didn’t really need to remind yourself; Aemond was fully capable of acting horrible on his own. 

As the journalist from King’s Landing Weekly wraps up the last interview of the day, he stands and thanks you all for your time. 

He stretches out his hand and offers each member a handshake. When he reaches you, he holds onto your hand as he gleefully states, “I truly hope we get to hear one of your new songs soon. The emotions you put into song-making is truly something else”

You smile back at him and squeeze his hand, assuring him that you’ll perform a new song soon.

Behind you, Aemond clears his throat a bit too loudly for it to seem unintentional. He stands up, prompting the reporter to move to shake Jace’s hand next to you before leaving. 

All you can think about is getting back to your hotel room, take a long-overdue shower, and a much-needed nap. 

You make your way out of the conference room, but before you can leave, a large hand gently tugs at your shoulder, stopping you. 

You turn around to face Aemond, who gives your form a once-over, 

“Are you doing okay? You look a bit, hm, disoriented” 

If he is trying to sound caring he’s failing miserably. His tone is condescending, nearly mocking. 

“I’m fine”, you reply, jaw shut tight and annoyance tinting your voice “No one told me about the sudden change in schedule”

You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?

He nods curtly, “Alright. I’d like to perform a new song tonight, you did back-ups on it in recording; ‘Go your own way’. Would that be okay with you?”

The forced, nice pretence he’s trying to uphold doesn’t fool you for a second, you can hear how he’s holding himself back as he speaks. 

“Of course”, you reply shortly. 

Why is he asking for permission? 

You turn and move towards the door, eager to retreat to your room. Aemond stays put behind you, voice a little more urgent than before as he adds, 

“My girlfriend will come to tonight's gig, if you don’t mind?”

You sigh as you turn the handle of the door, 

“Why would I mind?”

You do mind. 

It feels so wrong to see Alys sit on Aemond’s lap backstage as he whispers something in her ear. It almost feels perverse, seeing your husband with someone else. Like they’re committing a sin. 

Still, you say nothing. Instead, you stubbornly refuse to look their way, focusing on helping Helaena with her eyeshadow at the other end of the room. 

You can’t help but ponder their dynamic. 

Is he as possessive of her as he had been over you? 

Is he as insatiable?

Like the time he demanded you record when you touch yourself, instructing you to place your phone on your stomach so he could hear just how wet you were as your fingers slip inside and you moan his name. 

That was back when he was still working for his grandfather’s company, and he’d occasionally go away on business trips. He’d call you around midnight every night. 

“What would you do if I were there?” 

You hear him breathe heavily. His voice is strained and the distant sounds of him stroking his cock echo in the background. 

“I’d climb on your lap and beg you to fuck me. Beg you to let me ride you”. 

Aemond groans. 

“And then?”

“I’d beg you to suck on my tits as I bounce up, ah-, and down”

You’re so close, forcefully letting your fingers push at your g-spot while the palm of your hand presses at your clit. You know he’s close too by the sounds of his breath hitching and the way he’s swearing under his breath, mumbling “I can’t wait to sink my cock into you”

Or the videos he had on his phone of you. God, did he keep those? You know his favourite had been the one where you’re seen kneeling in front of him, tongue sticking out of your mouth as he coats your face with his cum, asking you who you belong to, who’s little slut you are. 

“Only yours, Aemond. Always yours”

You shiver at the memory. Hopefully Alys had gone through his phone and deleted any and all trace of you. 

You do some vocal warm-ups with Helaena, restless nerves bubbling inside you as you wait backstage to soon enter the stage. 

Wiping some sweat from your palms onto the jeans you’re wearing, you internally remind yourself of the fact that you’d done an incredible show yesterday, and today would be just as good. 

You know that your band will deliver. You always do. Even Erryk, being a new addition, has proven to be a great drummer and teamplayer, possessing both the stamina and skills needed to thrive in Dragon Dreamers. 

You hear the crowd chanting, mood just as elevated as it had been the day before on Dragonstone. As you go over the set list for the night, Aemond suggests you start with ‘The Chain’, like you did yesterday, and end with his new song, ‘Go your own way’. 

Although you’d recorded backups for the song, you hadn’t listened to the entirety of it in the studio. 

Somewhere inside, you know that the song is about you. About the divorce. You remember singing, 

‘You can go your own way’

‘You can call it another lonely day’ 

Anxiety grows within you as you think of having to listen to the entire song. You’d put it off in the studio, never feeling mentally prepared to hear Aemond’s thoughts on how you’ve ‘wronged’ him. 

And now you’ll have to hear it for the first time in public. In front of an audience. 

You can do this.

Just breathe. In. Hold three seconds. Out. Hold three seconds. 

Your breathing is laboured, body vibrating from the excitement of performing. This truly is where you thrive; where you feel your best. 

Where you can contribute something to the world. 

Make people happy. 

You look down at the fans beaming up at you, howling in excitement as they demand another song. 

“Here’s a new song from our upcoming album”, Aemond starts, the crowd cheering louder. 

This is it. The anxiety you’d felt about hearing Aemond’s new song still buzzes within you, but you won’t let that hinder you from giving this song your all as well. You won’t let him intimidate you. 

The song is fast-paced, and Aemond’s fingers quickly pluck the strings of his guitar as he starts to sing, 

‘Loving you isn’t the right thing to do’

‘How can I ever change things that I feel?’

‘If I could, baby, I’d give you my world’

‘How can I when you won’t take it from me?’

He was so intent on playing the victim it was almost laughable. Ignoring his own wrong-doings; his part in your separation. He was suffering; left to bleed out from the knife you’d stabbed in his back. 

Fuck that. 

He’d driven you away with his obsessive behaviour and anger issues. But that was not the story he wanted to tell. 

‘You can go your own way’

‘Go your own way’

‘You can call it another lonely day’

‘Another lonely day’ 

As he sings his solo lines, Aemond stares you down. 

His seeing eye bores into you with a fire you’d hardly seen before. It’s a stark contrast from his damaged eye; the white mist covering it making it appear calm, almost gentle.

He’s found a way to yell at you in public, berating you for leaving him in front of the entire world, without causing a scene. That’s why he’d been so set on appearing civil with you around others. He wants to break you. 

‘Open up, everything’s waiting for you’

Just like yesterday, he sounds uncharacteristically passionate as he sings, much angrier than usual. He basically spits the words at you; ‘go your own way’, ‘everything’s waiting for you’

You can’t keep eye contact with him for long, his gaze too scorching. 

Why is he suddenly so intimidating? 

You try to remind yourself of the fact that you were married mere months ago. 

You know him. He’s still Aemond. Your Aemond.

Or is he? The man staring at you on stage feels far removed from the person you married two years ago. 

As Aemond starts to play his guitar solo, he leaves his microphone, furious eye never leaving you as he approaches you; more akin to a predator than a man. 

You hear the crowd cheer. 

He doesn’t have to look at his guitar as his skillful fingers effortlessly play the climatic guitar solo. He’s treating his instrument like he’s angry at it, harshly plucking at the strings in the most violent manner. He comes up to stand right by you, between you and the audience. You’re forced to face him. To meet his eye. 

The crowd cheers louder and louder. 

His expression is stoic, eye unblinking as he assaults the strings of his guitar. 

Never looking down. 

Only at you.

Thank you for reading!

[itsmemuffy]

I can make you feel better...

If you let me (chapter one)

Chapter Two out now ♡

Contents: Original Trilogy! Logan x fem reader, naive reader, obsessive and touch starved Logan, friends to lovers, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, non-sexual physical intimacy, sexual fantasies (real smut in pt. 2), mentions of Charles, Ororo, Jean, Scott and Rogue

Summary: You keep everything running as smooth as possible in the background while Professor Xavier keeps a very full plate of locating mutants, running the school, and leading the X-Men. A steady stream of mutants come and go through the mansion, but a certain one in particular makes it his mission to nestle his way into your life.

The past few days had been a whirlwind for Logan. He's the type of man that goes where he wants to go- and waking up in an infirmary on a small hospital cot after being round up like some sort of animal was not on his list of things to do that week, to say the least.

For all intents and purposes, his next plan of action was to get away from here as soon as he possibly could and get back to the life he lived on his own terms. His only home and form of transportation was totalled somewhere in the Alberta wilderness, sure, but he already had experience starting over from nothing.

Oh, but was one man ever persuasive: Charles Xavier. Not many people had an edge over Logan like he did. If his ego permitted, he would be thankful that the man that held upper hand had noble intentions.

When he first met you, a cute little thing diligently running errands to what was perhaps the one man who could have his answers, you immediately piqued Logan's interest. So sweet and so kind, and Charles put his trust in you?

He had barged in like he owned the place on you and the professor scheduling out the upcoming semester in his office. Charles appeared to have already gotten used to this type behavior from him. "This, my dear, is Logan. He will hopefully be joining us now."

Oh... so is he planning to stick around? You ponder as you bite the inside of your cheek, leaning onto Charles' desk with your hip. Logan immediately came off as brooding and dismissive, and he didn't seem like the type to settle into a place beaming with so much activity. Regardless, you extended your hand out to him as you told him your name.

It took him a second to register the gesture. He only now noticed how lost in thought he was, eyes caught below your neckline. With a clearing of his throat, Logan reached a hand back to you to shake it. The most formal of ways to greet someone, yet the feeling of your delicate fingers grasping his rough palm caused his mind to wander again. He forced himself back to reality.

"I guess I'll be seeing you around," Logan remained aloof in speech, hoping you didn't notice the way he devoured you with his gaze. He decided to promptly remove himself from the room, searching for the privacy to be alone with his thoughts.

A few interactions after your initial introduction, Logan started to feel something beyond sexual curiosity. You made his heart race, you made him nervous.

Not a single detail went unnoticed by Logan. The way your hips would sway, how you parted your hair, the shade of lipstick you wore, the softness in your voice whenever you greeted him, your scent.

Life kept throwing change in Logan's way, morphing his way of living into something unrecognizable to him. For the last however many years (boy, is he ever bad at keeping track of time) he had filled them with isolation and taking whatever cheap pleasures he could find. Now he finds himself surrendering the space in his mind to a woman he barely knew. You brought warmth and light into a cold, dark place.

No, this won't fly, he thought to himself. The fact that he was losing control over the dynamic between you made him very uncomfortable. Logan made it his mission to learn more about you. If he could just figure you out, he could take the reins over again.

The two of you would always acknowledge eachother in a group setting. The tiny smile Logan would throw your way whenever you caught eyes made you weak. You couldn't help but to want to know more about him, too. A rugged man who was a stranger not too long ago was showing you consideration? A man who nobody knows where he's been, what he's done, how old he is? It kind of wracked your brain, but you tried not to let it trip you up.

Oh, but he would catch you trip up. It wasn't lost on Logan the times you entered a space with him in it, seemingly to forget what you came in there for. Maybe you were a little ditzy- your mind often racing too fast that you couldn't catch up with yourself, but it had happened too many times for it to be a coincidence. At least, that's what he told himself.

He replicated your behavior, scouting you out amongst the mansion. It wasn't hard for him to find you. Your trail had become so much bolder to his senses, overshadowing anybody else that could be in vicinity.

Logan always found what he was looking for. Excuse after excuse slipped easily from his lips. Obvious to everyone else what he was doing, you earnestly took the bait every time without fail. He marked the first time he had a conversation with you alone as a significant victory.

"Hey, didn't see you there. Have you seen Charles around? I need to talk to him." He had cornered you in the library, watching you read for a minute or two before making his presence known.

You flinched up in your chair, "Jesus Logan, don't sneak up on me like that!" The yelp that initially left your lips was definitely a sound he would remember next time he's alone.

"Sorry, doll. Didn't mean to scare ya," he chuckled.

The upset you felt towards him for breaking your flow state lasted but half a second. You couldn't be mad. After all, whatever he needed Charles for must of been important.

"No, Jean and him are off chaperoning a field trip in the city. He should be back sometime this evening."

Logan let out a little "hmph", trying his best sound to sound disappointed. Inside he was estatic he finally caught up to you again. Now with no one else around, his mind flooded with possibilities on how this could go. The odds of you immediately throwing yourself at him weren't zero, were they? If he were to take you and bend you over the table right this very second, there was a possiblility you'd let him... right? God, am I really this desperate? he thought.

After letting a moment hang in the air, he sat down next to you in the ajacet seat. "So, what are you doing here all by yourself? Got nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon, huh?" Good idea, Logan, change the subject.

"You're one to talk," your focus was now one hundred percent on him. Thighs spread as he lazily leaned back in the chair, rolling his head to the side. To say he wasn't beautiful like this would be a lie. You've rarely seen him this relaxed. "Aren't you here too?"

"Huh." Logan did not anticipate you to call him out like that, "I guess you've got a point, there."

An awkward silence sat between the two of you. You pretended to divert your attention back to your book, not letting him escape the corner of your eye. Logan lit up a cigar he fished from his pocket. He desperately needed something to do with his hands.

"This is a library, you know that right?" You chide him after an annoyed sigh.

"Oh, is it now? I thought all these books were just for decoration." His lips sucked in another drag.

"Very expensive books, Logan. There's plenty of perfecly fine places to smoke around here if you just look."

He got up from his seat, "Then why don't you show me around, darlin'? Open my eyes a little." You couldn't quite tell if the pet name was to belittle you or to be affectionate. A hand reached out to bring you to stand. "I'll let you lead the way."

You lead him outside to the back of the mansion, a secluded area with an old stone bench shaded by the surrounding trees. It was your favorite place on the property, and it soon became his as well.

After that day, it wasn't an uncommon occurrence for the two of you to catch eachother in that very spot on a warm day. You would watch the kids play in the field, discussing all the antics the students got into that week. Bright afternoon sun would peak through the trees as cigar smoke wafted in the air- everything felt so perfect when you were with him.

Logan often found himself falling asleep thinking of you. He would linger on any time you spent together in the previous hours of the day, overanalyzing the interaction. Any amount he got of you was never enough. He always needed more. More time with you, more closeness, more, more, more.

If he was lucky, you would visit him in his dreams. It was rare but whenever it happened, it was a blessing. You would appear to him as vivid and real as if he was awake. There, he was finally able to close the gap between you two. His hands would finally meet every inch of your plush skin.

However, Logan's mind loved to torture him. As much as your companionship has brought him peace, no amount of feelings for you could change the fact that he was a broken man. Most nights consisted of horrific images; an incomprehensible collage of blood and bodies that he desperately tried to make sense of. All he knew is that it was all real. It happened. The pain was too prevalent to be fantasy.

Tonight he had awoke in terror yet again. A cold, uncomfortable sweat coated his body, chest heaving up and down like a piston. Logan's eyes were blown wide, staring at the ceiling in an attempt to convince himself he was safe in his room. When did four walls around you ever mean you were safe? His intrusive thoughts were keen on keeping him in a state of anxiety. When did four walls ever make someone safe from you?

That was enough. Logan knew all too well how his mind could go on and on like this if he let it. He needed to get some air. The bed creaked under his shifting weight as he sat up. His entire body felt sore. It was if he fought off an entire army in the hours he was asleep.

After finally getting up, he made his way past his bedroom door and down the hall towards the nearest exit. The kitchen was along that route. He figured he might as well grab something to drink. Anything, as long as it was cold.

As he turned the corner, the narrow hallway met the open space of the kitchen. Logan was surprised to find the room already illuminated with light. His eyes lit up when he saw who was sitting at the counter.

Logan stumbled before you a dishelveled mess. His hair was matted, sticking up every which way. The white tank he wore was half tucked into sweatpants he haphazardly put on before leaving his bedroom, drawstrings not even tied as they sat low on his hips. His demeanor was one of a wild animal, cautious and running on instinct.

A wave of awareness washed over Logan. He combed his fingers through his dark locks and straightened his back as he approached you further. Once he got himself to think in actual words again, he greeted you.

"Couldn't sleep either, huh?" His voice was hoarse and deep. Logan just now realized how sore his throat was. He hoped to god that he wasn't screaming in his slumber- at least not loud enough for anybody to hear.

"I just woke up not too long ago. Was hoping a snack would help me get back to sleep." You sat before a plate filled with a random assortment of food you scavenged from the cupboards, "Want some?"

"No thanks, sweetheart," the way he spoke sweetly to you through his gravelly tone made your heart skip a beat. He didn't need to ask to know that you had a rough night as well. It was written all over your face. A gentleness Logan typically pushed down and tried to ignore was bubbling to the surface. Something in him was relieved he was no longer alone with himself tonight.

You watch him make the journey past you to the fridge, scanning the contents of the shelves like it was the hardest decision he had to make in a long time. Rootbeer or ginger ale... Ginger ale or rootbeer...

"You didn't hear it from me, but Scott keeps a few beers in the vegetable drawer underneath the celery."

"That sneaky little bastard," he smirks. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me." Logan was delighted. Not only by the sudden promise of alcohol, but by the thought that you might share other secrets with him, too. He had a boyish urge to stay up the entire night with you and see if he could get you to spill all the other secrets you must have.

Two beers clanked together as Logan grasped them with a single hand. He took a seat across from you and slid a bottle over to your side of the countertop. Your eyes locked and held on to that contact for probably way too long. Time felt like it has stopped. The moment he walked into the kitchen and saw you, the clock might as well never ticked a single second past 1:37 AM.

"I don't know... Scott will probably notice if we take more than one," you say as you bite your lip.

"I'll run to the store in the morning, he won't even know they were gone," he was all too ready to combat your excuse. Logan wanted to see you come undone. You worked so hard, did everything you're told and were so diligent. Such a good girl. A beer in your hand looked terribly out of place and that made his heart swell.

"Guess it can't hurt, can it?" You opened the bottle and sipped as the frosty glass numbed the tips of your fingers.

He drank much slower than his usual pace, taking the tiniest of mouthfuls like the time with you would run out with the beer. Silence draped over the two of you like a warm blanket, both too exhausted to put on any sort of show to entertain the other. The satisfaction of just being in eachother's company was enough. It came all too easy when you were together. After witnessing all those horrors earlier in the night, Logan finally felt content.

You notice he rubs his neck, a strained noise rumbled in his chest. The stool you sat in screeches against the tile floor as you get up and make your way over to him on the other side of the island. Logan's eyes followed you with every step you took

"May I?" you ask as you now stand behind him, hands hovering over his shoulders, waiting for permission. It wasn't a big deal. You always help out Ororo and Jean when they have stiffness or a knot. That's what friends do for eachother, right?

Logan did his best to hide his signs of exitement. He couldn't let you know how often he thinks of your touch. If he had only one ounce less of pride, he would be begging you for the simplest of contact all hours of the day. "That's real sweet of you, but you really don't have to," he said with the slightest quiver in is voice.

"But I want to." That's it. Those four words just shattered him into a million pieces. If you only knew what you were doing to him.

Your digits grip the dip in his shoulder as your thumbs dig between his shoulder blades. You tried not to gasp when you felt the all knots going up his back. It has just occurred to you how little mind he must pay to taking care of himself for it to get this bad. Pain was a staple of his everyday life, why waste time to try and remedy it? Despite the ability to heal, the constant state of tension still took an immense toll on his body.

Logan leaned into your touch and practically melted under your fingers as he tentatively sipped his beer. If he were to turn around and look at your face, he'd see your complexion flushed bright red. Maybe you were enjoying this a little too much, and you chastised yourself for thinking that way. Little did you know all the scandalous thoughts Logan let his mind run away with on a daily basis when he was around you.

Your hands quickly grew weary working into the solid muscle, but you pushed through it for him. You know he needed this by the way his eyes were now closed and soft hums that left his lips. After working across his shoulders, you finally made your way to his neck. Logan let his head fall forward completely as your knuckles broke up the bundled-up nerves beneath his skin. The tightness in him was able to come loose a bit for the first time in a long, long time.

"Whew," you withdrew your hands and shook them out, "hopefully it feels a bit better now."

"It does," a smile crept up on his face that he tried to supress with each word. "That really was somethin', thank you."

You sat back down across from him and remained mostly silent after that apart from the occasional yawn. A single beer not quite enough to offer a buzz, but enough to lull you out of your wired state.

"Think I'm going to call it a night. You should, too. Danger room is on the itinerary first thing in the morning."

"Yeah, well you can tell Charles where to stick his itinerary." Logan was determined to make you smile one last time before you parted ways- and he succeeded.

He walked behind you on your way back down the hall, wishing the journey was not as quick as it was. Your room came up a few doors before his. Logan almost followed you into your bedroom before he shook himself out of auto pilot. It was like a habit that hadn't been formed yet. He belonged next to you in that bed, he knew because he felt it in every fibre of his being.

"Goodnight, Logan. Sleep well."

"I definetly will now. Goodnight, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. There it was again. You convince yourself it couldn't of meant anything.

When you gently shut the door behind you, time had resumed yet again. That little bubble wherein only the two of you existed had been popped.

He lied about going back to sleep, holding on to the delusion that he didn't need it. Besides, he didn't want to say goodbye to your essence. You still filled his senses, if only just barely. A deep inhale could capture your scent, and your breathing could faintly be heard if he really listened. Logan stood outside your door until the sun started to rise before he snuck back into his room.

He never ended up replacing Scott's beers.

As time went by, your encounters with eachother became more and more frequent. Excuses to talk were no longer required. You enjoyed Logan's company, as he did yours. There was no reason to pretend, you were just two friends growing closer by the day.

You gradually opened up to one another and Logan started to confide in you. Any insight on himself or his past was kept brief, giving carefully worded and vague details. You knew better than to push him for more than he was wiling to give and he liked that about you. Whenever the confusion, the regret, or the pain would get too much, he turned the conversation back to you. The more he learned about you as a person, the more his mind circled all his thoughts back to you.

Neither side knew, however, what things the other was keeping to themselves. You couldn't tell him how the casual touches felt different from him than how it felt with your other male friends. You couldn't tell him how hard it was to think when you would run into him all sweaty after an intense training session. You couldn't tell him that when you held onto your pillow at night, you wish it had his warmth.

And he couldn't tell you that you were the first thing he thought of in the morning. He couldn't tell you how he had a favorite pair of jeans that your ass looked best in. He couldn't tell you that he committed every detail about you to memory- from the curve of your lips to the way you say his name.

Anyone who saw the way Logan looked at you could deduce there was something more going on beneath the surface. Scott would tease him about it and he would swiftly shut it down. Jean and Ororo would pry you for details, only for you to tell them there was nothing going on between you and him. They didn't buy it. No one bought it.

All the words unsaid eventually built up so high it was suffocating. It was getting harder and harder to behave like normal around eachother, not knowing where the boundaries were and if it was okay to cross them. Something had to give.

It started out as a regular Friday evening with the team gathered together, watching movies and playing cards. Your initial plan was to work late into the night. Small, tedious tasks has accumulated as you had focused on more pressing matters throughout the week. Charles was having the X-Men find mutants at a pace more efficient than ever before which corresponded with an increased workload on your front.

You were leaving in the morning on a trip for the long weekend and you were determined to finish everything before you left. Ororo was always the one to break you out of your paperwork prison and get you to live a little. "Come on, everyone's waiting for you to come down before we put on the next movie."

"Storm, if I don't do this now, it will never get done."

"Oh, please. You worked so hard all week. Everything here can wait until you get back," your friend watches you as you roll your eyes and continue sorting files. Good thing she had a little trick up her sleeve, "...and Logan wants to see you before you leave."

"He said that...?" you inquire in an almost pathetic manner. She nodded but truthfully, he didn't have say it. She knew it was true all the same.

After dragging you downstairs you scanned the common room, everyone talking amongst themselves with a glass in hand. Everyone except Logan. Ororo had pulled a similar scheme to get him to come out of his self isolation, but when he saw you weren't there earlier, he decided to skip the socializing and retire to his room.

Jean, ever the fast thinker, was in on the plan, "Hey, we were thinking about ordering takeout. Can you do me a favor and see if Logan wants anything?" She hands you a menu knowing you wouldn't pass up a chance to be helpful to a friend.

Logan sat in darkness on the edge of his bed, rubbing his temples and groaning. He truly didn't mean to blow everybody else off. In actuality, he enjoyed shooting the shit with the mutants he was slowly starting to recognize as his family. Tonight was different, however.

Frustration was pushing him to his limit. He still wasn't any closer to finding the missing pieces to his puzzle. Charles told him these kind of things take time. He was sick of hearing that, he needed answers now. His sanity depended on it.

Only one thing was certain- another person had done this to him. There was no doubt the wiping of his memories was a deliberate effort on somebody's part. That wasn't the only thing. The recurring visions of being horrified at his own self, the sickening realization he was changed into something he hadn't been before haunted him on the daily. Is my body really my own?

All of this made worse by the multiple birthdays of a couple of students this past month. Simple things everyone knew about themselves- when and where they were born- was a luxury he was not afforded. Logan felt himself slipping, the feelings that were out of his control eating away at him.

A knock at the door stopped his thoughts in its tracks. "Logan? You there?" Only but a half hour earlier, you were the only person he wanted to see. But now that he has succumbed further down his spiral of self pity in that short amount of time, he didn't want you to see him like this.

"What do you want?" His uncharacteristically cold tone made you wince behind the door. As much as he needed you to pull him out of the hole he dug for himself, the dark recesses of his mind were commanding him to push you away.

"We're ordering takeout. Jean needs to know if you want anything."

"I'm not hungry." He was silently begging for you to walk away before he said something he would regret.

"Can I please come in?" You pleaded, hoping he'd recognize the worry in your voice. This wasn't like him.

"Fine," he grumbled. At the end of the day, Logan could never say no to you.

The door squeaked as you inched it open. You could barely make out his silhouette in the dark. With a flick of a switch, the space was illuminated. "Is everything alright, Lo? You're scaring me."

Careful footsteps slowly brought you to stand before him. The air in the room was undoubtedly charged. Every action you now took was deliberate, as if trying not to startle a feral animal.

"You wouldn't be the first person that's ever been scared of me," he spat out his words like daggers.

As serious as the conversation felt, you couldn't help a scoff from escaping you. You sat down next to him on the bed mere inches apart, "that's not what I mean and you know it. Stop being so obtuse and tell me what's going on."

"Nothing is going on, believe me," Logan sighed. His demeanor immediately softened just from having you close. He buried his face in his palm- an insecure gesture you've rarely seem him perform. But when he did, you knew exactly what it meant.

"Bullshit. I know you better than this, Logan." Maybe you were getting through to him.

Something about what you said must have struck him the wrong way as he tensed back up again. "You don't know me at all, actually."

"How can you say that? We see eachother almost every single day! Come on, now... You can't be serious," you playfully nudge his knee against your own, trying to lighten the mood.

"No, I am serious. How can you know me when I don't even know myself? You don't know what I've done and how many people I've had to do it to. I don't even know any of the fucking details but I know it ain't anything good, sweetheart." He watched outside himself as he was taking his inner frustration out on you.

Logan knew it wasn't right to speak to you this way when you were just trying to be there for him. As much as it stung in the moment, you tried not to take it personally. He was hurt and he needed you, that much was clear.

"Listen to me for just one second," you braced yourself, unsure how he would take what you were about to say. "I know what kind of man you are. And I don't need to know your entire damn history to be certain of that."

All he could do was stare blankly at your face as he processed your words. Without waiting for a response you continued, "How can I be so sure? Because I see it in everything you do, Logan. It's in the way you treat Rogue and the other kids, treat your teammates, treat me. I can't tell you that you've never had to hurt anyone, but you know what? I have faith in you. Faith that whatever may have happened in your past, you've learned from and are a better man for it."

A long period of silence sat between you. It wasn't exactly a comfortable silence, but the charge in the air had definetly diffused. You held his stare, now was not the time to back down. There was a chance you were finally getting through to him and you needed to make it clear you meant every word that you just said.

After a prolonged moment to properly think about what you were saying to him, the look on his face transformed into something you couldn't quite put your finger on. A look that was warm, and you could go as far to say it was a look that was loving.

Logan did indeed love you. He loved the way you didn't try to tame him, how you not only didn't shy away from the less savory aspects of his life- you met them head on with tenderness and understanding.

With this love came great guilt. You had a way of making Logan feel like the world had more to offer than just loss and suffering, for this he was grateful. Still, the feeling he deserved to suffer alone gnawed at him until his gut felt raw. If he were to send for you everytime he needed you, you would be a way busier woman than you already were. The fact that you always made time for him without the semblance of hesitation wasn't lost on him, either.

"How are you so sweet?" he croons as he caressed your cheek with the back of his hand. Logan was always gentle with his touch when it came to you, but the softness of his actions in this moment shocked even yourself. "You're too sweet for me, darlin'. Wouldn't want anything to change that."

It almost made you sick to your stomach how just barely your bodies were connected in this moment. He kept his touch as light as a feather as he trailed his hand down your neck before it made it's temporary home on your shoulder. "Say something, sweetheart," he pleaded as a firm squeeze brought you back to reality. Logan needed more of your words to keep him grounded. "Please."

"Logan, I..." your brain scrambled as you tried to gather your thoughts. The way you felt for him was so foreign to you. You couldn't put it into words right now no matter how badly you wanted to. This feeling could only properly be put into actions- an action older than language itself.

Without thinking, you close the gap and press your lips to his- Logan's bottom lip captured between your own. In his wildest dreams, he never thought you would be the one to make the first move and initiate a kiss. The hand that wasn't on your shoulder now cupped your face. He held you there, afraid you'd slip away from him.

"I'm sorry... I know it probably isn't the right time for this," you whispered against his lips.

"Mmm," Logan emitted a small chuckle into your mouth as he went in for a deeper kiss this time. More intense, hungry. His beard burned deliciously when it scuffed your skin. "Never a wrong time to kiss ya, sweet girl."

Now that he has felt your velvety soft lips, he knew he would never be able to get enough. His desire for you overrided his shame. Logan got a taste of what it would be like if you were his. From this point on, he wouldn't be able to hold back anymore. The floodgates were now open and he couldn't wait to pour himself all over you.

He pulled his face away from yours, still holding your body close, "all this just for you to leave in the morning, huh?" Logan looked down at you through half-lidded eyes. His mind was in a daze, in such bliss now that the invisible barriers between you were finally being torn down.

"Oh please, I'll only be gone for a few days." Even though the trip you were about to go on was a long time coming, you wouldn't mind throwing all your plans away just to be in Logan's arms all weekend. "Why, you gonna miss me that bad?"

"I always miss my girl when she's gone," he couldn't help all the syrupy words from flowing from his mouth. Inhibitions were nonexistent to Logan in this moment and he couldn't say anything but exactly what was on his mind.

He was right. You were his girl. In every sense of the word. His girl whose face would light up everytime he walked into a room. His girl who would save him a plate whenever he was late to dinner. His girl who would always make sure he was comfortable and had everything he needed. His girl who would do absolutely anything for him- all he had to do was ask. Logan had owned your heart for a while now.

You fiddle with the seams at the bottom of his tank, fingers brushing his abdomen underneath. It was enough to make you both shiver. "Just do me a favor while I'm away, Lo."

Jesus, how his pulse quickened everytime you called that little nickname. I'm so fucked, he thought. What a fool he was to think he was ever in control. Since the moment the two of you met, his heart belonged to you as well. "And what is that you need me to do?"

"Try not to be so hard on yourself," you punctuate your request with a chaste kiss to the apple of his cheek. You felt his face lift as a smile reached his eyes. "Shit... I haven't even finished packing," it has just now dawned on you.

The realization he couldn't keep you next to him in bed forever hit him like a brick- another bubble popped. It's a shame, but he told himself there will be plently of opportunities to conjure up the little worlds you built together. He had no other option but to placate his burning desire for the time being.

"Well, don't let me keep you any longer," Logan hesitatantly let go of his grip on you. He got up to escort you the few steps from the bed to the door. Excessive, yes. But so necessary all the same.

Just as your hand was reaching to turn the handle, turned your back to the door to embrace him. It took your entire wingspan to wrap your arms around his broad form. Logan's warmth was absolutely addictive. He held on to the back of your head with his face buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent.

"Just in case I don't catch you first thing in the morning..." you whispered as you caress up and down his back, "goodbye, Lo."

"Goodbye, sweetheart," he withdraws from his burrow within your hair to slip his lips between yours again. "Think of me while you're gone, will ya?"

"Always do."

And with that, you were apart again. As you were folding clothes to go into your suitcase, you couldn't help but think about how well the two of you clicked into place. He already had you longing to feel his body up against your own again. You fell asleep imagining all the places you'd let his hands explore when you got back. Logan laid in his bed doing the same.

Fin.

[hoonieyun]

a lovesick girl's guide to heartbreak

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ fuckboy!sunghoon x reader ladies and gentleman, i present to you: the ex... summary: you knew that getting with sunghoon meant playing with fire and after ignoring all of the red flags and stories you heard about him, you decided to play into his trap anyways.

warnings: profanity, kissing, implied hookup but nothing explicit, suggestive, drinking and partying, sunghoon is a manipulator, naive!reader, cheating?? kinda, 18+ not proofread lol! wc: 3551

being the new girl wasn’t something new to you. your parents constantly moved around because of their job so there wasn’t ever a permanent place you could call home. just in your first year of high school you had moved three times before you dad was able to settle in a small town until you graduated. 

you were now attending college as freshman and for the first time, the decision of where you’d end up wasn’t up to your parent’s employers. a sense of freedom that you hadn’t tasted before and although it brought a lot of uncertainty, you were excited for this next chapter of your life where you’d be able to live on your terms and not those of others. 

finding friends has always been tough for you because you weren’t ever in one place long enough to develop friendship, so making friends was something you really wanted to prioritize now that you were in university. luckily, you were able to make friends with some girls in your morning literature class that have been so king to welcoming you into their little group. 

they had invited you to a party tonight that one of the frats were throwing, something about a homecoming for the first month of school, you weren’t 100% sure what this party was going to be like, but you were excited to have gotten invited to you very first one. you would be getting ready at one of the girl’s apartments and as the day went on; the only thing you could think about was this party. 

you’ve never been to a party before, let alone a college frat party, so saying you were nervous was an understatement. what if no one likes you? what if the girls leave you alone? what if something dangerous happens? 

so many questions were running through your mind, “yn? you ok, girl?” winter asks, taking you out of your deep thought as she does your makeup, brushing on some blush onto your cheeks. you give her a nod with a small smile, one convincing enough to prevent her from asking anymore questions; “ok, go get dressed and i’ll put on your mascara and do your lips!” she says, slightly patting you on the bottom as you get up to go to her bathroom. 

karina was looking at herself in the mirror as you walked by her while ningning and giselle were on the other side of the room, ningning curling giselle’s hair. you close the door gently behind you as you walk into winter’s bathroom, taking in all of the pink accessories and items from her toothbrush to the cotton swabs sitting in a jar on the counter of the bathroom sink. 

you had chosen a simple outfit, a pair of jeans and a crop top; although you didn’t show much skin; this was probably the most skin you’ve shown as your midriff and collarbones were on display. you admired how you looked in the mirror briefly before winter knocks on the door, asking you to come out so she can see how you look. 

“well?” you asked as you opened the door and the girls just tilt their in response, “what? do i look bad?” you ask, a pout settling on your lips. the girls instantly shake their head, telling you that you were beautiful but encouraged you to explore a bit out of your comfort zone with your outfit. you then realized that all of the girls were in skirts or minidresses so you did look a bit out of place. 

“i don’t really have dresses or skirts..” you muttered, winter grabs your wrist to bring you to your closet; taking outfits out of the closet one by one, placing it in front of you to see how it would look; karina, ningning, and giselle shaking their head at each one until she pulled out an asymmetrical lavendar dress that stopped halfway up your thigh with cutouts at your waist. you looked shocked as everyone nodded in agreement that it would look perfect on you and although you wanted to disagree; you didn’t want to disappoint your new friends so you reluctantly grabbed the hanger from winter and walked back into her bathroom. 

the dress hugged your body in just the right places and although you found yourself looking unfamiliar in the mirror; there was a sense of confidence that was building inside of you; like the girl looking at you in the mirror wasn’t anyone that you knew and it made you feel good. 

“you look hot, bitch” ningning says when you walk out and all of you laugh at her comment. winter also lets you borrow some heels for the night as you originally brought sneakers; which now doesn’t go with your outfit at all. 

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

the drive to the party wasn’t long but you ran into a bit of traffic as it seemed the road was congested with other driver’s who all had the same destination as you and your friends. “okay, yn. let’s go over some things..” karina says as you all sit in traffic. 

“there are probably going to be some guys that are going to hit on you tonight; i know that for a fact because you look hot as hell– and because you’re new they’re going to want a piece of you; but don’t be scared we’ll make sure you don’t end up with any loser guy tonight.. or girl?” karina asks and you just laugh, telling her that you weren’t looking for a guy to go home with. 

“who knows though, the night is young.” giselle adds. 

“the guys you need to watch out for are: 

jake; he has a girl who isn’t his girl. they’re just fuckbuddies but they love acting like a couple until it’s time to actually be a couple. 

jay; serial dater and serial cheater. stay away at all costs, super cute though.

heeseung; he and his girl just broke up so he’s probably going to be looking for a rebound; don’t let it be you because he’s likely going to go back to her anyways. 

and then there’s sunghoon; he’s known as your campus’ fuckboy, heartbreaker, and all of this cliche’s about a playboy. just stay away from him he’s a walking red flag.” 

winter and karina had given you the rundown about these boys and although you probably weren’t going to be seeing any of them, it was nice to know who to stay away from. only thing was, you didn’t know how any of them looked. 

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

its been about an hour into the party when you’ve realized that your friends were nowhere to be found. you’ve had a few drinks that the girls offered you and as you finished your third drink, none of them were by your side anymore. naturally, you’ve would’ve began to worry and panic, but with the help of the alcohol; it was easy to not spiral. 

you ventured around the unfamiliar house, weaving through countless bodies, some you realized from campus and many others that you don’t. you received several compliments on how you looked, many guys looking you up and down with a lust in their eyes while very kind and sweet girls would give you compliments like you had known one another for a long time. it was nice to be social and have fun without having to worry that you’d never see these people again with the fear you had to move away. 

“are you lost, angel?” a voice asks from behind. you turn towards the voice’s direction and a tall boy with dark eyebrows and strong features is staring down at you from a few steps on the stairs. you were stunned by his beauty. he was definitely handsome but not in the way you found traditionally. it was a type of handsome that people wrote poems about or would yearn for years on end. 

“you ok?” he adds when you don’t answer right away. 

“uhm.. yeah. i’m fine.” you mutter and he chuckles at your response. walking down the stairs to stand to you a bit closer; getting very close to your face as he speaks into your ears, “are you sure? i can help you if you’re lost, angel.” he adds and although the music is loud, his voice rings clearly in your ears. 

sending shivers down your spine. 

your voice falters when you try to come up with a response and when you’re about to respond, the mysterious boy grabs your wrist and drags you somewhere, not even fighting him off as his face alone had you complying, feet following behind him as he drags you to a quieter part of the house. 

“what’s your name, angel?” he asks, his hand letting go of your wrist and moving towards your face, tucking strands of hair behind your ear. 

he’s walking around the room when you respond, observing random stuff and tousseling his own hair after he had just fixed yours. “pretty name for a pretty girl.” he adds, a warmth growing at the lower part of your stomach when the compliment leaves his lips. your phone starts ringing but you’re too lost in his eyes to even notice your phone blowing up in your purse. 

“you going to get that, angel?” he asks, blinking several times when you realize your phone is ringing. 

“i’ll get it later.” you tell him, switching the ringer off on your phone so it wouldn’t interrupt you. “so, do i get your name?” you ask him and he chuckles, looking down at the carpet as if it was the most interesting thing in the room– but all he had in his mind was you. 

“sunghoon.” he says and your smile slightly falters. 

his name seemed familiar but you couldn’t tell why. maybe he was in one of your classes? or you had run into each other at some point, but the alcohol in your system was preventing you from remembering why sunghoon seemed familiar. 

you send the girls a quick text to let them know you’re okay and had ended up finding a boy and that you’d let them know when you got home the next day; to which they responded with praise and cheers, congratulating you for finding a little boytoy for the night. you laughed off their responses and averted your reaction back to sunghoon when he grabs your phone from your hand while his other hand reaches for your chin, raising your head to look up at him. 

“are you done, yet?” he asks, a pout on his lips as he tries to get your attention back to him. you roll your eyes teasingly and nod, letting him take your phone, watching him as he places it on the nightstand. 

“so, tell me about yourself?” sunghoon asks, hands trailing down to yours as he brings you over to the bed in the room. “should we be in this room?” you ask, looking around and once again sunghoon’s hand finds its way to your face, moving it so you’re looking at him once again. 

“it’s my room.” he says, eyes glued to your lips. 

you spend the rest of the night in sunghoon’s arms, learning about one another as the two of you laid in his bed. this was the most intimate thing you’ve ever done and you’re constantly surprising yourself as you do things you’ve never done before. 

needless to say, the night ended with another first experience for you; sunghoon making sure that you were comfortable the whole time, whispering sweet things into your ears as the two of you tenderly explored one another. 

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

that night led to several other nights that were very similar, spending time in each other’s arms on sunghoon’s bed. eventually he asked you to be his girlfriend which came as a shock to anyone who knew sunghoon because he didn’t do relationships. 

he loved women so much and loved chasing after the perfect girl even more. 

but then he found you and everything changed. sunghoon asked you to be his girlfriend and everything was looking brighter and brighter with him by your side. you didn’t know why your friends had described sunghoon the way they did because he was the furthest from it. he was nothing but sweet and loving to you and you were grateful that you didn’t let the unfamiliarity of sunghoon lead you to leaving that night. 

everything was going so well, until it wasn’t. 

sunghoon had become a bit distant, he was constantly busy without explaining further, and had cancelled on several dates. it was like the honeymoon phase lasted about two seconds before things were starting to get rocky. 

you’ve sent sunghoon several texts about tonight, his frat was throwing a party after the football team had one their game but he hasn’t responded. he was supposed to be your ride and as your boyfriend; that was expected of him. when you don’t hear from sunghoon for a half hour, you send karina a text to see if she’s going, asking her for a ride and telling her about the situation. 

she picks you up on her way to the party and giving you advice on what she thinks of the situation, which doesn’t soothe your worries as she only reiterates what she and the other girls had said in the past. sunghoon was a fuck boy and he’d always be one. 

“i don’t want to hurt your feelings but his behavior isn’t excusable and i think he’s going to hurt you, yn..” karina says, voice getting quieter as the sentence goes on. you couldn’t be upset at her because she was only giving you the advice you had asked for. 

all you could do was hope that none of it would be true. 

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

the party was filled with way more people than usual, you figured it was because the football team had a very successful run this season and more people wanted to celebrate from several other univerities in the area. 

you expected for the party to be very lively with people drinking, dancing, and mingling; but what you didn’t expect was to see sunghoon leaning on one of the doorways talking with a girl that you didn’t know. you were thinking that maybe he was just talking to her but that was until his hand made its way to her chin, shifting her face so that she was looking at sunghoon. 

you knew that motion all too well. 

karina is witnessing all of this at the same time as you and before she’s able to say something, you’re storming towards sunghoon and ripping your hand off of this girl’s face. 

“are you fucking serious?” you don’t know where this ferocity came from, your usual calm and quiet demeanor had been shattered and you only felt fire as sunghoon’s eyes widen at the shock of seeing you there as if he didn’t know you’d be there, completing forgetting he was supposed to be the one you went with. 

it was like the roles had reversed compared to that first night as you two stood at the bottom of the same stairwell you first met. sunghoon stuttered as he struggled to come up with a response while you boldly spoke to him. 

“is this why you weren’t fucking answering me? because you’re busy talking to some girl you can’t respond to your girlfriend?” your words spewing out of your mouth with bitterness as you threw them at sunghoon like daggers. the girl he was previously with had walked away, feeling awkward that she was just standing there; watching you yell at sunghoon. 

“we’re done.” you say, leaning into sunghoon’s face so he could hear you clearly and when you try to walk away, sunghoon is grasping onto your wrist and dragging you to his room upstairs. 

the parallels of the first night with the current one were almost identical as you willingly followed him up to his room, all the alarms ringing in your head that you shouldn’t but when the door shuts closed; you know it’s a bit too late to listen to those thoughts in your head. 

you walk into his room with a huff, crossing your arms in annoyance at what just occurred downstairs in front of all of those people. sunghoon turns around slowly, afraid what he’ll meet as he looks at you. “angel, come on..” sunghoon says, trying to butter you up and erase what happened from your mind, but none of it works. 

when sunghoon tries to grab your hand, you snatch it away. 

when he calls you “angel”, you scoff. 

when he tries to explain that it’s not what it looked like, you roll your eyes. 

you didn’t want to hear any of it because you saw it with your own two eyes. not only was sunghoon flirting with some random girl that way he had done to you some months ago, he had abondoned you to commit this unfaithful actions. 

his words start sounding like ringing in your ears the longer he’s rambling and your eyes begin to twitch as he begs you to believe him. “i don’t want to see your face. ever. again.” was all you said, punching the last two words for emphasis. sunghoon was stunned at your sudden change in demeanor. 

where did his sweet angel go? 

all he could see was anger in your eyes as you pushed past him, walking out of his bedroom and out of his life. 

only for you to find yourself back in his bed some weeks later. 

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

it seemed that none of it worked, all the arguments that led to you crying and running out of his room only led you back to the same place in the end. wrapped in sunghoon’s arms as he tells you that you’re the only girl in his life, even when you knew that wasn’t true. 

you thought that you could stand your ground that night when you saw him with that girl, but it only deepened the hole that was in your heart as you felt like you couldn’t find anyone else to love you the way sunghoon did.. and he’d even tell you this to remind you. 

no one else will love you like i do. 

i’m the only one who gets you. 

i love you more than anything. 

and the longer you stayed, the more you believed it. 

it was like every time you told him that you never wanted to see him again, and that you were done with him, and you were moving on, sunghoon knew you were just bluffing. he’d pull you in closer, lips grazing your ear as he whispers everything you needed to her to stay, and you’d do just that. 

stay. 

even when you’d find a way to walk away from sunghoon, he knew exactly what to do to stay in your head like a lingering thought. he’d drop a small thought into your head that he knew you’d cling onto like your life depended on it. 

i’ll always be here for you. 

just think about it, ok angel? 

i’d never hurt you. 

i’ll change just for you. 

so many empty and baseless lies that he’d tell you just so you could come back. 

and you did each time because you wanted to believe him every time– but he didn’t.

“baby.. don’t act like this, c’mon.” sunghoon pleas, holding onto your hands as he kisses your knuckles, looking up at your angered face when you attempted to leave. you were annoyed because he overslept and forgot to pick you up from work; so you took an uber to the frat house and tried to cuss him out. 

you were so aggravated and you wanted nothing more to be angry at him but his usual advances were working. you think you’d be immune to them by not but the constant uncertainty in your life in the past caused you to fear that you’d never have anything as familiar as sunghoon. 

“sunghoon.. i can’t..” your voice trembling and sunghoon’s expression shifts when he realizes you’re crying. he doesn’t know what to do because he didn’t think he’d ever get this far with anyone. 

sunghoon was a fuckboy and he knew that. he loved women, he loved chasing women, and he loved having a girl by his side. the one thing he loved more?

having his angel, you, by his side. 

he didn’t really knoew if he loved you, but he loved having you. he loved to see that every time you tried to pull away from him, you’d come crawling right back. he loved that you tried your best to resist him but would always melt into him with a few simple words that only held weight with you and not him. 

“you’re mine, ok? and i’ll be yours, forever.” sunghoon says, standing up and towering over you. your eyes looking up at him with tears still coating your cheeks. sunghoon gently cups your face, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, as he smiles down at you. 

“my beautiful angel.” sunghoon whispers, pulling you closer into his arms, never wanting to let you go. 

"toxic till' the end" rosé the usage of song lyrics is credited to the artist above

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all writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned.

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[andvys]

Dancing with our hands tied | S.H.

Chapter twenty ⭐︎ Tell me it's love, tell me it's real

Warnings: 18+ minors don't interact! slight angst, only a tiny bit of sadness, fluff, lots and lots of fluff, mentions of loss and death, smut, pool sex, unprotected sex, mentions of unrequited feelings

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: You and Steve get lost in your own little world, a delusion in which you both have what you want, if only you knew how to talk, how to communicate.

Word count: 11.6k+

Author's note: @hellfire--cult we've been talking about this moment since February and now we're here aaahhhh! thanks for helping me and for putting the smut idea in my head, it's been living rent free in there for the past few months, thanks for writing with me hehe ily

Series Masterlist ⭐︎ Previous Chapter

♡

Steve was dying of boredom. Mrs. Click’s voice sounded through the room that was filled with other bored students, the girl next to him that he never bothered to learn the name of was chewing her gum obnoxiously as she was sketching in her notebook, she smelled like weed and a strong perfume, it was giving him a headache. 

He looked at the clock and sighed, forty minutes to go… 

He couldn’t wait for the bell to ring and go home, watch a movie and eat the pasta his mom made the night before. 

Steve leaned back and tapped his fingers against the book he didn’t even bother to open when Mrs. Click told everyone to flip to page 137. He looked to his left, at the girl sitting by the window, listening attentively and taking notes the way he should have been doing too. 

Just the sight of you angered him and he didn’t even know why, but something in his chest burned every time he looked at you and it frustrated him to no end. And yet, he never stopped himself from looking, from taking in the sight of you and how soft your skin looked, how pretty your eyes were, how nice your clothes fit you and how stunning you always were, even when you ditched your pretty dress for sweaters and jeans on some days. 

Today wasn’t one of those days, you were wearing a skirt, a short one that rode up on your thighs, it made his eyes spark with interest, it made him look closer at you, he sat up straighter and leaned his elbows on the table. 

Your eyebrows were scrunched together, your glossy lips puckered, your eyelashes kissed your skin every time you blinked, your hair laid so prettily on your shoulder, curled at the ends, he wondered how much time you spent on it, did you sleep with rollers in your hair? Or did you get up early just to style it? 

Your skin was glowing and he swore that he could smell your sweet perfume even from a distance. Every time you passed him, he breathed in your scent and made the burning in his chest feel worse than before but he couldn’t help it, you smelled so good. 

He kept staring at you and questions started running through his mind. 

Why do you have to be so beautiful?

Why do you have such pretty lashes?

Why do you bite your lip like that?

Why does his heart beat so weirdly every time he sees you?

It’s not fair, it’s bullshit. 

Your eyes, your smile, your hair, your lips, your pretty face, your stupid rings, your scent, your beauty… it’s not fair. 

Your presence always made him huff in irritation and yet, he never bothered to look the other way or avoid you. 

He always stared, every chance he got, he stared, just like now. 

But then, you turned your head and your eyes locked with his, you caught him staring and it made his cheeks heat up. He shifted in his seat as you gave him a look of confusion, your puckered lips turning downwards, your eyebrows scrunching together even more. 

He should’ve looked away and pretended like nothing happened but he didn’t, he raised his brows at you and curled his lips into a smirk, an action that made you roll your eyes before you turned back to your notebook. 

He almost felt disappointed at the loss of your attention, but then you flipped a page and leaned closer to the table, you quickly scribbled something into your notebook, it made him curious and it made him crane his neck a little but he couldn’t see what you were writing. You then ripped the paper out and folded it, you looked at Mrs. Click before you turned back to him and threw the note on his table without giving him as much of a glance. 

Something in his chest stirred as he picked it up, still looking at you before he gave his full attention to the paper in his hand, he unfolded it and furrowed his brows as he looked at your pretty handwriting before he even read what you wrote. 

What are you looking at perv?

Steve almost laughed, he didn’t expect anything else from you. He shook his head and smirked as he folded the note back together and threw it in his pencil case. He ripped off a piece of paper from his own notebook and started writing without thinking. 

You.

A simple ‘you’, that’s all. He wanted to see how you would react, what you would say back, if you would take it as a chance to flirt with the King, if you would use the opportunity any other girl would use. 

He looked around and ignored the curious looks from Tommy as he threw the note on your table, it landed right in front of you and you wasted no time unfolding it, you looked over your shoulder at him, a deadpan look on your pretty face. You sighed and turned back. 

Steve straightened in his seat, he pressed his lips together as he watched you and the way you held your breath, the way you stared at the paper for a moment, tensely and then, you huffed and crumbled up the piece of paper and threw it in your case just the way he did. You started writing hastily and made him more curious when you stopped for a second before you continued. 

His heart jumped when he got the second note, just like the first time, he quickly unfolded it and read it with excitement bubbling in his chest. 

Very funny, are you running out of girls to flirt with, King Steve?

Of course you would not take the bait and give into his curiosity but he found himself craving for more, you sparked his interest, so he picked up the pen again. 

What makes you think I’m flirting with you, Blondie? Maybe I just like looking at you. 

He should have seen the way you halted your breath, the way you stared at the note a little longer than you did at the last one.

And here I thought you only like to look at yourself…

He snorted at that and earned a pointed look from Mrs. Click, he instantly straightened his back and pretended to listen to her, scared of getting caught, he didn’t want this to end just yet. A sigh of relief fell from his lips once she turned her attention back to the book in front of her. 

No, I quite like looking at the skirt you’re wearing today

Steve swore that you grew flustered at this note, you even glanced down at the skirt and took a few deep breaths before you wrote back to him. 

Like I said… perv. 

His shoulders slumped and he sighed. A part of him was amused, the other… not so much but before he could write back, the bell rang and everyone around him started gathering their stuff and hurrying to leave the classroom, including you. You picked up your notebook and got up, you smoothed down your skirt and left without sparing him a single glance. 

But Steve wanted more. He gathered his things and jumped up, not bothering to wait for Tommy, he hurried after you and watched the way your skirt swayed and your hair bounced. He licked his lips and cleared his throat as he caught up to you, he glanced down at you with a cocky smirk on his face, one that made you roll your eyes again. 

“What do you want, perv?”

He chuckled and shook his head. 

“I’m not a perv.”

“You’re not?” You tilted your head at him, cutely. “Then why are you staring at my skirt and making comments about it?”

He shrugged and looked down at it before his eyes moved up your body, “maybe I just really like it.” 

You rolled your eyes again and laughed – a sound that made him feel something in his stomach. 

“I fear you can’t borrow it, it won’t even fit around your big square head.” 

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes and yet, he couldn’t even help but snort at your insult, they were so very different from the ones he threw at you sometimes.  

“My head isn’t square…”

“Yes it is,” you giggled and gave him a smirk as you eyed him. 

Evil. 

“You look like a lego figure, you have a lego head.” 

He shook his head at you, though the amused smile lingered on his face, even as he took notice of all the prying eyes on you and him, he heard the whispers, saw the girls that eyed him and then you before they leaned towards each other to make up some new gossip, a part of him felt irritated and annoyed but the other part of him that loved the attention, couldn’t care less about what they would say about him or you. 

You stopped at your locker and gave him a weird look when he stopped too, he leaned against the locker next to yours and crossed his arms over his chest as he watched you fidget with your lock. He looked at your hands, how much smaller they were than his and he couldn’t help but let his mind wander the way his eyes did as they roamed every inch of you while you were busy putting your stuff into your locker. 

Usually he did not allow himself to see you as anything other than a girl he disliked but a part of him couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he allowed himself to see you as something other than that, as something more. 

He licked his lips as he looked at your soft skin, his fingers itched to touch your hair, wondering if they felt just as soft as they looked. He breathed in the scent of your perfume and felt something stir inside of him. 

You turned towards him and he didn’t bother to hide the fact that he was staring. Your lashes fluttered as you blinked, your lips twisted into a downturned smile, you raised your brows at him and shrugged.

“Okay, what do you want from me, Harrington?” You asked, the strap of your backpack now over your shoulder and you slammed your locker before you crossed your arms over your chest. “Is this a dare or something or why are you staring at me like some creep?” 

He felt his cheeks heat up a little, a shyness he usually never felt tugged at his emotions but his arrogance was still in control. 

“I’m bored,” he shrugged and let his eyes linger on your lips as his mind continued to wander. 

You rolled your eyes at him and huffed, pointing your finger around you, gesturing to the students, to the girls that stared at you in envy at this moment. 

“Well, I’m sure one of them will keep you entertained,” you mumbled and took a step forward, “they are practically begging on their knees for your attention, don’t leave ‘em waiting.” You patted him on his chest before you stepped away from him. 

He turned to face you, not wanting to let you go just yet. 

“What if I want you to keep me entertained?” He asked teasingly with a cocky, playful smirk on his lips, one that made you blink and sigh. 

“Dream on, King Steve,” you smirked and looked over his shoulder at something behind him, “gotta be more creative with your dares, your stupid friends are way too obvious.” 

He furrowed his brows and turned around to see what you were looking at, he found Tommy and Carol watching the two of you with a smirk on their lips, giggles falling from Carol’s mouth. Steve rolled his eyes at them and sighed. 

“Listen, that wasn’t–” he stopped talking when he found you long gone and away from him and watched as you walked away, “a dare…” He mumbled to himself, he sighed again and looked down once you were out of sight. His notebook and pencil case were still in his hand, your notes tucked safely in the case – where they stayed for a while. 

“Steve!” 

Your giggles make him smile so widely that it makes his cheeks ache but he can’t stop, not when you continue blessing him with your sweet laughter, your hands are on his shoulders, holding on tightly as his fingers dig into your sides, he peppers your neck with kisses, smacking his lips against the skin over and over. 

You are squirming underneath him, your dress riding up in the process as you both lie on the big couch in your living room, the movie playing on the TV long forgotten, your snacks discarded on the table, your attention is fully on each other, your lips locking every few seconds as your hands wander across his shoulders, over his back, down his arms and finally melting into his hands, your heart skipping several beats when he entwines his fingers with yours.

Steve squeezes your hands and he dives in deeper into your neck, kissing and smiling against your skin. 

“That tickles!” You giggle again, your eyes begin to water from all the laughter. 

He chuckles against you and pecks your neck one more time before he pulls back to kiss your jaw instead, then your cheek and finally your lips, humming against you when you kiss him back immediately. Your breaths mingle together, your lips mold against each other, softly yet passionately, you are chest to chest, hands clinging to one another. 

You let go of one hand and place your palm on his back, sliding it up to his shoulder and squeezing it before you sink your fingers into his already messy hair. 

Steve sighs into the kiss and tightens his hold on your hand as he parts your thighs with his knee, not to take this any further but to feel you closer and you welcome him happily, not initiating anything else either, this feels good, this feels nice, this is enough. 

Your whimper makes his stomach flutter, a smile tugs at his lips as you play with his hair. Your hands feel so good on him, so perfect, so right. His heart skips a beat when you push yourself up and press yourself further against him, parting his lips with your tongue, you deepen the kiss in need to feel him even closer. 

Your hands roam his body and his roam yours, sighs and whimpers sound through the room as you make out on your couch, growing more and more breathless, only when it gets too much do you break the kiss and pull away from one another. You lay your head back on the pillow and open your eyes to see him staring at you already, a soft smile on his swollen lips, eyes hooded and laced with softness, his cheeks are pink and his hair is messy from all your tugging. Steve makes your heart flutter when he presses another soft kiss to your lips and cups the side of your face, tracing your cheekbone as he gazes down at you in a way only a special one should do. 

“Hi Blondie,” he whispers sweetly. 

You raise your hand up towards his face, brushing back his spitcurl before you trail your finger down to his lips, “hey, Lego Head.” 

His eyes crinkle in amusement, a chuckle falls from his pretty lips, “wow, way to ruin the moment.” 

You giggle at him and it makes him continue. 

“You haven’t used that one in a while.” 

“Mhmm, did you miss it?” You tease him, knowing how much he hated the nickname you gave him on a random school day. 

“Hmm, it kinda grew on me,” he admits, smiling down at you, “but I kinda prefer it when you call me Stevie.”

“Stevie? That only happens when I’m drunk.” 

“Yeah,” he whispers and tugs your hair behind your ear, still smiling as his eyes trace your features, “guess I gotta get you drunk again.”

“Why?” You giggle and furrow your brows at him, “so I’ll call you Stevie again?” 

“Yeah, and so I can have sweet Blondie again,” he smirks, “you’re so nice and adorable when you’re drunk.” 

Your cheeks heat up at his words but you roll your eyes and shake your head. 

“Are you saying I’m normally not adorable?” You joke and pout at him and push him back so you can stand up, heart beating faster at the groan of protest and the tightness of his hold on your waist when you try to get up from the couch. 

“Where are you going?” He asks, frowning at you when you place your hand on top of his and gently remove it from your waist. 

“I’m starving, I’m gonna see what I have in the fridge.” 

Steve nods and wastes no time to get up and follow you into the kitchen, admiring the way your little sundress fits your body, the way it hugs your waist and sways around your hips as you walk. Your hair matches the state of his own, messy and disheveled from the previous makeout session. 

When you open the fridge, you let out a loud sigh and look over your shoulder, “uh… I kinda forgot to do the groceries.” 

Steve raises his eyebrows at you, chuckling at the expression on your face, he steps closer to you and places his hands on your waist as he takes a look inside, finding nothing more than fruit, drinks, condiments and cheese, “yeah, that won’t do.”

You sigh again and close the fridge, turning around to face him while his hands are still on your waist. 

“Yeah…”

“Well, let’s go out then,” Steve shrugs as the idea of taking you to a restaurant fills him with excitement and giddiness. 

Your lips part in surprise as your eyes widen. 

“W-Where?”

Steve clears his throat, his cheeks take on a deeper shade. 

“T-To eat. We can uh– go to a sushi restaurant, I’ve always wanted to try… Have you ever tried sushi…?” He stutters and blushes. 

“Y-You wanna go out with me… in public?” You ask, cringing at how shaky and small your own voice sounds. 

His lips twitch, curling into a smile as he nods. 

“We uh… We could go out of town, there are no sushi restaurants in Hawkins, Blondie.” His words left his mouth so casually, like his heart isn’t hammering in his chest and he isn’t filled with the same nervousness he felt as a teenage boy. He feels as though he is asking you out on a date… and maybe he is, maybe he’d like to pretend that he is. 

“You mean to Indianapolis?”

Steve nods. He wants to leave Hawkins for a while, even if just for one night, he wants to be able to go out with you without feeling the need to hide, he wants to hold your hand in public and kiss you breathless on the streets, he wants to hold you close and show you off as if you were his. 

He wants it all with you and he wants it here too, in his hometown, where anyone could see but he still doesn’t know how you feel, he feels hopeful but he is still in the dark about your feelings. 

“It's the closest city we got.”

“It’s an hour trip!” 

His heart melts at the bewildered, cute look on your face, the excitement that lingers in your eyes as your lips start curling into a smile. 

“So?” Steve shrugs and squeezes your waist, “we got all night.”

Your heart is racing and everything inside of you flutters in excitement. Your cheeks are burning and you feel the giddiness of a girl that’s been asked out on a date by the boy she likes. You can’t even hide the smile that appears on your face, brightly and happily. 

“I need to get changed then!” You beam at him as you already step away, not giving him the chance to protest or say anything else before you walk out of the kitchen, “I’ll be down in a minute!” 

Steve listens to the sound of your footsteps as you rush up the stairs, leaving him in your kitchen with a pounding heart and a huge smile on his lips. He looks up at the ceiling, an accomplished and joyful feeling rushing through him, he can’t help but do a silent fist pump. 

This is going to be a date, an unofficial one, but still a date. 

He can’t fight the grin off his lips, the giddy feeling settling into his whole body. He walks back into the hallway and takes a look at himself, your lipstick is smudged on his skin and his lips, his hair is a mess, created by you, his cheeks are glowing from all the happiness inside of him. 

He fixes his hair and wipes the pink lipstick off his skin before he makes his way into your living room to turn off the TV and put away the snacks you both had earlier. 

You come back down fifteen minutes later, changed into a new dress and your makeup reapplied, your hair fixed and a small purse in your hand. You meet in the hallway, keys already in his hand, and he’s leaning against the door.

Steve’s heart goes wild at the sight of you in your new sundress, your glossy lips tugged into a smile, the urge to pull you into a kiss pushes him towards you.

He whistles playfully, making you roll your eyes with a giggle. 

“Getting all pretty for me now?” He teases, acting cocky as though his heart isn’t threatening to beat out of his chest. 

You always get pretty for him. 

“I’ve been dying to wear this dress,” you say, flipping your hair over your shoulder as you twirl around to reveal your open back to him, not knowing how crazy you drive him with your action. 

Steve’s stomach flutters, his hands instantly itch to touch your bare skin, you look so beautiful. 

He takes a step closer to you and grabs your waist, humming, “that’s a pretty dress, I can’t wait to see it on my bedroom floor though.” 

Your cheeks burn and despite it, you giggle as you turn around to face him, “is that a King Steve pickup line?” 

He shakes his head, “no, he never said such things.”

“Sure,” you snort and tug at his hand, pulling him towards the door, “come on now, I’m starving!” 

Steve chuckles and nods, reaching for his car keys on the dresser, he squeezes your hand, “yeah, come on, before you get grumpy.” 

“I never get grumpy,” you argue as your lips curl into a pout that he instantly feels the urge to kiss. 

“You always get grumpy when you’re hungry,” he laughs. He loves it. 

Steve opens the door for you, giving you a sweet smile as he looks down at your pretty face. You step out and he follows, admiring the way your dress hugs your body, the way your skin glows beneath the evening sun, the way your hair shines, your perfume lingers in the air and he can’t help but breathe it in deeply, just the way he always did. 

Your hand fits in his so perfectly, like it belongs there… and to him it does. 

You look over your shoulder, giving him a cute smile that leaves him breathless. The golden light that shines down on you turns his breathing shaky, no words could describe your beauty, nothing comes close to it, absolutely nothing. You are stunning, bewitching, you are a goddess and he worships every inch of your being and you don’t even know it.

He wishes he could scream out those three big words, kiss you breathless and show you just how much he adores you but he can’t, he is too afraid, he fears rejection so deeply, so all that he can do is pretend, pretend that you are already his and live in this small delusion for as long as he can. He opens the door for you and winks at you, fighting the urge to kiss your hand before he lets go of you and closes the door only to grab your hand again once he is seated in the driver's seat, you lace your fingers together and squeeze his hand, unaware of the feelings you leave him with, with your sweet action. 

When he turns on the music and a smile appears on your face, you sink deeper into the seat and get comfortable, a content look on your pretty features. You look so perfect sitting in his passenger seat, next to him, holding his hand, enjoying the music as you look out the window when he drives down the road.

This is where you belong, this is what he wants, you by his side, for tonight and for always, he wants you to be his, his girl.

This isn’t enough, it never was, this was never just about sex. 

There was never an ounce of hatred for you in his bones, not in high school and not after. 

He felt bitterness, confusion, denial but most of all, he felt jealousy, he always did and he never understood why you didn’t like him, why you bickered with him, why you laughed at his poor flirting attempts, why you didn’t want him the way every other girl did, why you showed up for Lucas’s game but not a single one of his – that night isn’t one he likes to think back on, it makes him cringe and shudder in annoyance at himself for what he said to you, he let his emotions, his jealousy, his frustrations control the words his mouth left. 

He didn’t know that you were a friend of Max and Lucas, he didn’t know that you showed up for her, and for him, knowing that his friends were too busy with Eddie’s D&D campaign. He didn’t know why you were there, but when he saw you on the bleachers and he caught you waving at Lucas, whose eyes lit up when he saw you, he couldn’t help but feel jealous because why did you show up for a freshman, for a kid? Why did you never show up to any of his games? Why didn’t you give him the chance to show off? 

He felt irritated, even more so when he saw you talking to Lucas in the parking lot, smiling at him and congratulating him on his successful first game. 

He remembers the way he marched over to you, the way he started bickering with you instead of praising the teen he showed up for. 

“Are you so desperate for attention that you go for a freshman now?” 

He cringes at himself, even now, disgusted at the words he threw at you.

You looked so hurt and angry, you pushed him away from you and he never blamed you for it, you could’ve slapped him right there, he deserved it. 

He felt guilty right then and there but that emotion intensified when only a few days later he found out about your sisterly bond with Max and your friendship with both of them, you cared for them and protected them just the way he did. Before he knew that, he made himself believe that you were just a loner, a person too cold to feel anything, even platonic, he wanted to believe that he wasn’t some unimportant person that you crossed paths with, that you were simply unable to form bonds or relationships but that wasn’t the case, you had people you cared for, you had friends you would die for, you just didn’t want to give him a chance, not platonically and especially not romantically. 

He was jealous of anyone who was close to you, who was special to you but back then, he didn’t allow himself to explore the depth of those emotions that always lingered inside of him when it came to you. 

Now he can see them, he can feel them, he can admit that he was jealous and hurt because he is no longer ashamed to like, love you — someone who might not feel the same. But whatever the outcome of this affair will be, he doesn’t regret letting all those feelings in, especially now that you are here with him, like this, holding his hand and letting him take you out and show you off in public. 

He is allowed to feel hopeful now, he thinks. 

Indianapolis is big and no town people, no friends, no prying eyes will be there to see you both but you could have still easily said no to his suggestion because who goes out to eat with their supposedly casual hook up? But then again, what is casual about you both? 

Not even your first night together was casual. 

You kissed and held each other close from the very beginning. 

You stay over, you cuddle, you hold hands, even in public and when you are sure that no one is looking, you sleep in his arms and you make each other breakfast, you make sure that his favorite drinks and snacks are in your kitchen and he does the same for you, his bathroom and his bedroom are filled with things that belong to you. 

This isn’t casual, the signs are there and they are so very clear, tonight especially, when you make it to the city and you walk through the busy streets where it’s much more crowded and louder than it is in your small hometown, you keep close to him and hold onto his hand tightly as you lead him to the sushi restaurant that you have told him about on the drive here, the one you went to with your parents and your sister every time you visited your grandparents in the city. 

So many things go through Steve’s mind and so many emotions rush through him as you walk side by side, hand in hand with the city lights shining down on you both as the sun disappears more and more. He feels free, like he can do anything, like he can kiss you right here, right now, without needing to hide or drag you to a secret corner, he feels giddy, happy, he can’t even hide the smile on his face. 

Once you make it to your destination, Steve lets go of your hand and places it on the small of your back instead, he opens the door and keeps his palm pressed against your body. He is so lost in his happy bubble, he doesn’t even notice the blush taking over your face when he wraps his arm around you and rests his palm on your hip instead as he leads you inside. 

It’s crowded but he didn’t expect any less from a restaurant in a big city, he doesn’t seem to mind though and neither do you, especially when you get one of the booth tables, tucked away in the very back, next to a big window where you can see the city lights. 

You sit down across from one another, smiling from ear to ear as you look into each other’s eyes. 

“Hi,” he whispers, making you giggle. 

“Hi.”

His honey eyes look so pretty in this golden light, his hair looks softer than ever, his smile so big and bright that it fills you with hope, especially when it stays as his eyes trace your face, he is staring at you even though he could be staring at this pretty setting around you, at the decorated room, the string lights over you, the city lights, but no, he is staring at you and he is making you feel special. 

A sheepish smile takes over your face, a shyness that you rarely ever feel flushing through you, the look in his eyes is so intense that you can’t help but be the first to break contact. You lean back and cross your legs, looking around the restaurant you used to eat dinners at with your family. 

Nostalgia comes over you when a family of four catches your eye, sitting at a round table, they seem to be in a lively conversation, the two little girls laughing with their father as their mother shakes her head with a smile on her face. 

Steve follows your gaze when he notices the sad but soft look in your eyes. Something tugs at his chest when he takes a look at the family you are watching and suddenly your eyes aren’t the only ones filled with sadness. 

He leans closer to the table, placing his palm above your hand. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, watching the way you tilt your head at him, the softness in your eyes never leaving. “I mean, are you okay to be here… right now… with me?” 

There is no one else you would rather be with here.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you nod, glancing down at his hand, he is now rubbing circles into your skin, “and yes, I want to be here with you,” you admit, knowing how vulnerable you can make yourself look with such words. 

He breathes out a sigh of relief, his lips curl back into a smile. 

Steve keeps holding your hand, not letting go, not even when he decides to look at the menu, not even when the waiter stops at your table to take your orders, not when your drinks arrive a few minutes later, he keeps holding on and you let him.

Curiosity sparks in him when he notices the way you keep looking back at the family, a look in your eyes that signalizes the feeling of longing. 

“Blondie?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Can I ask you something?” 

You nod, “anything.”

You’re close enough to ask each other questions that won’t make the other uncomfortable and that is something Steve greatly appreciates, knowing that you weren’t here months back, not even close.

Steve blinks, taking a few shaky breaths, he keeps his hand on yours, tracing the ring on your middle finger. He clears his throat and looks down, ignoring the strong beating of his heart and the nervousness bubbling in his stomach. 

“Do you uh… do you ever think about it?” 

You look at him with big, curious eyes and it’s not helping his case at all. 

“Think about what?” 

“Kids.” 

You furrow your brows at his question but you smile softly and you don’t hesitate to nod, not even needing time to think about it. 

“I honestly want to… I miss having a big family, you know?” You pause and look down at his hand, wondering what it would be like if he had a ring on his fourth finger, one that would match your own. “I don’t care if it’s one or many, I just… I really want a family, one that is here with me, all the time.” 

Steve’s big hazel eyes soften and flicker with deep emotions. His heart skips a beat as warmth settles in his chest. 

He didn’t think he could fall even harder for you, even deeper but now as he looks at you, as he holds your hand and looks into your pretty eyes, he knows that he will never stop falling, there is no end, no limit when it comes to his feelings, to his love for you.

A future lies before his eyes, a future with you, rings, cradles, a white picket fence, kids that look like you and him. He sees something, something that is in reach, something that he hopes for, something that he wants with you without a single doubt.

“You will have it all, Blondie.”

You don’t know what to make of his words but whatever the feelings behind them are, you know that they are not what you want them to be, no matter how much his feelings for you changed, no matter how much hope there is in you, no matter how big it is, you can’t believe that the thing you have now, could be one for the future too and not only the present. 

You don’t know what to say without revealing your feelings to him, you want this with him and he can’t know, he just can’t. 

To your relief, the waiter brings your food to the table, taking Steve’s attention away from your face. You let go of each other's hands, thanking and smiling at the waiter. 

“That looks amazing,” Steve murmurs as he looks at the plates in front of the both of you, reaching for the chopsticks, he looks down at them, growing a little nervous, he never used them before. 

“It does,” you nod with a smile on your face, “hey, this is special, Steve. I’m getting my first sushi with you.” You say with a giggle, making his chest flutter. 

“I thought you had some before.” 

“Yeah, stole some from my dad but I never actually had a plate for myself,” you chuckle. 

“Well, I’m glad we share some firsts together then because I never tried them before, at all,” he grins. 

You can tell by the way he is holding the chopsticks wrongly, looking down at them with furrowed brows and pursed lips. He looks so cute like this but a part of you wants to laugh even though you can’t even use them properly yourself. You have seen your dad using them every time you came here to eat, but you never tried it yourself. 

“I can tell,” you murmur, unable to hide the giggle when he tries to pick up a roll but fails to do so. 

He snorts and shoots you a playful glare. 

“Go ahead, and show me then, Blondie,” he smirks at you, pointing at your plate. 

You clear your throat and place your chopsticks between your index and middle finger, you can already feel your cheeks heating up beneath his gaze. You press your thumb against the chopstick and bite your lip in concentration, glancing at him for a second to see him staring at you, making the warmth in your cheeks grow hotter. 

“See?” You grin as you pinch your food gently, growing confident when you manage to pick up the sushi despite the shakiness in your hands. 

Steve raises his eyebrows at you, smiling softly. 

You go to dip it in the soy sauce when your shaky hands lose control and your sushi plops into the sauce loudly, splattering over your plate but luckily not on your dress. You press your lips together and look into his eyes, you stare at one another for a moment before you both burst into laughter. 

“Oh my god,” Steve chuckles in amusement, “you’re a great teacher, honey.” 

“Shut up,” you giggle and try to pick it up again. 

“Guess we gotta learn together,” he shrugs with a smile on his face. 

You do, you learn together and you share jokes and laugh at each other every time you fail, but once you get the hang out of it, you fall into a conversation about your parents, you tell him stories of the times they brought you and your sister into the city and Steve listens attentively, smiling at you and feeling grateful that you feel comfortable enough to bring him here and to talk about them – and you, you are surprised yourself when you don’t feel the cold sadness in you that you always felt every time you even mentioned them, talking about them with Steve feels… comforting, he is comforting. 

His knees touch yours beneath the table, the material of his jeans brushing your bare skin, his hand is close to yours, his pinky touching your own. He smiles at you, he laughs with you, he makes silly jokes and feeds you his food, his eyes never stray away from you, there is only you for him right now and as the realization strikes you, you grow hopeful again, your heart skips a beat at the thought that this could be something like… a date. 

You both want the same thing, though what neither of you realize is that you aren’t acting like two nervous people who finally managed to score a date with that one person, you are acting like a couple, not a single awkward moment follows you both, you are talking and laughing with each other like you’re best friends. 

“I have this theory…” Steve says before he takes a sip of his coke. 

You cock your head to the side, “please continue.” 

He places his glass back on the table and picks up his chopsticks again, he chuckles before he opens his mouth once more, “that Dustin is copying Eddie.”

“What?” You laugh. 

“Hear me out, for the past few weeks… Have you seen Dustin’s change of style!? He is wearing all black now! And his hair? It’s fucking long!” He exclaims, shaking his head. 

You’re a little amused by his sudden outburst, by the confused and slightly irritated look on his face, it’s cute. 

“Well, he sees Eddie as a role model, so?” 

"Excuse me?” He scoffs, not liking your words, not liking that the boy that once looked up to him found someone else, someone better to look up to. 

You squint your eyes at him and lean closer to the table, cupping your cheek as you smile, “Steve, is it just me or are you jealous of Eddie?” 

He scoffs again, waving his hand at you, “nonsense.”

“You’re jealous that he stole Dustin from you.” 

Steve shakes his head at you, “I’m not jealous, I’m just saying that– he is following Eddie like some lost puppy, copying him fully! What if he takes on smoking?” 

A laugh tumbles from your lips and Steve can’t even fight the smile off his lips when your soft eyes glow with amusement. 

“Really? He is fifteen, Steve! You were hosting parties at that age and getting drunk, he is not the twelve year old you once met.”

Steve laughs, he leans back in his seat and sighs, running his fingers through his hair, “yeah, I forget that sometimes, he’s not a kid anymore… he’s a teenager,” he chuckles, furrowing his eyebrows, “but come on… Eddie? Eddie’s sense of style? Is Dustin insane?” 

You roll your eyes at him, still amused by him. 

“So, you want him to wear polo shirts and cardigans instead?” 

His lips part and he pretends to be offended, “hey! You like my polo shirts!” 

“Yeah, not the point here.” 

Steve tilts his chin up, smirking at you, “you admit that you like them then?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head and hiding your face behind your hair as you start blushing again which prompts him to continue his teasing as he begins to reminisce about your shared days at school, leaving out the saddening memories and only talking of the good ones, the funny ones, memories of your childhood, of your time in kindergarten and middle school and how long you have been a part of each other’s lives and when you leave the restaurant after a long time, you reach for each other’s hands and entwine your fingers together without even thinking about it. 

You stroll through the city and kiss on the streets, like he wanted to all night and it makes you both smile, it makes you feel happy and free and Steve can’t wait for the day when he will find the courage to ask you out on a real date, to ask you to be more than this, to be his, like he pretends you are now as you stand beneath the twinkling lights, surrounded by people, surrounded by the sounds of the city and he can’t stop kissing you, not even when you continue your way to his car, he keeps pulling you into kisses, pressing his lips to yours, to your cheeks, to your hands, to your neck, over and over again, making you giggle and blush at his sweet actions. He’s drunk on you, he is so in love with you that he can’t contain it, he has to show it in some way, he has to let it out, even if not in words. 

Steve holds your hand on your way home, he kisses you at every red light and he sings along to The Smiths, you don’t think that you have ever seen him so carefree and relaxed before. 

And Steve, he had never felt this happy before, nothing, no one can compare to you, to the way you make him feel, to the love he feels for you, to the happiness that flickers in him every time you reach for his hand or bless him with a sweet smile after pressing your lips to his. Those three words that are on the tip of his tongue, beg to be released and he is so close to doing it, so damn close. 

You’re waving your hand in front of your face when you step inside his house, the heat of the summer night feeling too warm on your skin and Steve’s hands on your waist aren’t making it any better, worsening second by second, especially when he keeps making you laugh with his silly comments. 

“I need to cool off.” 

Steve brushes his fingers through your hair and tucks it behind your ears, “cool off? Why, am I this hot?” He jokes, wiggling his eyebrows at you. 

You snort and place your hands on his chest and run your finger down his stomach, hooking it around his belt,  “you’re such a dork.”

Your dork. 

His lips curl into a smirk, he leans down close enough that your noses brush, “mhm, you like it though.” 

Yes, you do, you really do. 

You gaze into his honey eyes, breathing in the scent of his cologne, getting lost in his touch as his hands hold your waist. 

“You know what else I’d like?” You whisper against his lips as you give him a soft kiss, making his breathing hitch and his heart stammer. 

“Hmm?” 

Steve blinks at you, excitement bubbling in his stomach. 

“A cold beer.”

He chuckles, he expected something else but he can’t complain, not when you give him another short kiss. 

You bite your lip and step away from him, letting his hands fall to his sides. You bring your hands up to the buttons of your dress, walking backwards slowly and continuing to gaze into his eyes with mischief in yours, you undo the top buttons, revealing your new bra to him. You almost giggle at his parted lips and the hunger in his eyes. 

Steve gulps as you expose more and more of your skin to him, he could fall to his knees right then and there.

“Don’t take too long,” you murmur, winking at him. You walk away from him and into his living room, humming as you turn on the lights in his backyard before you slide open the big glass doors and step outside. 

The night is quiet and hot, the only sound coming from the crickets and the slight rustling of the trees as soft wind blows through them and then Steve turns on the stereo in the living room, making you smile. You look up at the starry sky and listen to Steve’s footsteps. 

You push the straps of your dress down your shoulders and kick off your shoes, looking over your shoulder to see Steve rushing out with two beers in his hands. 

He places them on the table and steps towards you, tutting at you with a playful glare on his pretty face, “could’ve let me take that pretty dress off,” he murmurs and places his hands on your elbows where your straps hang loosely now. 

His hands are cold from the beers he picked out of the fridge, goosebumps rise on your skin. 

“I didn’t take it off yet,” you shrug, smirking as your hands find their way back to his belt, and you waste no time to unbuckle it. 

Steve smirks back at you, tracing your skin with the tips of his fingers as he slips the straps down your forearms and pushes your dress down, bunching it around your hips, he sucks in a sharp breath and his eyes grow darker, lustful. It certainly isn’t the first time he sees you like this, but his reaction never changes, his body always reacts to you, just the way his heart does. 

You look so beautiful, so goddamn sexy that it drives him crazy. 

Not many words are shared between you but the silence is comfortable and your eyes speak enough words as you undress each other, you take his shirt off and place your hand on his chest, staring at him in awe as he pushes your dress down and lets it fall to the ground, his hands touching your bare skin, fingers tracing your lacy underwear. 

With hooded eyes he looks down at you and he pulls you closer, “is this little set new?” 

You nod, your skin heating up again. 

“Looks so pretty,” he murmurs and leans in to press his lips against your neck, “too bad it’s gonna get wet.”

You sigh at the feeling of his kisses, breathing shakily. 

You start pushing his jeans down, looking up at him with pleading eyes, “take your pants off, Steve.”

“Yes ma’am,” he chuckles and pushes them down his legs, he quickly steps out of them and bends down, hooking his arm around the back of your knees, he scoops you up into his arms, laughing at the surprised squeal that falls from your lips. 

You throw your arms around his neck and hold on tight, looking at him bewildered while he smirks smugly. 

“What are you doing?” 

He steps closer to the edge of his pool, “what do you think I’m doing?” He chuckles, not giving you time to react before he tightens his hold on you and takes another step forward, jumping into the pool and crashing into the water with you, letting the cold envelope you both. 

And you feel it, you feel the freezing water on your skin, the goosebumps that rise and the shivers that ripple through you but not even this takes away the heat you feel inside of you. You taste the chlorine on your lips and you feel his hands on your waist as he pulls you back up with him. 

“Is that cool enough for you, honey?” He asks breathily as he wipes his hand down his face and shakes his head to get the water out of his hair. 

You giggle and stretch your arms out, “mhm, the water feels nice,” you murmur and tilt your head up, glancing at the stars in the sky, smiling at the sound of one of yours and his favorite songs playing on the stereo. 

Steve starts humming along, his eyes tracing your pretty features, your wet hair that still somehow looks just as perfect as it did before, water rolls down your face, your lacy bra now clinging even more to your skin making his hands itch for you. 

The water sloshes around him as he moves closer to you, wanting to feel your body back against his but you seem to have different ideas because when you notice him inching closer to you, you give him a teasing smirk before you turn around and start swimming. 

“Hey!” 

You giggle at the disappointed sound in his voice, that sighs that follows after. 

You feel his hand brushing your foot but unable to get a hold of you, you pick up your pace and start swimming faster, pushing against the water stronger, “you can’t catch me, Lego Head.”

He shakes his head, letting out a laugh. 

“You think you can get away from me?” He teases, diving deeper into the water, he starts swimming after you, “I was a lifeguard, honey.”

“Yeah, you’ve been bragging about it for three years now,” you snort and dare to take a look over your shoulder, “you must’ve been a bad one, ice cream man.”

He laughs again, amused by your comment and by how you slowed down. 

“You’re so funny.”

“I know,” you smirk and turn around again, thinking you can still get away from him but Steve is close, so very close. This time he catches you by your ankle, wrapping his hand around it and pulling you back, chuckling at the squeal that falls from your lips, he grabs your waist and embraces you with his arms, pulling against his chest, he holds you tightly, chuckling at the pout on your lips when you look back at him with a frown on your face. 

“Not fair,” you whine and wiggle against him which prompts you to press yourself harder into his chest, into his front, you can feel his bulge against your butt, you can feel how hot his skin is despite the cool water, his hot breath on your shoulder, his lips on your neck. 

You breathe in shakily, the heat inside of you rushing into your core, making you press your legs together as a deep longing takes over you. 

“Guess you’re not that fast after all, huh?” He teases, loving the way your bare skin feels against his. “Didn’t even take me thirty seconds to catch you.” 

You hold onto him tighter, glancing at his lips before your eyes lock with his again, “maybe I just let you catch me.” 

He chuckles, adoring the way you look at him. 

“Yeah sure, Blondie.” 

He wraps his arms tighter around your waist as he starts guiding you away from the middle of the pool and towards the stairs. 

“So what now, do you plan on drowning me?” You joke. 

The water gets lower and lower, exposing your upper body to the cooling wind, making you shiver a little. 

“No, too late for that,” he jokes back with a chuckle, “but I am thinking of something.” 

You tilt your head to the side and raise your brows at him. He moves away from behind you and reaches for your hand as he takes three steps up the stairs, enough to still be in the water once he sits down before you. He licks his lips as he looks you up and down with need and adoration in his eyes, he admires your body, your curves, you. He pulls you a little closer, the water is still hiding your hips, your legs that he loves having wrapped around his waist and his head. 

“What?” You ask softly and curiously. 

Steve looks at you with hooded eyes, with cheeks glowing pink and lips begging to be kissed. 

“I want to fuck you, right here, right now, in my pool, and–” he rasps, glancing up at the sky above you, he points his finger up, “under the full moon.”

Your eyes widen at his words, butterflies that never die growing wild in your stomach, your kneels almost buckle and you have to press your thighs together. 

You follow his gaze and frown when you only see the stars in the sky and the quarter of the moon. 

“That’s not a full moon, Steve–” you gasp when you suddenly feel his hands on your waist and he forces you closer, prompting you to straddle his waist. Your knees hit the steps he’s sitting on, your arms wrap around his neck instinctively. 

“You’re a stupid moron,” you whisper with no venom in your voice or your eyes. 

Steve blinks, smirking at you. 

“And you are too naive,” he whispers back, squeezing your waist as you lean into each other, not even noticing that you did as you shared your soft whispers. 

You smile at one another, your noses brushes and you close your eyes as your lips meet in a soft kiss, a kiss enough to steal your breath. 

You move your palm down his strong shoulder, squeezing his bicep and resting your other hand on his back, deepening the kiss as he parts your lips with his tongue, blessing you with the sound of his moan. 

Steve runs his hand down your waist and to your hips, gripping your body tightly, pulling you closer and closer until you’re flush against him. He can’t help but gasp when you grind against his erection, filling him with more need. 

Your soft kiss grows faster, hungrier, needy but still passionate and despite the lack of air, you don’t pull away just yet. You run your hand down his hairy chest, his stomach, making him shiver against you. You tug at his boxers, pulling them down just far enough for you to wrap your hand around his dick. 

“Baby,” he whispers against your lips, continuing to press kisses to your mouth as he tugs at your panties, “let me–”

“No,” you whisper as you jerk him off slowly, pumping him a few times and teasing his slit with your thumb, “I need you.” 

You don’t need no preparation, you don’t need his fingers or his tongue, not right now, you only need him, to feel him, all of him. 

“F-Fuck,” he breathes shakily, moaning at the feeling of your soft hand around him, “please… I want you, I need you so bad.”

You whimper as his fingers dig deeper into your skin, his words rushing to your heart and your core. 

You push your panties to the side and waste no other second to guide him to your entrance, looking into his pleading eyes that watch you in awe as you sink down on him, taking him slowly and moaning out his name in pleasure as your eyebrows scrunch together. The water pressure making it a little harder to do so, and it is a weird yet not unpleasant feeling. 

“J-Just like that, baby,” he whimpers, his hands holding you tightly, his eyes flickering between your face and your body, the pleasure in him growing deeper and stronger, “you’re doing so well… fuck… you feel so good,” he groans when he feels your warmth enveloping him fully. 

His right hand settles on your lower back, moving up to the middle and the top and then he wraps his hand around the back of your neck so he can pull you even closer, he presses his lips back to yours, pecking them one, two, three times. 

“Steve,” you whimper, tears brimming in your eyes from the pleasure in your body, from the size of him. You bite down on your lip and suppress a moan, when you’re fully seated on top of him, you feel a wave of different emotions rushing through you. His kisses, his touches, his hugs and his compliments, the sweet things he says to you, the sweet things he does for you overwhelming you in the best way possible. 

Something changed, something was different today, this feels different. 

You pull him into an even deeper kiss than before, letting your emotions take full control over your actions. 

Steve doesn’t hesitate to reciprocate the sudden kiss, he even smiles into it, feeling his heart beating in joy. 

You start riding him slowly, moving your hips at a torturing pace as you’re still getting used to his size. You’re clenching around him, your slick coating his dick and Steve feels it all so intensely. 

The strap of your bra slips down your wet arm but you don’t bother to fix it.

Steve cups your cheeks as your tongues clash together, your needy whimpers vibrate against his lips but he notices how quiet they sound compared to moans and screams you let out when you’re in his bed. 

“Let them out, baby,” he murmurs as you both pull away from the kiss, your breaths mingling together as your lips keep brushing against one another. He tucks your wet hair behind your ears and slips his hands down your body, settling on your hips, he gives you a lazy smile, his eyes already fucked out, “let me hear your pretty moans,” he whispers, trying to coax his favorite sounds out of you as he starts fucking up into you. 

You gasp and hold on tighter, furrowing your eyebrows even more, the feeling of him splitting you open, fucking you deeper making you whimper in need. 

“P-Public, neighbors might hear, Steve–” You whine as you meet his thrusts, continuing to roll your hips despite the nervousness that lingers in you from not wanting to get caught, but it’s hard to keep quiet when he feels so good. 

Steve couldn’t care less about his neighbors, the bushes around his house hide his backyard well enough, there is no need to worry. 

“Let them hear,” he whispers into your neck as he presses his lips to your delicate skin. 

Your heart stutters in your chest, surprise sparks in you because he wants people to hear you, both of you, he doesn’t care about hiding, he didn’t care about it at all today. 

His strong hands hold your hips, his cock sliding in and out of you, sending waves of pleasure through your belly, his moans echo through the night and you can’t help but get lost in the moment of this. 

You bury your fingers in his hair and your face in his neck, whining as you pick up the pace, riding him faster than before, causing the water to splash around you both. His chest hair brushes against your boobs, his lips suck on your skin, his moans vibrate against you as he kisses you through it all. 

“Just like that,” he hums, satisfaction tugging at him when he feels you drooling over his neck, your hot tears falling down on his skin, “look at me, honey, I wanna see your face.” 

You gather your strength to pull back far enough for him to see you and those tears he caused to fall from your eyes. You’re whimpering and clenching around him tightly, making him match the sounds that fall from your lips. 

His hazel eyes are dark, his lips puffy and cheeks redder than before, his wet skin glowing under the string lights in his backyard. God, he looks so beautiful, especially when he is moaning your name and clinging to you. 

He cups the side of your face and you make his heart flutter in his chest when you lean into his touch. 

For a moment, he leans back the slightest bit just to see you, to watch how you ride him, how you take him, how much pleasure he brings you, how your face scrunches up so prettily, how your lips curl into a pout, how your boobs threaten to spill out of your bra as you bounce on his dick, whimpering his name, over and over again. 

God, he loves you, he loves you so fucking much that it physically hurts him to hide those words from you, everything inside of him screams at him to say them, to let you know, to confess to you, to show you how much he wants you, how deep his feelings for you are. 

His own eyes burn with tears, pleasure and emotions mixing together as he watches you, convinced that there is something behind your eyes as well, feelings, adoration, love. 

There has to be something, right? 

You wouldn’t hold his hand just for the fun of it, you wouldn’t kiss him and let him feel you, have you like this if there wasn’t something in your heart for him. You wouldn’t spend nights in his arms and dinners with him if it was casual. 

It’s not casual, it just can’t be. 

You have to feel it too, you have to feel the love. 

You just have to. 

Your name falls from his lips and when you wrap your arms around him again and you lean your forehead against his, gazing into his eyes with something, you grow tighter around him, making his moans louder. 

I love you. 

He traces words into your skin that he can’t say out loud because he is too afraid to lose you because while there is hope in him, there is also fear, fear that he is misunderstanding something again. 

I love you. I love you. I love you. 

Steve wants to whisper them to you, to say them to you, to scream them out into the open for the whole world to hear. 

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispers, making your heart explode in your chest. 

“So are you,” you whisper back, shakily, wishing you could say something else, something more. 

Steve looks up at you as though you’re something special, like you aren’t the girl he once hated, like you are his and it prompts you to peck his lips, over and over again just the way he always does to you. 

Waves of pleasure crash over the both of you as you chase your high together, you moan against each others lips as his hand moves down your stomach and his fingers settle between your thighs, no words are spoken anymore when he presses against your clit gently, rubbing circles against your sensitive nub, your high pitched moans, his deep thrusts and the begging looks in both your eyes are enough. 

You kiss and you both move, faster than before, you cling to one another harder, stronger, deeper than ever, your lips moving feverishly with each other, desperation and love behind all your movements, a searing heat cursing through you both, overwhelming your poor hearts that long for each other so pleadingly. 

And when you both reach your peak, Steve has to press his lips strongly to yours so he doesn’t spill the words that become harder to keep in. He kisses you for as long as he can, he kisses you through your high and through the aftermath, your movements slow down and your hearts beat slower, he still doesn’t pull away, if anything, he tightens his arms around you, not wanting this moment to end, not wanting this night to end. 

He wants to smile, he wants to feel happy but a part of him is so scared, after tonight especially. 

You showed him something that he could lose at any given moment, you made him feel things he didn’t even think he was capable of feeling, you lit the fire inside of him again, you made his heart feel again, you made him love again, stronger than he ever did before, he didn’t even think a love like this was possible, he didn’t think he could love so deeply. 

What will there be if he loses you? 

He experienced heartbreak before but nothing would compare to this, not even his first love could make him feel such excruciating pain that you will curse him with when you decide to leave him. 

His heart pains at the thought, it already begins to break just thinking of the possibility. 

Steve clings to you, when you pull away from the kiss, he buries his face in your neck and breathes you in, he holds you tightly as though he is afraid that you might disappear if he lets you go. 

He needs to feel you, he needs you against him, he needs to savor every moment you still allow him with you. 

Steve can’t bear to lose you, not you, he can get through anything, he can get over anything but not you. 

And while he is filled with fear, inwardly begging for you to stay, for you to be the one to be by his side – you are holding onto him with hope, with a smile on your face, unaware of the fear that lingers in the man that you love with all your heart.

You never thought you’d be in this position. That you’d ever feel like this when it came to Steve. You never thought you would feel confident in this relationship, potential, a future in it. The fear slowly decreases in each caress he gives you, in every touch, in every kiss. A fear you never thought you would lose in your life.

All you ever imagined in this love you had for him was pain. Everything ended in pure heartbreak and loneliness for you. Now, that image doesn’t come to mind. That picture you painted is no longer vivid in your head. 

And this is when you realize that you have a chance. You truly have a chance.

You decide to push it all aside, the anxiety, the fear of rejection, the fear of loss, you push it all away, no longer allowing the sadness and the fear to control you, if today wasn’t the push that you needed then you don’t know what else will. 

All the signs you weren’t sure of are there, they are there, colorful and bright, for you to see so clearly and you no longer move away from them, you move towards them, allowing yourself to feel hope that he can feel the same. 

And when you two go to bed that night after a long shower together, you cuddle and you kiss each other sweetly, whispering words of affection to one another, tracing each other's skin and holding one another tight. 

You make a decision. 

Tomorrow… Tomorrow will be the day you decide to confess. It cannot wait any longer. It cannot be postponed. It is inevitable, and you cannot handle the pain of loving him and being just this item with him any longer, especially not after this night. 

Having him like this is no longer enough. 

Keeping those three words in becomes less possible after every kiss, every touch, every whisper.

Tomorrow your life will change. 

And hopefully for the better. 

♡

tagging friends and mutuals

@prettyboyeddiemunson @taintedcigs @mysticmunson @corrodedcorpses @maroon-cardigan @thecreelhouse @ibellcipem @joekeerysmoles @munsonlore @sherrylyn0628 @munson-mjstan @agirlwholovesrockstars @moon-flowerrs

[ksascriptt]

Suck It And See - Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Aaron Hotchner x Wife!BauProfiler!Reader

Read part 2 !

Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, mentions of mutilation (just the fact that it had happened at some point), lots of crying, not so great writing :( Haley isn’t murdered in this but she has fully left Hotch and Jacks life for reasons I haven’t decided yet — I don’t want Aaron to quite have that ptsd from losing a second lover.

Summary: You and Aaron have been married for five years, and you both hold jobs at the Behavioural Analysis Unit as Criminal Profilers — how is he supposed to react when you are the target that is doomed to die ?

Notes: The original plan was a LOT different than how this is gonna turn out, so consider this as like some background info for the later chapters. Enjoy ! 🫶

Word Count: like 1100 or something close to that

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

Three Weeks Ago, 29 January.

Yesterday and the day before, with an abundance of phone calls, meetings, messages, and tears, you were delivered the unfortunate news that you had fourteen days left to live — two weeks. It didn’t seem real, but you were quick to realize just how real it was.

The deal you hadn’t quite agreed to was that you were to free two highly dangerous and hostile prisoners (which, you couldn’t even do, it was beyond your jurisdiction) or you would be killed in two weeks time. Several agents had tried to find the group that planned this, attempted to stop them even, and they were all murdered. Brutally, really, their bodies mutilated in ways you hoped yours wouldn’t be.

So, you had no choice but to accept the fact that death would hold you in its clutches when life could not. Your friends and family didn’t take this well, they all rioted and tried to make it better but somehow, the group was untraceable — the BAU team, the best of the best, couldn’t save you. Aaron was your husband, you’d been married for five years and together for seven, and he couldn’t save you either. This information destroyed him, tore his chest open and gripped his heart like a vice. How does one accept the inevitable death of their lover?

He felt helpless when he realized he couldn’t help you, felt unsure and afraid for the first time in a long time — but he was determined to change your fate. Aaron was always a focused man, his attention rarely strayed from his priorities and he was so put together. It was odd to see him now, on the floor in front of the couch, ankles crossed and elbows resting on them. His hands were running through his dark hair, messy and unruly with stress and his fingers trembling as he occasionally clenched them. Your husband wasn’t the type to sit on the ground and damn-near panic, like he was doing now, face red and the remnants of tears stuck to his beautiful face.

The lights were off and it was dark outside, the only visible glow being emitted from a lamp in the other room, casting an orange-grey shadow on the room and the man it contained. The day had already been long, many tears had been shared and shed throughout the past two days, and you were not exempt from that. In fact, you were nearly drowning in the sheer amount of sadness and fear that coursed through your blood, as though it had entered your lungs in the time it took you to realize this was happening. But you couldn’t help but set your eyes upon Aaron, his casual clothing of a crewneck and jeans, and just how different he appeared now. Everything he stood for felt like it had been crushed in just a few days. You were such a prominent part of his life now, he adored and loved you more than anyone could ever understand, how could he cope with knowing he would lose you when he spent so much time trying to never let you go?

Leaning against the wide, open-formatted archway in the living room, you couldn’t bring yourself to rip your teary eyes away from the nearly crumpled form of your husband. This wasn’t right, you knew that — but you couldn’t let this tear everyone apart from the inside.

“ Aaron, honey? “

You asked softly, sniffling a little as you tried to keep your head level.

“Come here, I think maybe we should go to bed; it’s… been a long day,” you decided, keeping your volume low even as you moved to walk over to him. His head raised, eyes red and a little bloodshot as he took in the sight of you. A short time passed until he was able to stand to his full form, exhausted from work – or, rather, exhausted from trying to find anything that could save you. The taller man merely hummed in response, frowning for a second before wrapping his trembling arms around you, as though he’d never let you go. He didn’t think he should have had to let you go. It was unfair, cruel, irrational.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

You had managed to coax Aaron to bed, and he barely let you go, not even just to change. He hated the sudden attention to detail he had, how he was forced to commit everything about you to memory for you were running on a clock until you were torn away from him. From the world. How would Jack take this? And even worse, how could you tell him that it was inevitable? Nobody understood. It hurt, you almost felt like you had been given up on so fast, as if the FBI had decided they couldn’t even try to save you, as though you weren’t worth the trouble. Maybe you were bitter out of fear, maybe you thought it was unjust.

Your mind wandered everywhere as you lay in his arms, the cold air drifting in from the open window a harsh reality in the safety of Aaron’s hold. “I don’t understand,” he finally spoke, the first words since a mild outburst he’d had this afternoon, emotions at a high at the office. “You don’t understand?” You repeated back to him, confirming. “No,” he began, “I don’t. It’s.. untraceable, I don’t know why I can’t stop this. It’s my job to stop this, sweetheart.” Aaron was shirtless, wearing only flannel pajama pants, legs entangled with your own. You wore a shirt of his, something older; from college, probably. “I.. there’s been four agents dead because of me. There’s more risking their lives. I’ll get everything arranged,” you explained with a slowly breaking voice. Tears welled in your eyes at every blooming thought. You were thirty, barely a real adult but you weren’t lucky enough to live until your next birthday. The lottery of life was not yours to be rewarded. “I love you, Aaron.”

“I love you more, honey.”

Nobody could count just how many times those words had been uttered already, for fear every time would be the last. The feeling that eventually, you would say it once and never say it again. But the clock was ticking everyday, and you couldn’t change that, no matter how much you yearned for just a little more time. With a mind racing a mile a minute, tried to zero in on his heartbeat, not on the tears slowly slipping from your eyes and onto Aaron’s chest.

[whisperofaflame]

♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 3: The Cat, the Witch and the Spider

WandaNat x [femme, innocent] Reader

Collision Course – Masterlist

Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Story Summary:

After moving to New York, a collision while cycling sends you flying into the lives of Wanda Maximoff and her wife, Natasha Romanoff. Together, they teach you a new way of belonging and being loved.

Chapter Summary: You spend the rest of the day in Wanda's company, anticipating the return of her wife, Natasha.

Word Count: 6.6k

Featuring: A really cute cat, and the first appearance of Natasha.

When you pull yourself out of your daydream, you realise you haven’t been to the bathroom for hours, and you really need to pee. You stand up and hastily make your way out the bedroom and into the bathroom on the same floor. You’re so focussed on your need that it isn’t until after, when you’re washing your usable hand at the sink, that you notice the state of yourself. Starting at your chin and spreading up your right cheek is a patch of pink, grazed skin. You look awful; it’s very evident that you endured something untoward recently. It looks clean though, so you consider that someone must have seen to it at some point this morning, since it most likely came from your close encounter with the tarmac, and that must have left some residue. It’s funny, how seeing your injuries in the mirror triggers your brain to receive the pain. You can feel the sting in your cheek now that you know it is there, now you understand the signals. You wonder if it was all getting mixed up with the shoulder pain before.

You look down at the rest of you, seeing your top is worn thin beneath the sling, where it dragged along the road. Your jeans too look a little battered, but there don’t seem to be any rips or holes. You wonder what your legs look like beneath, whether there are more scrapes hidden under the denim, or any purple patches emerging under your skin. You’d really like to change out of your jeans into something more comfy, but it occurs to you that it’s going to be an ordeal to change with only one arm, and your non-dominant arm at that. Even going to the toilet was a faff. 

Looking at yourself in the mirror again, you realise there is perhaps one thing you can do to improve your appearance even a little. Your hair is sticking up all over the place, half in and half out of the bobble you wrapped around your ponytail before you left your flat this morning. No wonder Wanda keeps brushing it out your eyes. And as lovely as it feels to have her gentle touch, you’d much rather look presentable in front of her. 

You remember there is a mirror in the walk-in closet of your bedroom, which you glanced in your periphery when Wanda was showing you around. So you head back there, and wiggle your hairbrush out the toiletries bag, after wrestling with the zip a while. You’ve found it’s best to attempt everything with one hand first, and only employ the dangling fingers of your right arm in the direst of straights, since any use of that side inevitably provokes an intensive throbbing in your broken bone. So you wrangle the tool out with a single fumbling hand and approach the mirror with a grimace of determination. 

It’s clumsy work, making you really how lopsided your muscles must be in your body, but you just about manage to tame your hair with your left hand. That is, until you gain confidence and start making fast, cocky strokes — which you simply don’t have the dexterity to control. The full weight of the hairbrush, plus the momentum you’ve pushed in with your hand, collides with your collarbone, and you have to bite hard on your lip to stop yourself from screaming. You hiss out through the cracks, scrunching your eyes shut and squeezing out a few tears. A range of swear words run through your head as you try to fight the feeling with ferocious thoughts. 

It doesn’t really go away, but it does subside a tiny bit after half a minute of agony. You force yourself to take deep breaths and look up at yourself again. It’s good enough; no more hair brushing for now, you decide. 

You don’t feel particularly tired anymore; your dozing in the car seems to have been enough to revitalise you. So there’s nothing to do but go downstairs and join Wanda in the kitchen. You wonder about bringing something down with you, something to do, but you decide against it. For now, you’ll just go with the flow. 

You leave the bedroom door open as you leave, since it feels private enough tucked away at the top of the stairs, and you don’t have anything to hide anyway. Then you take careful, quiet steps down the winding staircase. Down to the level with Wanda’s bedroom, then down again to the entrance level, as the sound of classical music slowly seeps into your consciousness. 

You turn to your left at the bottom of the stairs, stepping softly into the kitchen in your ankle socks. Wanda is at the stove but she twists to face you, greeting you with an all-encompassing smile, which reaches her eyes and softens her shoulders. 

She’s so beautiful. 

“Here, sweetheart,” Wanda says, pulling out a bar stool from under the island in the middle. “Take a seat while I cook.” 

You awkwardly shimmy onto the high stool, feeling off-balance due to your rigid right side. Then you place your good hand on the counter and push against it to spin the stool, so you can face Wanda. She places a hand gently on your knee.

“I’m making a big omelette for us,” she tells you with a smile. Then she tilts her head slightly. “I hope that’s okay?”

You nod, feeling dazed. It’s hard to focus like this, when your senses are assaulted by her kindness from all avenues — her voice, her smile, her touch. Wanda gives your knee a light squeeze, then she turns back to the pan on the hob. You chew your lip and press your hand between your legs, just above your knees. It’s only now that one arm is out of action that you realise how fidgety you are, since you’re constantly initiating motions to clasp your hands or arms together, all of which have to be aborted when you remember your arm is off-duty. Instead, your feet find a little rung on the stool and you lightly bounce your left leg up and down while you watch Wanda. She’s moving so fluidly, her body responding ever so slightly to the music playing from a radio on the corner of the counter.  She hums a little too, happily occupied in her cooking. You let the sight, the sound, the smell wash over you.

When Wanda finishes the omelette, she pulls two plates out of one of the overhead cupboards and begins plating up. Your processing is so slow in the wake of the accident that it’s only when she lifts the plates and turns that the idea of offering help occurs to you.

“Sorry — can I do anything?” You stand up from the stool, and it creaks a little with your hasty motion.

Perhaps Wanda sees a certain desperation in your eyes, because she gives you a token task to do.

“Thank you, sweetheart. Could you bring the glasses over, please? I’ll come back and get the jug.” 

You nod, and wait until she’s walked past you before approaching the counter and gently stacking the two glasses Wanda took from the cupboard. Then you carry them across to the dining table with your remaining hand. Wanda passes you again on her way back, and smiles. You duck your head to hide flushed cheeks, and set the glasses down one at a time, beside each plate. Wanda turns the volume down on the radio, then fills the jug from under the tap and then carries it over, meeting your watchful eyes. She sets it down, then pulls out the chair beside you. You’re about to move to the other side of the table, sure you’ve managed to accidentally hover at her spot, but then she gestures with her hand for you to sit. 

“Thank you,” you mumble, as you obey without question. You slide in front of the chair, and lean down to pull it forward, but it moves slowly without your input. So you sit, and turn back to see Wanda smiling down at you. She briefly places a hand on your intact shoulder, then moves round the table, taking the seat opposite you. 

A warm, cosy feeling settles in your stomach. You feel a little exposed, with her facing you, but her kindness is chipping away at your discomfort and softening your demeanour. Wanda picks up her fork and flicks her eyes towards your plate meaningfully, so you lift yours too, and begin to eat.

It’s a little awkward, only having one hand, but luckily the omelette isn’t too difficult to cut with the side of your fork. The two of you eat in peaceful tandem, and you’re surprised by the ease of the silence, the lack of pressure to speak. It’s appreciated, because you can’t think of anything to say right now, and your brain probably wouldn’t comply if you were obliged to answer any questions.

The first interruption of the meal comes from the stairs, a loud and insistent meow which makes you jump. You turn to see a small white cat approaching the table with slightly skittish steps as it scopes out the two human bodies at the table.

“Oh, silly me,” Wanda chuckles. “I’m sorry Y/N, I forgot to tell you… Meet Mayakovsky. Or, Myau-kovsky, as Nat calls him. Because he meows so much.”

Mayakovsky stops a few steps from the table, tail flicking and eyes watching you intently. You glance at Wanda for permission, and she smiles. So, very slowly, you crouch down on the floor, and extend your left arm, hand in a fist except for your index finger, which you stretch out for a greeting.

Mayakovsky’s tail settles into an upright curl, and you wait patiently, trying not to move or stare at him too intensely. Soon, your patience is rewarded by his approach, cautious at first, but then confident as he begins to trust you. He boops his nose against your finger, then goes round to his right, rubbing his cheek against your fist and sliding along your outstretched arm. Your face lights up at his acceptance, and as he circles behind you, tail wrapping round your legs as he goes, you slowly turn your head to Wanda and grin happily. 

“Well, he’s taken to you rather quickly, sweetheart,” she says, laughing lightly. 

When Mayakovsky comes back around to your front, you slowly sit down on the floorboards, and offer your hand again. When he rubs his head against you, you turn it into a testing stroke, and you hear and feel him purring against you. 

“You’re very handsome,” you whisper to him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“He is very handsome,” Wanda agrees, “but he’s also a bit of a liability.”

“Really?” you ask, wondering what sort of antics he gets up to.

“He’s deaf, but also not very coordinated, so he often falls off things when he gets a fright. If you need to get his attention or let him know you’re there, it’s best to step heavily on the floor so he can feel the vibrations.”

You nod, and look back at Mayakovsky, who’s nudging you to give him more pets. His whiskers are tickling against you, making you giggle. You stroke him a while longer, until he gets bored, or remembers what he came in for. He trots over to Wanda, and meows loudly again, like he doesn’t realise how loud he’s being. Which, you suppose, he can’t.

“OK, OK, I’ll get you something,” Wanda tells him, standing up. You return to your seat at the table and watch as she goes into the kitchen and takes a bag of cat food from a cupboard near the door. Then she pours a small amount into a bowl, partially hidden under a shelf, which might be why you missed it when she showed you around. Once the bag is away and Mayakovsky’s face is buried in the bowl, she opens the balcony door a little, letting in a welcome breeze.

“Nat thinks I spoil him too much,” Wanda sighs, coming back to you and leaving Mayakovsky to eat. “But I can’t help it, he’s just too cute.”

“He is,” you agree, taking another bite of your omelette. “How long have you had him?”

“Not long; I adopted him less than a year ago. Nat wasn’t happy at first,” Wanda laughs. “But then, it was a surprise for her — I adopted him the day I found out about him, and didn’t have a chance to warn her. It took her a while, but I think they’re quite fond of each other now, though neither of them will admit it.”

You grin, but inside you’re beginning to feel a little worried about meeting Natasha. You can’t help but feel that you, like Mayakovsky, are a surprise arrival. And you’re certainly nowhere near as cute as him, which must have helped ease the blow. 

Mayakovsky finishes his food, and trots out the slight opening of the door to the balcony. Wanda explains that there’s a cat flap downstairs too, so he can get out even if the door is closed. You finish your omelette and drink some more water, feeling the cold liquid dripping down your throat and quenching the thirst you hadn’t registered until now. 

Wanda stands to clear the table, and you help her stack the plates and carry everything through to the kitchen.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, as she loads the plates, cutlery and glasses into the dishwasher.

You shrug. “I’m okay. A bit sore though.”

“Of course, sweetheart” she nods, then glances at her watch. “You can have some more painkillers in an hour.”

Your head tilts in question, wondering how she knows this. Wanda huffs out a half-laugh, and smiles at your confusion.

“The doctor who gave us your medication, darling. She said you could take it every six hours, but we should count from the drugs you were given in the ambulance around nine this morning.”

“Oh,” you say, realising you remember none of this, despite your attempts to appear engaged in the hospital. Maybe the concussion is affecting you more than you think.

“It’s okay honey, I can keep track for you until you’re feeling a bit better.” Wanda reaches over and squeezes your hand. “I can’t imagine how confusing all of this must be for you, but you’re doing just fine, alright?”

There’s a tensing, twisting feeling in your chest; you feel so comfortable and self-conscious at the same time, and you don’t know how that can be.

“Now, what would you like to do this afternoon? I wondered about watching a film downstairs, to let your body rest a bit. What do you think?”

You shrug, then nod very slightly. You don’t have any other ideas, and a movie sounds nice. Internally, you wonder if she will join you. You hope that she will join you. 

“Alright,” she says, closing the dishwasher. “Let’s go down, then.”

You scoot out of the way to let her lead, still not confident enough to initiate anything. She smiles at you ask she passes, and looks over her shoulder to watch you tiptoeing behind her. When you reach the stairs, you’re able to use the banister on the left side to reassure yourself on your descent. You still feel off-balance with your right arm strapped tightly against your torso, and as the painkillers begin to wane inside your body, the bruising impact of the crash is beginning to emerge in your legs too. Wanda watches you the whole way down, glancing back and pausing when you slow.

“That’s it honey,” she encourages you softly. “Take it slow.” 

When you reach the bottom, she grants you a quiet “good job”, and you bite your lip in an attempt to restrain the blushing.

Wanda leads you to their living room space, sitting down on the sofa and patting the cushion beside her. You sidle behind the coffee table and perch down slowly, lowering yourself with your good arm on the sofa and leaving an appropriate gap between you. Sinking in to the sofa and surrounded by cushions, your jeans suddenly feel more restrictive and uncomfortable on your body. The denim grating against grazed skin, digging in to your tummy as you sit. You begin to regret leaving them on and not changing when you could. You’ll just have to bear it, and hope that you can be distracted from the feeling.

“What would you like to watch?” Wanda asks, picking up the remote and turning the TV on. 

You shrug. It’s silly, and a little rude maybe, so you force yourself to find the words. “Don’t know.” Still, it feels insufficient. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to think…”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she reassures you, interrupting your babbling explanation. “Let me think for you. Just let me know your thoughts if and when you can.” 

You nod, with a small smile of relief. It’s a welcome reprieve, to be given the opportunity to rest. Leaning back against the cushion, you feel your muscles relax, making you realise how much tension you’ve been holding in them for hours. Wanda watches you, and smiles at your contentment. 

You look up at the TV screen, your breath slowing. Wanda navigates to Netflix, and flicks through some options. You find it hard to keep up with the changing images, so you let your eyes wander a little, turning slowly to face her and gaze at her intent expression.

“Hmm,” she hums, thinking. “When I’m feeling under the weather I like to watch something relaxing, like a Studio Ghibli film.”

You perk up at that. “I love Studio Ghibli films!” you pipe up, eyes jumping back to the screen.

“Have you seen this one?” Wanda asks, highlighting Kiki’s Delivery Service. You frown, and shake your head. “It’s one of my favourites,” she tells you, and you turn back to her.

“Can we watch it then?” you ask, realising you’ve assumed she’ll stay, but hoping she intended to anyway.

“Of course, sweetheart. Let’s see if you enjoy it as much as I do.”

You smile, sinking deeper into the sofa, happy that she seems to be settling down to stay too. She starts playing it, and tucks her feet up so that her legs are crossed on the sofa beside you. Her knee is very close to you now; you can feel the heat of her body. But you force yourself to focus on the screen, which doesn’t turn out to be hard. You’re very quickly transfixed by the gorgeous animation, the gutsy young witch and her doleful cat companion, Jiji. You’re so engrossed that you gradually forget where you are, and who you’re with. In the scene when Jiji the cat sticks his tongue out and blows a raspberry into the air, you giggle and pull your feet up onto the sofa, forgetting Wanda’s proximity. Your foot bumps into hers, and you’re brought back to earth at once, blushing at your clumsiness and the level to which you have become invested in the film. You tuck your feet underneath you a little tighter, so your crossed left foot can’t bump into her right. And you stare back at the screen, determined not to look at Wanda and show her your burning face.

After a while, Wanda puts her feet down on the floor and shuffles to the edge of the sofa. 

“I’m just going to get your meds, sweetheart,” she whispers in explanation. “I don’t want you to leave it too late and get more sore.”

You blink at her, thoughts still occupied by the film. As she stands, your brain finally catches up.

“Thank you,” your murmur, and she gives you a little smile before passing in front of the coffee table and returning to the stairs.

In her absence, you shuffle back into the left corner of the sofa so that you can rest you legs out without intruding into Wanda’s spot. It’s a little uncomfortable though, because you need to stay at a certain angle to avoid pressing your bad side into the sofa.

When Wanda returns, she is carrying a glass of water in one hand and the pill bottle in the other. She sees your shifted position, and frowns briefly. 

“Honey, switch over to my side,” she directs you gently. “It looks uncomfortable, having your shoulder against the cushions.”

Because she’s phrased it as an instruction, rather than a question, you feel obliged to obey without offering an initial polite refusal. You swing your legs to stand, and sidle between the coffee table and the sofa to sit in the opposite corner instead. Indeed, when you sit down it is a lot more comfortable. With your right arm facing out you can lean back fully, and relax your core muscles. Plus, there’s still the hint of warmth on the cushion, the ghost of her body heat left behind.

Wanda crouches down beside you, and holds out the glass of water. You have to sit up again a little bit, afraid of spilling, before taking it in your left hand. Then she opens the pill bottle, pressing and twisting with both hands to undo the seal and overcome the child-lock. She shakes one pill out into her hand, then twists the lid back on with the tips of her fingers and places the bottle onto the table.

“Ah,” she says, realising at the same time as you that you now don’t have a hand to take the pill with. A wild, imagined image of her placing it on your tongue leaps to the forefront of your imagination, and you’re suddenly gripped by the terror that she can somehow see it, read it on your rubescent face. You hand back the glass, averting your gaze, and let her swap it for the small white pill instead. You open your mouth just a little to let it in, then take back the glass and wash it away with the water. It gets a little caught in your throat, and you pull a face without meaning too, grimacing as you try to flush it down with more water. Finally, it relents its grip and disappears down the pipe.

Wanda takes the glass back from you in her right hand, and simultaneously brushes your hair behind your ear with her left, making you catch your breath at her soft, whispering touch.

“Hopefully this will help your pain a bit,” she says, frowning at you sympathetically. You lean back again, looking into her grey-blue eyes, blinking stupidly. Then you nod, because she doesn’t seem to be moving, and you’re not sure if you should be doing or saying something. She smiles at this, and shuffles in front of you to sit on the other side of the sofa, where she’ll surely also feel the warmth of your body beneath her. She’s also chosen to sit right beside your feet, and you can almost feel the charged space between your toes and her thighs. 

“Do you want me to go back a bit?” she asks, gesturing to the screen when you look back at her in confusion.

You shake your head. “It’s okay,” you say quietly. She smiles, nods, and turns back to watch the film. And you do the same, tension evaporating as you focus on the story again, letting the music lull you. You’re so comfy, and the movie is so calm and comforting with its soft colours and gentle music. It gets a little blurry and harder to see, but you don’t really notice, and you definitely don’t mind. Slowly, your eyes flicker and begin to close, as you drift off to sleep.

When you wake, you find a soft blanket draped over your body. Turning to face the screen, you see it has been turned off. Wanda is sitting at the far end of the sofa, tucked into the opposite corner, legs crossed and hands rhythmically knitting between them. She glances up, and her face breaks into a smile.

“Hey, sweetheart. Good sleep?”

You have to think a moment, still catching up to where you are and what has happened. Finally, you nod. 

“How long was I out for?” you ask quietly.

“Just over an hour,” Wanda tells you, her voice gentle, like she’s trying not to startle you so soon after waking. She leans down and places her knitting on the shelf beneath the coffee table. “I was just thinking I should wake you up soon actually. Nat should be home from work shortly, and I’d better start making us some dinner.”

You sit up, eager not to hold her back from her daily routine. The blanket falls away from you a little, reminding you that she must have tucked it in around you while you were sleeping. The thought makes you feel a lightheaded, giddy kind of joy. But then you realise that this fuzzy, cosy state you are in is not how you want to be when you’re introduced to Natasha, who sounds capable and serious and discerning.

“Is it okay if I go upstairs and get changed? You ask, feeling there is finally enough incentive to justify the inevitable pain of removing your scuffed clothes. 

“Of course, darling. Do you want any help?”

“No thanks,” you say hastily, terrified at the notion of her seeing your body when you’re trying so hard to contain (and deny) all your haphazard emotions. “I appreciate the offer, but really, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, fixing you with a look that makes you feel like you’re being x-rayed. “It might be tricky with your sling, honey. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” you assure her, trying to sound confident, despite fully agreeing that yes, it will be tricky.

“Okay,” she relents. “But I’d prefer to wait outside your room, and then you can call me if you get stuck, alright?”

You nod, biting your lip as you consider the premise, imagining getting stuck halfway through changing and having to desperately call for aid in such a compromising position. The thought makes you shudder. 

You peel back the blanket, attempting to fold it but hardly managing with one hand. Wanda smiles at you though, so you think it will do. 

The two of you walk up the stairs together, climbing the three flights to your — no, the guest — bedroom. Once there, you take a deep breath, summoning all your resolve to complete this task. Wanda waits, as promised, outside, and you close the door over most of the way behind you. 

It’s an almighty ordeal: even just shimmying out of your jeans and pulling on a loose pair of joggers feels like a marathon effort, and involves a lot more painful leaning than you expected. With your lower half sorted, you immediately realise how stupid you were to assume you could manage any of the next part by yourself. It dawns on you just how dependent you are now, at least until your collarbone heals enough to move your arm without excruciation. Throwing caution to the wind, you attempt to undo the sling, breathing heavily in wheezing pants of pain. But then you are stuck, crying out as the weight of your arm is released and you are forced to tense it in position, the energy rippling through your bones. 

“Y/N, honey, can I come in?” Wanda asks, sounding desperate. 

You can’t reply verbally, you’re expending all your effort on trying not to scream. But the door opens anyway, and she’s rushing to you, hushing you gently, hands taking over with reassuring efficiency. You close your eyes as she supports you, checks for your consent. When she asks what you want to change into you open your eyes just enough to gesture at the baggy t-shirt you laid out on the bed. You nod pathetically whenever she asks if she can proceed, desperate just to get it over with, no longer worried about your dignity since it’s already gone, deserted from your body along with your tears.

“Sweetheart, I don’t want to be too forward, and you can absolutely say no if you’re not comfortable, but do you maybe want me to take your bra off? I just wonder if it’s adding pressure to your collarbone…” Wanda asks, cautious and gentle.

You really think about this. It occurs to you that it will have to come off at some point tonight, and maybe it’s better if you get it all out of the way now, rather than having to rehash this undignified sequence again later today.

“Um, w-would you?” you ask, very quietly. “It’s just, it is kind of uncomfortable, and I don’t… I can’t…” You tail off, but she is quick to reassure you.

“Of course I can, sweetheart. This must all feel so awkward, hm? But it’s okay. I’m happy to help, you just need to let me know if you want me to stop at any point.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and duck your eyes down again. 

It’s embarrassing, yes, but Wanda is very careful and respectful as she helps you undress. She focussed her attention entirely on keeping you right arm at the least-worst angle, and averts her gaze expertly from the source of your self-consciousness. Slowly, so as not to jar you, she slips the t-shirt through your sore arm and then over your head, letting you contort your left arm through the sleeve yourself. Then she gently reassembles the sling on your body, making sure it’s sitting right and the fabric of your t-shirt is smoothed out underneath.

“There,” she whispers, “all done.”

You breathe out a deep, relieved breath, and cautiously look up into her eyes.

“Thank you,” you tell her, really focussing on holding her gaze, since you are desperate to communicate the full extent of your gratitude. Your collarbone aches something rotten after all the contortion of changing, but you feel infinitely more comfortable now that you’re out of the clothes your body was violated in.

“You’re so welcome,” Wanda assures you, placing a hand on your head and smoothing down your hair in a light stroke. “Now, I’m going to go downstairs and start cooking. Do you want to join me, or would you like some time to yourself before dinner?”

Her touch is like a drug, one that leaves you desperately wanting more. You feel a tugging sensation inside you, one that yearns to stay near and languish in wait for more of that feeling, of her fingers against your skin, of her soft lips smiling nearby.

“Can I come with you, please?”

She smiles, and the small glint of her white teeth between her lips is like the glint of heaven’s gates breaking through the clouds. 

“Of course, sweetheart. Such good manners,” she hums approvingly. You blush, and take her hand automatically, which you think she was holding out for you, but now you’re not sure. She doesn’t let you doubt though, because she squeezes your hand gently in hers, like she wanted it all along, even if she didn’t.

Back in the kitchen, you offer to help but Wanda distracts you with a recipe book, somehow convincing you to flick through and find something to bake tomorrow, and making you forget you ever asked to assist her. You’re gazing avidly at a photo of some expertly iced cupcakes when you hear a door opening in the distance, and turn around with a hint of trepidation. 

Through the open-plan level, past the table and the armchairs, you can see a woman has entered the main door, and is putting her shoes away.

“Hello, my love,” Wanda calls out. “We’re in the kitchen.”

Your body cools at once in anticipation of meeting Natasha. Does she even know you’re here? Has Wanda told her to expect you?

Natasha approaches, her gait confident and casual. She’s maybe slightly shorter than Wanda, and her body is more lean. You can see the muscles in her arms as she walks, and you notice her posture is straight and strong. When she nears, you observe her face. She has dyed red hair, glossy and clean in a tight french-braid at the back. She’s also beautiful, in a striking, slightly intimidating way. She fixes you with an inquisitive stare, and you again have the feeling that you’re being x-rayed, though this time, it feels a little less friendly.

“Nat, did you get my message?” Wanda asks, walking over to her and giving a chaste kiss in greeting. Natasha reciprocates, but quickly returns her gaze to you, frowning slightly as she answers her wife.

“Only just,” she says shortly.

“Well,” Wanda smiles between you and her wife. “Nat, this is Y/N.”

“Natasha,” she says, nodding her head to you. And you’re caught between thinking that she’s introducing herself, versus instructing you to call her by her full name.

“It’s nice to meet you, Natasha,” you say, but it comes out in a little squeak which rather diminishes the formal impression your were going for.

Natasha gives you a very brief smile, then takes a breath in and looks to Wanda.

“Right, I’m going to take a shower, if that’s okay. When will dinner be?”

“No problem, my love. It should be ready in fifteen,” Wanda tells her, turning slightly so you can no longer see her expression, only the slight cocking of her head from the back. You think Natasha might give a small nod of her head, but it might have been a meaningless movement. Then she gives Wanda a quick kiss, and departs upstairs. 

You watch her go, feeling a little crestfallen, and mentally chastising yourself for letting it get to you.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. Maybe she’s had a bad day. And besides, she’s entitled to feel a little taken aback by you, you’ve essentially gatecrashed their lives.

“Don’t worry about Nat, sweetheart,” Wands tells you quietly. “She… Well, it takes her a while to warm up to people. It’s not personal, okay?”

You look up at Wanda’s face, furrowed with concern like she yearns to make sure that you aren’t taking her wife’s behaviour to heart. Her words are a bit reassuring, though they don’t quite go all the way to assuaging the worry that you’re not wanted. But you nod, forcing a smile, because somehow it pains you more to see Wanda worried, and you desperately want to be a good guest for her, since she’s going to all this trouble to help you. So you try to reassure her in a casual manner.

“It’s okay — I hadn’t really noticed it anyway,” you say. It’s a lie, and perhaps an obvious one, judging by the way Wanda’s lips curl into a somewhat pitiful smile. But you don’t pay it much mind; your focus is stolen by her hand reaching out and taking hold of your left hand. She clasps your fingers from below and wraps her thumb on top to draw light circles on the back of your hand, watching as your body reacts unconsciously, eyes fluttering in hazy delight.

“Just give her some time,” Wanda hums, her words echoing in your brain like a mantra. “Soon she’ll be as taken with you as Mayakovsky and I are.”

You blush, and smile to yourself, looking at your lap as she squeezes your hand and lets you go. She returns to her cooking, and you turn back to look at the recipe book. But you’re not reading or looking at the pictures at all. None of the pages turn, as you’re engulfed by the giddy feeling that maybe, just maybe, you are wanted after all.

Eventually, Wanda pulls you out of your haze and asks you sweetly if you can set the table. You nod quickly, and almost fall off the stool with your eagerness. She chuckles and catches you with an arm at your waist.

“Careful, honey,” she laughs, and you grin bashfully in return. 

You set the table in a slow, laboured manner, since you only have one arm to carry things, and Wanda gives you a light warning not to stack things when she sees you attempting to balance three plates in one hand. So you go one item at a time, trying to get the right balance between speed and stability. Natasha appears as you’re finishing, her hair loose and damp on her shoulders, watching you as she attempts to dry it with a towel. You avoid her gaze, feeling uncomfortable at being perceived so intensely by her. You wonder what Wanda told her in the message; you wonder what she thinks of you. 

When Wanda calls for you both to take a seat, you wait for Natasha to sit first, scared of taking her place and causing a greater rift between you. She looks at you for a moment from her seated position, observing your body swaying slightly on the spot in indecision, before she pulls out the chair beside her. You bite your lip, and force yourself to smile at her, before travelling round the other side of the table and sitting down. 

“You look a bit rough,” Natasha says bluntly. “What happened?”

“I, um, don’t really remember,” you say, in an awkward, stilted manner. “Wanda says I was hit by a truck at the intersection.”

Wanda carries over a big pan, filled with the sweet-smelling apricot and chickpea tagine she told you she was making. 

“She was, Nat; it was awful,” Wanda explains, brow furrowing sympathetically at you as she relates the story. “It hit her from the side; I was right behind her, so she was flung onto my bonnet. I only just stopped in time — she could have been crushed otherwise.”

“Broken collarbone?” Natasha asks you, and you blink in surprise.

“Yes,” you respond, surprised by her quick and accurate diagnosis. “H-how did you know?”

Natasha shrugged. “Broke mine a few years ago. It really sucks, I’m sorry.”

You give her a small, grateful smile, which has to double up for two kindnesses when she takes your plate for you, serves you a portion, and places it down again.

“Thanks,” you murmur. She just nods simply, and focusses on serving herself. 

Wanda asks some general questions about Natasha’s work day, and Natasha offers some vague answers in return. You’re not really listening though, you still feel a bit groggy from the pain and the meds and the sleep. Plus, you’re concentrating really hard on eating your tagine without spilling it on you.

The quiet sounds of chewing and light scraping of cutlery against plates is disrupted by a loud meowing from the door. Mayakovsky strides in, and you watch as he approaches Natasha’s chair, then opens his mouth to release a black, eight-legged mass which wriggles as it falls to the floor.

You and Wanda both jump in surprise, but Natasha just laughs and rolls her eyes.

“Of course you would save this for me, malen'kiy negodnik,” she says with a dramatic sigh.And she confidently scoops up the spider in her hands, nimbly avoiding Mayakovsky’s desperate swipes and standing up with her hands cupped around his prey. You watch as she walks to the balcony door, opening it wider with her elbow, then steps outside and releases the spider into one of the plant pots. Mayakovsky stalks behind her, but then scarpers down the steps, abandoning his prey in search of something better. 

Natasha comes back in, closes the door behind her with one of her toned arms, and walks to the sink to wash her hands. 

“What would you do without me, ladies?” she calls out cockily.

And, hearing her husky voice and watching her self-assured movements, you realise with a jolt to your stomach that you may now have more than one crush to contend with.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the introductions of Natasha and Mayakovsky. Here is a photo of the cat that inspired him (the real version belongs to my friends; this beautiful boy is also deaf and he has a crooked tail so he's not very coordinated. He is blessed with pretty privilege, however). ♡

[peachglazewrites]

Hiiii could you write for hyper fem reader abby? It's totally fine if you don't write for super feminine reader tho

𝚏𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: abby/femme!reader 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: none ♡︎ 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜: established relationship, fluff 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘: no use of y/n, outfit descriptions, modern au & canon 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 2.4k

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: Abby helps her overthinking femme with her cute little date outfit + a brain dump on how this dynamic would work in canon!

a/n: thank you so much for the request! this is my first one so i’m suuuper nervy posting it haha but I wanted to do this between writing chapter eleven of dream of us In a year!

i hope you enjoy! ✿

“Honey, I think you look fine.”

“Fine?” you ask, peeking around your closet door, eyebrow raised. “Just fine?”

Abby stutters from where she sits on your bed. “Not—” Bringing a hand up, she rubs at her forehead. “Fine as in good. Cute. Hot... I don’t know what you’re looking for.”

You laugh, crinkling your nose. “I know what you meant.” You retreat from the closet, stopping in front of your full-length mirror once more. It’s almost a struggle to see past all the stickers and photos pasted along the edges. “And thank you, I just…” you sigh, posing in the mirror, smoothing down your top. “I’m just not feeling the white, I don’t think.”

The two of you are in your bedroom, getting ready to go out for lunch. Well, you’re getting ready to go out— Abby’s been ready since before she got here. She even arrived extra early, early enough to catch you still in your pyjamas, hair curlers hanging on for dear life, smudges of yesterday’s mascara darkening under your eyes. You let her in, obviously, leading her by the hand as you sleepily shuffled back to your room.

She’s been sat there patiently the whole time, watching you pad around as you get ready for the day. It’s mesmerising to her, the way you do yourself up. Expertly brushing and pinning your hair in place, dabbing concealer and blush and a whole bunch of other things Abby doesn’t have the vocabulary to name along the soft planes of your pretty little face.

You’d just finished up, clipping a pair of sparkling earrings to your lobes when you caught your reflection in the mirror by your closet. Abby could tell just from the dip in your brows that you were second-guessing, overthinking the outfit that you had meticulously put together, deciding, ‘no, this wasn’t it.’

So, Abby keeps sitting, looking so out of place your bed, plush pink sheets threatening to swallow her up as she sinks into them, surrounded on all sides by an impressive wall of decorative pillows and plush toys— most of which have been won for you by Abby herself.

Her ripped denim jeans, loaded with too many pockets to be purely functional, are belted at her waist with an impressive buckle-- something that makes her look like she walked right off a ranch. Tucked in to the waist of her jeans is a plain white tee, short sleeves rolled up to show off more of her freckled arms, muscles bulging as she wraps them around a heart-shaped throw pillow. Her usual braid has been passed for a low bun this morning, keeping the hair off her neck in anticipation for today’s sunny weather.

The only accessory she wears is a simple necklace, a locket you got her for your anniversary, a photo of you on the inside. Technically there’s two photos, one hidden behind the other for a very particular reason, meant for her eyes only.

You turn again in the mirror, chewing on your glossy lip as you look over the white tennis skirt peeking out from under your ribbed top. It’s a delightful shade of pink with capped sleeves. You just received it in the mail the other day and haven’t had a chance to wear it, and what better time to debut it than on a lunch date with your love. The buttons along the front are shaped like hearts. It’s perfect.

Just not with this skirt.

The vision was to add something white, try and match the colour of Abby’s top, but it’s simply not working out.

With a sigh, you unzip the skirt, letting it fall off your hips and pool at your bare feet, stepping out of it and walking back into your closet. Your top is longer than usual, but not long enough to completely hide your naked thighs from Abby, let alone the peek of your underwear from her wandering eyes.

“I think I like this outfit the most,” Abby says, a sly smirk playing on her lips as she runs her gaze lazily across your bare legs.

Rolling your eyes, you grab the closest ball-shaped object (a pair of bundled up socks) and throw them at her. You manage to hit her square between the eyes with your impeccable aim. “Keep it in your pants.”

She chuckles, a low sound as she picks up the bundle from her lap. They’re a ribbed white pair, a delicate ruffle along the top. Abby hums in thought, chewing on her cheek, unrolling the socks and smoothing them out. They’re about knee high, and she recognises them from the few times she’s seen you wear them.

Her eyes flick up to you, on the tips of your toes as you shuffle through your hanging skirts, then back down to the fabric in her hands.

“Hey, babe?”

“Hm?” You keep shuffling through your skirts, metal hangers screeching as you slide them along the pole.

“Why don’t you…” she trails off, feeling a bit silly for even attempting to give you of all people clothing advice. She clears her throat, starting again. “Why don’t you wear these, and that uh—you know that denim skirt you have? With the layers? It’s got that--”

“Oh!” You pop your head out from your clothes, looking over to your girlfriend perched on the bed. “The one with the ribbon on the hem?”

“Yeah, that one. That way we’ll both be wearing denim, and your socks will match my top… right?” She tacks on, almost shyly.

Ugh. She looks so cute sitting there, socks in one hand, frilly heart pillow clutched to her chest with the other. Her lips are doing that pouting thing she does when she’s thinking, a pretty pink from all her chewing on them.

“Let me see if I can find it.”

Turning back to your skirts, you riffle through each one until you spot it, neatly pressed and folded over the hanger. It’s just how Abby remembers it, a washed denim in two layers, a lovely pink ribbon weaved in and out through the slightly ruffled hem.

Not wanting to give any room for your brain to overthink, you shuffle the skirt over your hips, buttoning and zipping it into place. It sits at that perfect length above your knee, just long enough to be modest, but short enough to be a bit flirty.

Abby lets out a whistle as you exit the closet, stepping in front of the mirror. 

“There she is.” She grins, loving the way she can see you blush in the mirror, watching as your already pink cheeks darken in colour under your makeup. The shade matches your eyes, similar pinks and reds brushed over your lids, blended delicately and precisely.

She loves it when you coordinate like this, tying everything in from head to toe.

You’ve got to hand it to her, she did a really good job. Your top sits smooth along the skirt, not looking too lumpy or awkward along your middle. It hides a fair bit of the waistband, but just like the tennis skirt, it lets the bottom peek out in a way that you can’t help but find adorable.

You don’t even have to have the socks on to know that this is a winner.

“Not too shabby, Anderson.” You grin back, turning to face her properly.

Abby sits up a bit straighter, chest puffed out in pride. Letting the pillow fall to her lap she raises one of her hands, making a spinning motion. “Give us a twirl, pretty lady.”

You let out an embarrassed giggle, cheeks burning hotter as you give in, spinning in place and finishing with a pose. You meet her gaze, warmth blooming within your chest at her soft eyes, so clear and filled to the brim with affection.

“Perfect.”

“Not yet.” You reach out, making grabby hands you walk over to her spot on the bed. “The finishing touch.”

Abby removes the pillow from her lap, patting one of her muscled thighs as she holds the socks out for you to take, smirking.

“You’re impossible.” You huff playfully, making a big show of spinning on your heels before perching on your girlfriend’s lap, taking the socks from her hand.

She chuckles behind you, her strong arms coming to wrap around your middle, pulling you back to sit flush against her chest. You can feel the cool press of her locket between your shoulder blades, her hot breath fanning across your neck as she buries her face into your shoulder.

You have to navigate around her grip on you, but you eventually roll the socks up your calves, adjusting the ruffles so they’re sitting neatly under your knees.

There. Now it’s perfect.

Abby’s arms tighten around you, squeezing you gently. With a soft hum you lean back against her chest, bringing one manicured hand up to lightly scratch at her scalp. She won’t admit it out loud, but she loves the way your nails feel. It’s part of the reason she offers to pay for you to get them done. That, and the way you get so giddy over a fresh set, staring at them for hours after you come back from your appointment.

“Thank you for being so patient. This must get so annoying.”

“Never annoying,” Abby murmurs, tilting her head to press a soft kiss to the skin of your neck. You shudder lightly, sinking into the feeling. “Like watching you get all dressed up.”

You can’t help the sigh that leaves you as she kisses up your neck, pressing her strong nose into the skin, finding the source of the perfume you spritzed there. A sweet scent that contrasts the spicy cologne she likes to wear.

“Mm… Like it when you wear this one.”

You giggle, letting out a soft gasp as she nips the skin gently. “I know, it’s why I put it on.”

She continues her path up your neck, kissing along your jaw and cheek. Holding her head in place you tilt your own to meet her, pressing your lips together in a lingering kiss.

It’s sweet. She’s sweet. Unbelievably so.

“Love you,” she mumbles against your lips, pressing in for another kiss before you can answer.

You pull away, hand sliding from the back of her head to her cheek, cupping it gently. “Love you, too.” Your thumb swipes across her lips, wiping off the tacky residue of your tinted lip gloss. “Want to head out?”

Abby nods, pressing in for one last, quick kiss before unravelling herself from you, giving your hip a loving pat. “Let’s go, before they sell out of those muffins you like.”

𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗

Working in any capacity for the WLF doesn’t leave a lot of room or time for you to indulge in your physical appearance. Practicality always takes precedence, and you would never ever jeopardise yours or others safety because you were too stubborn to wear a pair of ugly cargo pants. Even as one of the dog trainers you don’t get a lot of leeway, having to be prepared and able to run, play, train, and bathe the couple dozen dogs you keep on site every day.

You live with what you can get, fussing over your hair and wearing the small amounts of makeup you have. It’s very DIY, a couple of the women in the stadium making kohl for the eyes, lip tints and blushes from extracts of things like beetroots. It’s not perfect, but it beats the expired stuff by a longshot. That’s just an infection waiting to happen.

The thing you take the most pride in are your nails. You have your routine perfected at this point, sitting down to file and shape them, rubbing oils into your hands to keep them nice and soft as you push back your cuticles. Your favourite part is painting them, switching out the colours each time you need to redo them.

No matter what you wear or what your hair looks like that day, you’ll have your nails pretty and painted, and that’s enough to get you through.

Your girlfriend Abby is the polar opposite to you, content to spend every waking (and even sleeping) moment in her cargos and muscle tanks. Not that you’re complaining. You both know she looks ridiculously good in them.

Everything about her is practical, and she doesn’t care for putting more effort into her appearance than she has to. Even her braid is entirely utilitarian, keeping her long hair out of her face. If she does it right, she can keep it in for the couple of days while she’s out on patrol, not needing to waste moments redoing the entire thing.

She doesn’t entirely get it, the want for femininity. She’s more than comfortable leaving it behind. If she’s being honest, she likes rejecting it— finding comfort in her broadness, the boxers she slides along her hips, the spicy cologne she spritzes after her showers.

She lives for the moments when you look up at her, eyes smudged dark and lips her favourite shade of pink, manicured hands running along the planes of her face or up to scratch the back of her head as you call her handsome. She’d do just about anything for you in those moments. Fuck everyone else, you’re the only thing she can think of.

Which is why, even though she doesn’t really get understand, she goes out of her way to find things for you, bring you home little bits and pieces from her patrols that she knows you’ll love.

She takes a few minutes to step away from the others and walk the aisles of that old pharmacy, eyes roaming the displays of nail polish. She ducks through broken windows to stuff a hairclip or hair tie into one of her pockets. She pretends to go take a piss when really, she’s jogging back to the jewellers she saw on the corner, snatching a dainty chain from a display cabinet.

And it’s all so worth it when she comes home after those long days, meeting you in darkened hallways or up in your favourite spot in the stadium bleachers, kissing your tinted lips as she presses her gifts into your palm. When she can watch the smile that breaks out over your face, eyes sparkling as you turn the items over in your hand, thanking her as you pull her in for another kiss.

She’s addicted to the way her heart thumps in her chest when she sees you the next time, newest colour on your nails or that clip she just got you holding your hair back. Almost as much as the grin she gets when you spot her looking, kissing the tips of your fingers before blowing it in her direction.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ request your own here! . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

[prettylilyanime]

Blooming Hearts ♡ Prologue

˚✿˖ Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x fem reader

˚✿˖ Synopsis: All your life, you’ve had it all—wealth, beauty, and a quirk good enough to secure your spot at UA. But after three years, you still feel more like an outsider than a future hero. Social life? Barely existent. Friends? Who needs them? You’re ready to coast through your final year solo… until fate lands you squarely in the lap of a certain hot-headed blonde—literally.

˚✿˖ tags/warnings: 18+, smut in the later chapters, reader is spoiled, shy reader, they're all third years at UA, Fluff, strangers? to lovers trope, not really strangers, miscommunication, drama, y/n just wants to make friends, reader is canonically pretty, reader is a hero in training, whipped bakugou, she falls first but he falls harder

˚✿˖ Masterlist ♡ Next Chapter

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖

The scenery of summertime Tokyo whizzes by from the comfortable leather seats of the private car, the hum of the engine blending with the rhythmic swish of tires on the paved mountain road.

Your chauffeur, Hajime, expertly maneuvers the sleek vehicle, his hands steady on the wheel as he weaves down the familiar route.

The commute from your family’s lavish estate to UA’s campus is always scenic. The meticulously maintained grass and perfectly arranged flowers of your front lawn dwindle in the distance, giving way to the ever-growing density of the city.

From the rearview mirror, Hajime’s eyes flick to yours, a soft grin tugging at his lips. His suit is as sharp as ever, the dark fabric neatly pressed, every crease intentional.

“Excited for your last year, Y/N?” he asks, his voice carrying a warmth you’ve grown used to, the kind of warmth that almost feels fatherly. Or at least, what you imagine fatherly might be.

Navigating parental relationships has always been… complicated. After all, how do you really gauge what a father figure is supposed to feel like when you’ve never known the man responsible for half of your existence?

Still, you smile back, comforted by Hajime’s familiar presence. “I guess. It’ll be weird going back to the dorms for the last time… at least we managed to change the room décor to that baby blue set I saw in Vogue.”

By we, of course, you mean your staff.

The baby blue décor—delicate white bows hand-sewn onto the softest silk curtains, intricately embroidered florals adorning the bedding, and custom-made furnishings crafted by an exclusive atelier in Florence—had been shipped directly to your dorm within days of you spotting it in an Italian photoshoot spread.

The magazine never mentioned it was available for sale; it wasn’t. But one phone call from your mother, paired with a not-so-subtle offer of a generous sum, ensured it would arrive before the school term started.

So cute!!

Hajime’s grin widens, this time tinged with amusement. “Yes, I was surprised you stuck with the pink as long as you did.”

You snort, propping your chin on your manicured hand. “It was cute! And it matched my hero costume perfectly. I couldn’t resist.”

Your eyes drift to your nails, long and almond-shaped, with baby pink French tips that gleam under the soft lighting of the car. They complement your delicate diamond rings, stacked just right to add a subtle twinkle with every movement.

Today, you’ve opted for a casual look—a contouring bodysuit paired with oversized jeans and designer sneakers, On your wrist, a few thin bracelets jingle softly as the car navigates the increasingly crowded streets.

Casual. Perfectly casual.

Before you know it, the car begins to slow, and your gaze shifts to the familiar gates of UA. The towering glass buildings in the distance reflect the midday sun

You sigh quietly, reaching for your purse. “Excited to see your friends, Y/N?” Hajime asks, his tone light.

You hesitate, the forced smile on your face betraying your unease. Friends. You don't want to give Hajime the impression that you have no such thing, so you lie straight through your white teeth.

“Sure, yeah. I guess,” you mutter, barely audible.

Friends. Would you consider any of your classmates friends? Probably not. They’re friendly, yes. They’ll work with you during class, exchange polite greetings in the hallways, and even offer occasional smiles.

But do they sit with you at lunch? Do they invite you to their weekend hangouts? Not really.

Which is fine. It’s fine! Why would you even want to join them?

They hang out at malls where everything is off-the-rack, nothing you haven’t already pre-ordered months in advance. They talk about things you’ve already experienced or grown bored of. You don’t need their friendship. You don’t want it. Not at all.

Why would you want to hang out with them? You don’t. Not even a little. Not even a smidge—

“Y/N?” Hajime’s voice pulls you out of your spiraling thoughts, grounding you. You blink, realizing your fingers have been gripping your purse a little too tightly. The delicate lambskin is now creased under the pressure. Damn.

“We’re here,” Hajime says with a smile as the car comes to a full stop. You force yourself to relax, smoothing out your expression. It’s just one more year. You can survive one more year.

“Thanks,” you mumble as Hajime steps out and opens your door for you. You climb out, standing awkwardly by the car while he retrieves your suitcases from the trunk.

Most of your belongings—clothes, shoes, jewelry—had already been sent ahead when your mother’s staff redecorated the room. These last few suitcases just contain the extras: makeup, perfume, and other necessities. Still, they’re heavy with the sheer amount of product you’ve packed.

“Alright, Y/N, remember to call if you need anything, okay?” Hajime says as he closes the trunk. His familiar smile eases some of your nerves, but not all of them. You nod quietly, watching as he heads back to the driver’s side.

It’s silly, really—you could call him in ten minutes, and he’d come back without complaint. But still, that nagging anxiety creeps up as he slides into the car. Alone again.

Just one more year.

You swallow the lump forming in your throat as Hajime waves one last time before driving off, leaving you standing by the gates. You raise a hand in a half-hearted wave, watching the car disappear into the distance.

For a moment, you just stand there, clenching and unclenching your hand around the handle of your suitcase. Then, with a quiet sigh, you turn toward the dorm buildings. The sight of the familiar brown exterior makes your fingers itch toward your phone, tempted to call Hajime back. But you resist.

You’ll be fine.

At the entrance, the facial recognition scanner blinks to life, confirming your identity with a soft beep before granting you access. The dorm is quiet at first, save for the sound of your suitcases rolling smoothly over the carpeted floors.

Then you hear it—laughter, light and joyful, echoing from the lounge.

The quiet click of your suitcase wheels against the carpeted floors is the only sound until the elevator doors slide open, revealing the lively common area. Laughter and chatter echo from the lounge, but the moment you step inside, the noise halts.

Mina, Ochako, Jirou, and Momo look up from their spot on the couch, surprised gazes locking onto you.

“Y/N! How was your summer?” Momo asks with a polite smile, her tone genuinely curious. The other girls perk up, awaiting your response.

You force another smile, the tension in your shoulders betraying your discomfort. This is your chance. You quickly forget that just minutes ago you were mentally denying any need for friendship.

You traveled all over Europe, met cool heroes, you even picked up little gifts for everyone, trained with new techniques—

But instead, you hear yourself say, “It was fine.”

An awkward silence follows, and you feel the weight of their expectant stares. Ask them how their summer was. You could save this moment, turn it into something meaningful.

“I’m going to go to my room… I’ll see you all in class,” you mutter, stepping back into the elevator before they can respond. The doors slide shut, and you lean against the wall, exhaling sharply.

The thud of your forehead hitting the metal wall echoes through the empty elevator, the sting barely registering against the flood of embarrassment and nerves coursing through your veins.

You let out a soft groan, eyes squeezed shut as you replay the interaction in your head. Why are you like this? You have stories to tell, gifts to give—hell, you even went out of your way to pick up souvenirs for everyone.

The sparkly eye shimmers you bought for Mina in France, the cool music theory books for Jirou in Germany, the pretty pink dress for Ochako in Italy, and the rare fragrance you found for Momo in Spain—all tucked neatly in your suitcase, now practically wallowing in defeat alongside you.

God, you’re such a loser.

You barely have time to stew in your self-loathing before the elevator doors jerk open slightly, blocked by a muscular arm. Your eyes widen in alarm as Eijiro Kirishima and Bakugo Katsuki shove their way inside, sweaty, hulking, and taking up way too much space for the tiny elevator.

You instinctively flatten yourself against the wall, trying to make yourself as small as possible. Kirishima flashes you a warm grin, entirely unfazed by the tight quarters. “Y/N, hey! Sorry about us. We were just working out. Finally moving in? I think you might be the last one of us to show up.”

Us, as if you were part of them. It’s stupid how your heart skips a beat at the thought.

You force a sheepish smile, nodding. “Ah, no worries. Yeah, just getting settled.”

You try not to look at Bakugo, who hasn’t even glanced your way. He’s standing there in the thinnest, tightest tank top known to mankind, broad shoulders stretching the fabric as if it were struggling to keep up. His arms, toned and defined, catch the dim elevator light just right, and his small waist is framed so perfectly that you have to fight the urge to let your eyes linger. You flick your gaze upward again, heat creeping up your neck as you silently scream at yourself.

You wouldn’t say you have a crush on Bakugo—crush is too strong a word. But god, you love looking at him.

He’s gorgeous in the most aggravating way, and he doesn’t even seem to realize it!

That ashy blonde hair, always spiked up in every direction, looks like it would feel rough to the touch, but you’ve seen him push it back with his hero mask before, revealing the softer strands underneath.

Sharp red eyes framed by the longest lashes you’ve ever seen—seriously, why do guys always have such nice lashes?—perfect skin, a nose that could belong to a sculpture, and a jawline so sharp it could cut glass. You could go on and on…

But it’s not a crush. Definitely not.

The guy barely knows you exist, and frankly, his temper is reason enough to keep your distance. You’ve heard the way he barks at people—sharp, commanding, intimidating. He’d probably find you annoying within seconds if you ever managed to get more than a polite nod out of him.

No, it’s better this way: admiring from afar, safe in the knowledge that you’ll never have to deal with his wrath firsthand.

The elevator continues its smooth ascent toward the dorm floors. The faint scent of caramel wafts through the small space, and you catch yourself wondering how the hell Bakugo manages to smell that good after a workout.

It should smell like sweat and exhaustion in here, with two guys practically dripping beside you, but instead, there’s this oddly comforting warmth in the air, sweet yet sharp—like burnt sugar. It lingers just enough to make you dizzy, and you can’t tell if it’s the scent or your own embarrassment that's doing it.

You press yourself harder against the wall, praying for the elevator to reach your floor faster. God, this is torture.

The ding of the elevator cuts through the silence, and the doors slide open. Kirishima gives you one last friendly smile as he steps out. “Well, see you in class, Y/N!”

You lift a limp hand in a pathetic little wave, heart sinking slightly when you realize Bakugo didn’t even spare you a glance the entire time. You watch them walk off down the hallway and into their neighboring rooms, Kirishima’s easygoing energy in stark contrast to Bakugo’s usual sharp presence.

The doors close again, and you let out a long breath, pressing a hand against your racing heart as the elevator raises to the fifth and final floor, where your room is located.

Great. Just great. One more year of this. You try to convince yourself it doesn’t matter, but the tightening in your chest says otherwise.

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[salemrph]

The taste of apple and pomegranate

Ch. 3: The guest list and a new face

Nav: Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 (coming soon) // AO3

Summary: You just wanted to survive university, not fall for either of them—let alone both. Two handsome idiots who somehow made your apartment their second home. You, Sylus, and Caleb were supposed to be just friends. So why does everything feel like their is more going on?

Character: Sylus x f!reader x Caleb // Tara, Rafayel // AU - College, Student

Genre: romantic, fluff, intimacy, sexual content, humor, friends to lovers, poliamore, slow burn

Word count: <3k | Reading Time: 11 min | AO3

A/N: This story is almost writing itself, and I was thinking of giving it more time and taking more breaks. But you know what? 🎂 It’s my birthday week, and it feels right to share the chapters a bit faster instead of dragging things out. I’m not saying this will be the new norm, but for now, it’s more of a “if it’s ready, I’ll post it” kind of deal ✨ And if not, I’ll see you in two weeks at the latest 💌 Sound good? (｡•ᴗ•｡)♡

Tag list: @thechaoticarchivist @peacedreamer14 @blessdunrest @strwberriiblnde @plzdonutpercieveme @sylusqt @sakuraneko-sakupanda-chan @peacedreamer14 @escapeis @plzdonutpercieveme @blorbohunter @yuurisfavblog

Chp. 3: The guest list and a new face

You were ready to go out. Finally. Tara had managed to snag an invitation to some exclusive venue, which was a minor miracle in itself, and thankfully, the dress code was still easygoing. No suffocating cocktail dresses tonight, thank god. You pulled on your favorite pair of black jeans, the ones that made your ass look absolutely amazing, you knew it, and honestly, you needed the confidence boost. You paired them with a nice dark top that hugged your figure just right and your leather jacket—the one Sylus had, surprisingly, begrudgingly bought you for a ride on his motorcycle months ago. You'd insisted you wouldn't need it, but still, the bag with the jacket landed in your apartment a few days later. A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips at the memory. He's such a pain, but sometimes... A quick swipe of a bold red lipstick, just enough to feel put-together, and you grabbed your cigarettes and phone. You were ready for a night out and have some fun. Even if it was a Thursday. Let's be honest, it was the weekend already.

Arriving at the door of the location, you stepped aside to a quiet corner for a quick smoke before heading inside. The bass from within vibrated faintly through the pavement, a promise of the night to come. You looked up, the club occupying the last floor of the building, streaks of light and flashes cutting across the night sky. Your phone vibrated in your pocket, pulling you back from the edge of anticipatory excitement. A few messages from Tara.

Tara: Your name should be on the list. Call me if you have a problem. I'm already upstairs.

Then the chat group with the boys chimed in.

Caleb: Let us know if you need a ride home.

Sylus: Stay away from beer.

You rolled your eyes, a fond exasperation settling in. Like you said: guard dogs.

A silhouette approached, but you ignored it, focused on lighting your cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the faint smile on your lips. You thought about them. Surely, each of them was at home today, or maybe working together on some boring project. Or maybe they were out with the basketball team. Or even… on a date. Something about that thought bothered you, a faint prickle of discomfort. And still you blushed just thinking about them. But before you could truly follow the trail of that feeling, a light, melodic voice turned to you.

“Sorry, do you mind if I could borrow some fire?”

Without looking up, you handed him the lighter. This usually happened every time you smoked near the entrance of any place.

“Thank you, cutie,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue with a playful lilt that made something in your chest flutter.

You finally met his eyes as he handed the lighter back. His outfit was stunning, a mix of tailored elegance and bohemian flair – something you’d expect to see in an art gallery, not outside a club. And his smile was soft, almost ethereal, even in the harsh, unforgiving light of the streetlamp. Had you just fallen in love? His eyes, in particular, were captivating – a shade of blue redish color that seemed to hold endless depth, framed by ridiculously long, dark lashes. His jawline was strong but softened by the slight curve of his lips, which seemed to hold a permanent, gentle amusement. Like a perfectly sculpted piece of marble. God, he was beautiful. Your breath hitched, a small, involuntary gasp.

“You're welcome,” you said, your voice a little light, still stunned by this beautiful face. The sudden vibration of your phone brought you back to earth with a jolt.

Tara: Where are you?! You're missing our songs. >_<

“Oh shit,” you mumbled, tossing the rest of your cigarette butt onto the pavement. You gave him a quick, dismissive gesture, a silent 'have a good one,' and headed for the door, making a beeline for the "guest list" queue. At your turn, the security guard—a beefy guy with a face that looked perpetually bored—looked at you with something akin to disgust. Great.

“I'm on the guest list.” you stated, trying to project confidence, even offering a small, polite smile. 

He didn't even bother checking his clipboard, his eyes already sweeping past you to the next person. “Nice try. Go back to the other line, doll.”

“You haven't even checked it, come on!” you protested, the familiar prickle of injustice already burning in your chest.

He completely ignored you, instead giving a subtle nod to a group of girls in short, sparkly dresses, waving them past without a second glance. “Seriously?” you muttered, disbelief warring with annoyance.

“Dude, come on!” you shouted out, your voice cutting through the low hum of the line.

You started to get loud, the injustice stinging. Another guard, even bigger than the first, stepped in front of you, his arms crossed over a massive chest. You really didn't want to get into a full-blown brawl, but your patience for this particular night had officially evaporated.

Before you could fully brace yourself for a problem, a hand on your back gently, but firmly, pulled you away from the confrontation.

“Giovanni,” a smooth voice cut in, laced with a casual authority that instantly quieted the surrounding murmurs, “that's not nice of you. Do me a favor and call Olivia for me? She'd probably love to hear what you're doing to her guests at the door.”

The security guard stiffened, his eyes narrowing in annoyance, but the fight drained from his posture. Pissed, he finally looked down at the guest list he’d refused to check minutes ago.

“Your name?” he grunted at you.

But the smooth voice cut in again, closer this time, almost a whisper in your ear. “Oh no, she's coming with me. Doesn't matter if she's on the list or not.”

The guard didn't say anything else, just grudgingly moved to the side. “Enjoy the evening, Mister Rafayel.”

“Thank you. Come on, cutie.” Rafayel grabbed you by your waist, a light, confident touch that sent a surprising shiver down your spine, and walked you straight inside, bypassing the line entirely. You stuck your tongue out at the idiot guard, a childish gesture, but it felt a lot better than giving him the middle finger after Rafayel had just helped you get in.

In the elevator, the sudden silence after the club's roar felt almost deafening. Rafayel gave you back some space, but not entirely, his presence still a warm, almost magnetic hum beside you. You found your gaze drawn to him as he casually played with his hair, long, artistic fingers running through dark violet strands, adjusting a few errant pieces that fell across his forehead. He did it with an effortless grace that was almost mesmerizing.

“Thanks for helping me out back there,” you said politely, your voice a little softer than you intended, still slightly stunned by the whole encounter. You caught yourself subtly adjusting the end of your top, a nervous habit.

He turned his head to you then, his soft smile still in place, the easy charm unwavering. “No worries at all. Though I'll still be reporting that to the owner. I don't like people who abuse their power. He was rude.” he said lightly, his eyes holding a subtle, knowing glint that suggested he'd enjoyed the little drama. 

Arriving at the club floor, the elevator doors swished open, revealing a pulsating wave of music and flashing lights. The thumping bass immediately enveloped you, shaking the very air around you. It was like stepping into another world, loud and vibrant. Finally, this is what you came for. You mumbled another quick thank you, already feeling the pull of the crowd, eager to put some distance between yourself and the unexpectedly charming stranger. He just winked, with a smile still in place, and said, "See you around, cutie."

It took a couple of minutes, but you finally spotted Tara, a beacon of glitter and wild hair near the bar. She shrieked your name, pulling you into a tight hug. “There you are! What took you so long?”

“You have no idea,” you huffed, already ordering a vodka fizz. “Some power-tripping meathead tried to send me back to the general line. But then…” You paused, debating whether to even mention the stranger, but the memory of his easy confidence still lingered.  “...some guy swooped in and helped me out.”

Tara's eyes widened. “Ooh, a hero? Details later! Our song's on!”

You lost yourself in the music for a while, the bass thrumming through your chest, a physical force that vibrated through your bones. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, a hint of sweat, and the electric energy of hundreds of bodies moving as one. Lasers cut through the smoky haze, painting intricate patterns on the ceiling and casting shifting shadows on the stylish crowd. A killer techno set was playing, the DJ masterfully weaving together unexpected mash-ups – a classic oldie dissolving into a fresh, pounding beat, then surfacing again with a new twist. 

The whole line-up for the night seemed to be pretty cool. You danced, you laughed, you half-shouted conversations over the pounding speakers. The cocktails were flowing, their chilled sweetness a welcome contrast to the rising heat on the dance floor. The mortification of the week—from the cafeteria incident to the endless paper you needed to write—seemed light-years away, drowned out by the sheer, exhilarating noise.

Later, needing a breather and a cigarette, you pushed your way through the throng towards the outdoor terrace area. The cool night air was a welcome shock after the humid heat of the dance floor. You leaned against the railing, pulling out your lighter. Lighting a cigarette, you took a long drag, then exhaled the smoke slowly, watching it curl into a perfect ring before dissolving into the night.

“Can I ask you again for fire?” a voice murmured beside you.

You nearly jumped out of your skin, twisting to see the friendly person leaning casually against the railing a few feet away, a glass of something clear in his hand. Even amidst the flickering neon signs and the muffled beat of the club, he still looked impossibly put-together. His hair fell perfectly, and those soft, dark eyes were glinting with that same amusement then before. You noticed the way his fingers, long and slender, curled around his glass. 

“Oh, it's you,” you managed, a little flustered, offering him the lighter. “Sure, here.”

He chuckled, a low, pleasant sound. “Having fun?”

You didn't want to get your hopes up about whether this guy was actually hitting on you or not; either way, it wouldn't really matter. You'd already decided not to go crazy over the whole dating thing, and to stop worrying about not having that wild, movie-perfect college life. That same afternoon, a new vibrator had arrived at your house, which you'd put to good use several times before even thinking about heading to the party.

The need to release had been building a low, persistent thrum beneath your skin that the cafeteria incident had only exacerbated. You’d started with some light smut on your phone, but the words felt too slow, too far removed from the raw ache demanding attention. You'd quickly switched to audio smut, needing that immediate, whispered filth right in your ear. You slid the new vibrator between your legs, the soft hum a direct assault on your clit, chasing the escalating pressure.

Then “accidentally”, you'd clicked on a story with two guys, their voices rich and low, whispering dirty words in your ear, their moans building to a fever pitch. And in that moment, your eyes wide, breath catching, you were in shock as your mind conjured Caleb and Sylus, their faces flushed, their bodies tangled, those very words spilling from their lips, pleasuring you in the most erotic way you could imagine. The image, so vivid, so goddamn forbidden, hit you like a goddamn tidal wave, and you came so hard, a blinding, shuddering climax that left you gasping against the pillow. 

After that high; ending up in someone's bed just wasn't on your to-do list tonight. You need to clear your mind. 

“Yeah, my friend is probably still tearing up the dance floor,” you said, taking a drag from your cigarette. You studied him for a moment. He wasn't loud or flashy, but there was an undeniable magnetism to him. “So, you're a regular here, then? Mister Rafayel?”

He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes thoughtful. "You can call me Rafayel. And not exactly a regular. The owner is a friend of mine. So sometimes I pass by." He paused, a subtle shift in his posture, a slight lean closer that felt incredibly intimate despite the space between you. “And you, cutie? What brings you to this... den of chaos?”

You shrugged. “Just a typical party night, I guess. Though usually with less security drama. Thanks again for that, by the way. Would have been a shame to miss this.”

Rafayel's smile softened further, a genuine warmth reaching his eyes. “I assure you, Olivia prefers a certain level of... taste among her guests. That's why they are so picky at the entrance.” His gaze lingered on your leather jacket, then flickered to your jeans. “But you, certainly, fit the bill.”

A faint blush warmed your cheeks, a little kick in your chest. He wasn't just handsome; he was effortlessly charming.

“So,” you ventured, trying to sound casual, "what do you do when you're not saving people?”

He chuckled again, that pleasant, low sound. “I dabble. Art. Painting, specifically.” He glanced towards the city lights spread out below them. “And you?”

“Oh, me?” You thought about your undecided major, your current crisis of purpose. “I'm still figuring that out. Currently, I'm... on an exploratory mission at the campus.” You grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “And apparently, trying to fix my cursed dating life.”

Rafayel's gaze sharpened, a flicker of genuine interest. He leaned back slightly, the casual air of his posture inviting you to continue. “Cursed, you say? That sounds like a story.”

You took a final drag from your cigarette, stubbing it out in a nearby ashtray. Maybe, just maybe, this charming artist was exactly the distraction you needed from your two overbearing guard dogs. Just as you were about to elaborate, a gaggle of girls, dressed with aggressive smiles, descended upon Rafayel.

"Rafayel! Oh my god, you're here!" one shrieked, grabbing his arm. Another immediately moved in, practically pressing herself against him.

You instinctively stepped to the side, giving them space. You figured he'd enjoy the attention, maybe even thrive on it. So you went for a drink, leaving him for a few minutes. He was easygoing, chatting with them. When you came back, their flirtations grew more aggressive, you caught the subtle shift in his posture. He was starting to struggle, trying to gracefully get them to back off without causing a scene. He tried to walk away, a subtle movement, but they pressed in, like a pack of vultures.

Seeing such a scene, you couldn't just let it pass. He'd helped you out; why not return the favor? You took a sip from your drink with sweet taste and you stepped between them, planting yourself firmly in front of Rafayel.

"Alright, ladies, step back," you said, your voice cutting through their giggles. "You're being too intense."

They looked at you, their smiles replaced by disgusted scowls. Second time tonight someone had looked at you like you were dirt. Well, fine. "Who are you, bitch? Move!" one of them snapped, hands on her hips.

“I'm… His bodyguard.” You raised your gaze and slightly raised your chin, making yourself bigger and adopting a more arrogant and defensive posture. You fixed them with a cold, unblinking stare, channelling every ounce of frustration and every glare Sylus had ever taught you to scare people.. "Step back or I call security, or would you like that I throw you out myself?” It worked about fifty percent of the time you tried it. This time, thankfully, it was the working fifty. The girls looked annoyed, mumbled something under their breath, and huffed away.

Rafayel's soft chuckle broke the tension. "Well, thank you for that, Miss Bodyguard." He looked at you with an expression that was a mix of genuine gratitude and playful admiration.

Release every 1-2 week

Nav: Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 (coming soon)

Back to MASTERLIST

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Sixteen

Series Masterlist

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It’s not even a busy morning.

No press. No track time. No simulation schedule hanging over your head. Just a quiet kind of factory day- the kind that almost tricks you into thinking this job is normal.

You pull your door closed behind you with a soft click, the second-floor dorm hallway half-lit in the way Milton Keynes always is this early. Gray light through narrow windows. The hush of coffee brewing somewhere in the distance.

You glance down at the clipboard in your hand- notes, updates, nothing urgent- and step toward the terrace that lines the upstairs dorms. You’re barely awake. Hair not exactly styled, just swept up in a claw. Wide leg jeans that suit your age more than your role. A team polo you pulled out of the designated not-clean-but-not-dirty chair in your room.

Just a normal morning.

And then you see him.

Danny Ricciardo.

Right below you, in the open stairwell where the lobby meets the meeting rooms. Standing there like he’s always belonged. Like he hasn’t just changed the chemical makeup of your morning by existing in your field of vision.

You freeze.

Not because you’re nervous. Not because you’re panicking. Not exactly.

It hits you like a silent echo- how close it was. How this whole thing almost unraveled without warning. Like realizing your rearview is filled with the aftermath of a crash you somehow missed by inches while you were doing your makeup in the mirror.

You’d known the names floating around- of course you had. You’d studied the landscape like a battlefield. Watched the rumor mills spin up smoke and shadow. 

Because you knew, of course. Everyone knew. The whispers were loud in the hallway: that big names were still unsigned. That teams were taking meetings in side rooms and sending polite feelers to anyone with a name and a pulse. That the paddock doesn’t sleep- and monogamy isn’t owed to drivers. Especially not to drivers like you.

That’s why you wrote your contract like a war plan. The minimum salary. The forfeited sponsorships. That humiliating seven-million threshold handed over like a blood tithe just to guarantee your place on the starting grid. Every line item cut with one thought in mind- make yourself the obvious choice. Make yourself cheaper than the next best name.

And now, that name is standing ten feet away. Laughing.

You grip the rail. Just for a second. Because your heart’s doing that weird thing it does when adrenaline hits late. After the danger’s passed. When it’s just you, standing in the wreckage that didn’t happen. 

Reserve contract. Has to be. It’s all that’s left. You suddenly feel every inch of the reality you’re standing in. Your contract had felt brilliant at the time. Ruthless. Efficient. And now, with Danny here- smiling like the sun- it feels like maybe it was just barely enough. Like if you’d hesitated. Blinked. Taken one extra breath. He’d be in the seat. And you wouldn’t. And you don’t know what about that hits first. The pressure or the shame.

He’s here. In the building. On the books. And if you’re right, his name now sits directly behind yours on the team hierarchy. Not just metaphorically.  Literally. And that means the pressure to stay ahead- the pressure to deserve being ahead- just turned lethal.

Pressure, because now there’s a man with wins under his belt and charm for days seated just behind you on the roster. And shame, because- fuck- you like Danny. You’ve liked him since the days you had less than 500 instagram followers. As a driver. As a presence. As someone who made the sport seem lighter, once. And now you like him as a person. What little you know of him, anyway.

And you’re not proud of this, but a part of you wonders if he resents you. If he was eyeing the seat you now occupy. If he was waiting for the call you got. He must’ve been, right?

Because you know how this game works.

You’ve spent your entire adult life studying it like a second religion. No one just… sits out. Not someone like Danny Ricciardo. Not someone with the record, the name, the fans. He didn’t come back into the Red Bull ecosystem just for photo ops and test laps. He was waiting. Watching. Poised in the wings for someone to blink.

And for one horrifying moment, you think- what if he wasn’t waiting for someone. What if he was waiting for you specifically. To fail. To flinch. To fall just short. What if your seat was his backup plan?

And you know that shouldn’t matter. But it does. Because he’s Danny fucking Ricciardo. And you’re the girl who got signed onto what you’re pretty certain was the cheapest contract of the year.

You swallow hard. Try to bury the thought. But it’s like trying to swallow glass. The pressure builds in your chest- slow and mean and impossible to name. A compound emotion. Embarrassment and fear and defiance all braided together so tight they could strangle you.

You shift your weight. Adjust the sleeve of your jacket. The smile is already sliding into place before he even notices you. Not a real one. Not reight now. More like a brace. Something to soften whatever comes next. To protect against the possibility that when he does see you, the first thing in his eyes is regret. Or worse- disappointment.

Because that’s the sickest thought of all, the one you don’t dare say out loud: What if he thinks you don’t deserve it? What if he’s right?

And then- 

Danny glances up. Catches you.And the entire moment shatters. He lights up like it’s a goddamn Pixar movie. Bright, unfiltered, delighted. Like someone’s plugged him into a socket. “There she is!” he shouts, like this is a reunion and not the second time you’ve spoken in your life.

You blink. Half-smile. “Morning.”

Danny cups a hand around his mouth. “You gonna come say hi, or do I need to find a ladder?”

You exhale. You don’t want to laugh. But you do, just a little. You make your way down the stairs, heartbeat still slightly off-tempo, half-expecting the awkward twist that usually comes with this kind of moment- something territorial or weird or backhanded.

But Danny? Danny grins like the sight of you just made his day. “Didn’t think I’d see you here this early,” he says, slouching comfortably against the wall like this is all casual. “Fuck me, I didn’t even think I’d see me here this early.”

You don’t tell him 8:30 a.m. is typically about the time you pause your real job and start fucking around with the development team. Just… play it cool. “Factory day,” you say. “You?”

He shrugs, all loose limbs and mischief. “Same. Bit of onboarding. Bit of PR nonsense. Got to sign my name under the rules they only made because of me. You know. Legacy stuff.” He’s wearing Red Bull gear, but it looks lived-in on him already. Like the team doesn’t weigh him down. Like he fits here in a way you’re still learning to. 

That pulls a quiet laugh from you. “Did you get your own PowerPoint slide?”

“Oh yeah. Slide three. Big photo. Caption said ‘Don’t.’”

You huff once. “That probably tracks.” Danny smiles at that- wide and uncomplicated. Like he’s actually glad to be talking to you. You’re still trying to find the edges of that. Of him.

“How’s it going?” he asks. “Since the big news?”

You shrug. “Busy.”

“Good busy?”

You pause. “Overwhelming busy.” He hums in understanding, doesn’t push. Just sips his coffee. For a beat, neither of you speak. You could leave. Say you’ve got sim. But you don’t. Not yet. “You’re- what, reserve and media?” you ask.

“Yeah. Chief Vibes Officer.” He grins, teeth flashing, and tilts his head. “You’re not doing press?”

You shake your head. “Not until after lunch. Thought I’d sit in on some development meetings.”

Danny makes a face like he’s genuinely impressed. “God, I don’t miss those.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, I don’t mind. They’re interesting. Besides, I’m still in my earn your keep phase.”

“You say that like it ends.” You glance sideways, a little surprised by the honesty in it. But it’s not bitter. Just... real. From someone who knows. His voice isn’t heavy, not exactly. But there’s something buried under the words- fatigue, maybe. Or memory. A flicker of something unspoken.

And then, like he’s shaking it off, he claps his hands together once- sharp enough to break whatever thread had started to pull taut between you. “Hey, at least Italy has the better food between the factories.”

You snort. “Fuck, I hope so. I already miss the food in Brazil. Seasoned.”

Danny groans like it’s physically painful. “Right? I really need to stop signing for all these British teams. I would consider defecting for some good fucking food.”

You lift a brow. “You defecting to Ferrari?”

“I said defecting, not self-sabotaging.”

You laugh, and the last of the tension melts off your spine. Whatever pressure you'd built in your chest- about him, about the seat, about what you thought he might think of you- starts to loosen, piece by piece.

And Danny? He just smiles again, a little more quietly this time. "Trust me," he says, tone gentler now, like it's meant to land somewhere between reassurance and promise. "You're gonna be just fine."

He stretches, arms overhead with a theatrical groan like he’s been standing for hours instead of minutes. “Well,” he says, checking the time on his watch like it has anywhere to be, “I should probably go pretend I care about lighting angles and camera placement.”

There’s something a little boyish about the way he moves- light on his feet, like he’s just breezing through life. You wonder what it’s like to carry a career like his and still manage to smile like that. To be adored, displaced, recalled, and still show up to the factory like the air doesn’t feel different now.

You step toward the other hallway, toward the quieter, secure wing where the development offices live, but pause when he calls out again.

“Hey,” he says, a little more offhand this time. “You staying in for lunch, or…?”

You blink. “Probably? Why?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. If we’re both stuck here, maybe we could- ” He hesitates, not quite finishing the thought, then picks it back up like it wasn’t supposed to matter. “Grab food. Or hang out after. Whatever works.”

There’s a pause. Not long, but enough for something warm to bloom in your chest. Confused. Cautious. Curious.

Your heart doesn’t exactly leap. It just shifts. A small flicker, like the hallway lights adjusting overhead- brightening half a stop without explanation. Something about the offer lands in you sideways. Not with suspicion. Just… disbelief.

You’ve been scraping by for so long- focused, feral, alone in the way ambition often is- that it takes a beat too long to recognize the shape of it. Human interest. Social warmth. An invitation that doesn’t come with a contract or a press schedule or a steering wheel. Just... Danny. With a coffee in one hand and a casual offer in the other. You realize, with something like awe, that this might be the first time a fellow driver- someone with history, with wins, with fans and sponsors and goddamn lore- has looked at you and offered company without calculation.

You nod before you’ve really thought about it. “Yeah. Sure. If timing works.”

Your voice sounds normal, you think. Hopefully. It doesn’t betray the small chaos behind your ribs. Because what the hell do you even say to that? Is this what people do? Just… ask? There’s a theory somewhere in your head about how to make friends on the grid. Something about shared flights and coffee orders and long-haul bonding. But theory and practice don’t always match.

Still. You’re not an idiot.

You know what it feels like when someone doesn’t want you around. Max made a fucking science of it. So whatever this is- whatever Danny is offering- it feels… like the opposite. And that’s almost too much to process at once.

Danny flashes that easy grin again, quick and blinding. “Cool. I’ll find ya. See ya round, gr-” He stops in the middle of his sentence, looks like he’s thinking for a half a beat- if you didn’t know better, you’d think he’d forgotten your name. 

You just look at him back. “What?” 

Danny shrugs and steps back a smidge. “Nothin’. Just gonna have to find something to call ya. Grid barbie doesn’t quite fit. Sounds a bit sexist, no? Don’t you worry, it’ll come to me. Anyways-” And just like that, he’s gone- walking backward for a few steps like he’s trying to make you laugh again, then turning down the hall with a lazy wave, whistling something you don’t recognize. You’re left standing in the same spot, clipboard tucked under your arm, pulse just slightly irregular in a way that doesn’t feel like stress. Not really. Just… disorientation.

Because what even was that?

He wasn’t flirting. That wasn’t flirting. You’ve had flirting. You’ve had sponsorship flirting and juvenile flirting and grown-up flirting and transactional, barbed wire flirting from someone who used to wrap your braid around his fist in bed. That wasn’t this.

This was- 

God, was that him trying to be friends?

You stare at the space he left behind for a second longer than necessary. You feel- God, it’s so stupid- but you feel almost giddy. Not like a crush. Not really. More like someone cracked open a window in a house that’s been closed for months. The air smells different now. Better. Freer. Hopeful, in a way that doesn’t have teeth.

You shake your head once, trying to collect yourself, and turn toward the dev wing. You breathe out. Light. Uneven. Not quite a laugh, but close. It doesn’t mean anything. Not really. Just lunch. Just company. Just a man who seems pathologically incapable of treating the world like it’s sharp.

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

The dev meeting wraps twenty minutes early- an honest-to-God miracle in a room full of engineers who usually treat meeting end times like polite suggestions. You shake a few hands, nod through a couple of quick debriefs, and find yourself drifting. 

You don’t head straight back to your dorm. Don’t even head toward the sim bays like muscle memory usually dictates. Instead, your feet angle toward the media wing- just to see. Just to wander. You’re curious, so what? Who wouldn’t be?

The door’s open when you get there, spilling light and laughter into the hallway like someone left a window cracked. You pause in the entryway, half-shadowed behind a corner, and watch.

Danny Ricciardo is on camera- mid-segment, clearly- and putting on an absolute fucking masterclass in media control. He’s sitting on a high stool in the center of the frame, arms folded in mock-serious concentration, brows furrowed in exaggerated focus.

The screen behind him flashes:

“DANIEL RICCIARDO: AUTOCOMPLETE INTERVIEW” We let Google finish the question… he has to answer it.

The current prompt glows across the screen: “Does Daniel Ricciardo…”

He clicks the next reveal.

“…actually own a winery?”

Danny gasps, hands over his heart like he’s just been outed on national television. “Who told you,” he deadpans. “Was it Max? I knew he couldn’t keep a secret.”

Off-screen, the crew laughs. Danny leans forward, palms braced on his knees now, like he’s letting everyone in on the joke. “Okay, sort of. Vineyard, no. Label, yes. By which I mean I drank an entire bottle of red once and said, ‘I could totally do this.’ Then I found someone a lot better at making wine than me. So here we are.”

The room crackles with laughter.

And God- he’s good at this. So good. Like the camera isn’t even there. Like being adored is just his default state. The energy he radiates isn’t smug, it’s symphonic- timed, practiced, pitch-perfect. Confident without taking up all the oxygen. Self-deprecating without selling himself short. You’ve seen so many people, drivers or otherwise, try to thread that needle and end up strangling their entire personality in the process. But not Danny.

Danny makes it look easy. Like the whole press junket is a party he’s hosting, and the rest of you are just lucky to be invited.

You lean against the doorway, out of sight, arms crossed, biting back a grin.

Another question pops up on the screen behind him. “Is Daniel Ricciardo…”

He smirks. “Dangerous.”

“…driving for McLaren 2023?”

Danny gasps again, mock betrayal in his voice. “Wow. Google really doesn’t keep up, huh?” He shakes his head. “Nope. I ghosted them. Swiped left. Got back together with my ex. You know how it is.”

He says it with such lightness, like the thing that nearly derailed his career is just a punchline now. Like he’s taken the weight of it and cracked it open to let everyone see it’s hollow. You wonder how much practice that took. You wonder if it ever hurts.

And then- 

He sees you.

Danny’s whole face lights up, brighter than it already was- which should be impossible, and yet. “Hey! Look who it is!” He gestures, voice still warm, still very much on. “Come here!”

You blink, startled. Point to yourself like me? But he’s already nodding, waving you into frame. “C’mon, c’mon,” he says. “You gotta help me out. I need backup.”

It’s still filming. You know that. You feel the familiar click of the PR instinct sliding into place- shoulders back, smile calibrated, voice dialed to somewhere between approachable and sharp. You step into the light, ponytail bobbing, eyes wide and charming.

“Morning,” you say, like you haven’t been standing off-camera for three minutes analyzing his social strategy like it’s your second job. “Is this a self-roast session or an interview?”

Danny mock-gasps. “Both. Welcome to Red Bull. Sit down. Suffer with me.”

The crew laughs again, and someone rolls a second stool into frame. You take it, legs crossed, posture clean. The screen refreshes.

“Daniel Ricciardo how many…”

Danny holds out his hands. “Please let it be ‘race wins.’”

“…tattoos?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “You’ve got a few, huh?”

“Oh, this one is fun.” He starts holding his fingers up, mouthing the numbers out to himself like even he’s lost track. He tugs his shirt collar down just enough to flash a small one on the tawny stretch across the top of his pec, like he’s checking that yep, still there.

You fake a scandalized expression. “This is family programming, Ricciardo.”

Danny shrugs, drops his shirt. “I ran out of fingers. They can Google it. It’s what got us here.”

The next card loads.

“Does Daniel Ricciardo like…”

He reads the first word, then glances sideways at you. “Oh no. I’m scared.”

“…pineapple on pizza?”

You snort before he even answers.

Danny places both hands over his heart. “God, this question is a trap. I did such a good job of not actually answering this last time.”

You lean into him, into the camera. “There’s a right answer here. Remember, you’re technically half-owned by an Italian team next season. Tread lightly.”

“I knew this was a test.” Danny shifts, eyebrows raised. “Okay. Fine. Yes. On occasion. But- hear me out- it should have a little pizzazz. Like a chili oil drizzle or gorgonzola instead of regular cheese.” 

You nod slowly, solemnly. “Acceptable.”

And just like that, the rhythm clicks. You can feel it. The give-and-take, the volley. You’ve done media before. You’ve done it well. But it’s rare- so rare- to be in the room with someone who matches the pitch without overpowering it. Someone who knows how to throw the spotlight and share it.

You’re still half-analyzing the mechanics of it when the crew resets the card deck. The energy in the room has shifted. Brighter. Looser. Like the two of you cracked something open without even trying.

Danny glances your way, a touch more real this time. Less of the act. Just him. “You’re pretty good at this.”

You flash a grin. “I’ve had practice.”

He leans back, clearly pleased. “Remind me to drag you into all my media slots. This is way more fun with a co-conspirator.” You don’t say anything. Just laugh. But something about the word co-conspirator sticks in your chest longer than it should.

The cameras cut. Someone says, “Good energy, that was perfect,” and you smile, shake a few hands, make your thank-yous sound casual, your drop-in sound planned. But the minute you step off the raised platform and out of the light, Danny’s at your side again- just as bright, but realer now, a little more dialed down.

“So,” he says, like it’s been an open question all morning. “You still up for lunch?”

You blink, mildly surprised he remembered. Or that he meant it. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Cool,” he says, like that’s that. “C’mon. I’ve got a spot.”

You fall into step beside him, back through the factory’s front doors and out into the frigid slap of November in Milton Keynes. The wind’s cutting today- blunt and rude- and you shove your hands in your jacket pockets before your fingers go numb.

Danny seems unfazed. Practically bounces as he walks, hood up but otherwise loose-limbed and grinning like he knows something good’s ahead. He keeps getting about two steps ahead before he pauses, realizes you’re behind, and circles back like a dog on a lead.

You squint sideways. “You’ve got a spot?”

“Yeah.” He nods, steps landing in rhythm against the damp pavement. “Used to go all the time when I worked here. Haven’t been back since like… 2018? Been a minute.”

Your mind races. A spot. What the hell does that mean in Danny Ricciardo terms?

Because sure, he started out normal. You know the story. Western Sydney. Grit, hustle, charm. But that was a decade ago. Since then, it’s been yachts and private jets and red carpet appearances and wine labels. And sure, he acts down to earth- seems like someone you could talk shit with at a gas station- but it’s easy for people to act like whoever they want if they haven’t touched their own bank account in six years.

And now you’re just walking, cold air clawing at your cheeks, and you realize you’re spiraling over lunch. Over lunch. Because you have no idea where this man is taking you. And more importantly, how much it’s going to cost.

You’re not like… broke-broke. Not totally, anymore, at least. But your contract’s so backloaded it may as well be theoretical. You still owe more to your parents for Indy than an entire year’s salary of development work. And after rent, groceries, and trying to look remotely camera-ready without being on a Red Bull-grade salary? You’re not exactly in blow fifty on lunch without heart palpitations territory. Much less a hundred.

You could just ask. But somehow, what’s the price range on your lunch spot doesn’t quite feel like the vibe. Like you might ruin it all by not seeming cool enough.

You follow him around the corner, past the long block of factory units and into the side street you didn’t even know existed- where the pavement dips and the air smells faintly of diesel and something fried.

And then you see it.

A kebab cart. With an old blue canopy, a propane tank bungeed to the frame, and a handwritten sign taped to the side that says Cash Only. 

You blink. Danny lights up like Christmas. “Yes!” he shouts, half-jogging the last few steps. “He’s still here!” The guy behind the cart looks up and blinks like he’s seeing a ghost. Then breaks into a grin.

“Ricciardo?” the man says, voice tinged with a thick Midlands accent.

Danny throws his arms wide. “Back from the dead, mate.”

They clasp hands over the steaming grill like it’s a reunion episode. You hang back for a second, stunned. Not at the food- you love a good cart- but at how happy he looks. Like this is the best part of his day.

He turns to you mid-laugh. “You good with lamb?”

“Uh- yeah, totally.”

“Two lamb wraps!” Danny calls, slapping the cart like it’s sacred.

You go to pull your card out of your pocket, but he waves you off. “Don’t even think about it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I owe you for the pineapple-on-pizza solidarity. Risky take where you’re going,” he says, deadpan. You try to argue, but the vendor’s already handing over two warm foil bundles and Danny’s already crumpling a few bills into the guys hand. He grabs two Cokes from the little cooler and nods toward a tiny table with mismatched plastic chairs shoved into the sidewalk.

You sit.

And it’s… warm. Not the air- God, no, it’s freezing- but the vibe. The foil-wrapped kebab is glorious, greasy perfection, and Danny immediately has sauce on his cheek. He doesn’t notice. You don’t tell him.

“Okay,” he says, through a mouthful, “but be honest. You thought I was taking you somewhere fancy.”

You pause, chewing. “I considered it.”

He laughs. “I knew it. You were spiraling.”

“I was preparing,” you correct, trying not to grin. “Like a rational adult with a questionable salary-to-lifestyle ratio.”

He snorts. “Hollywood, you really thought I was gonna drag you to some overpriced bistro for lunch?”

You stop mid-bite. “What?”

Danny wipes his hands on a napkin, leans back, smug. “Hollywood,” he says again, like it’s a fact. A label. A discovery. “That’s what I’m calling you.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “…Why?”

He ticks off fingers as he goes. “You’re American. You’re beautiful. You’re great on camera. You’ve got that whole flair-for-the-dramatic thing. And- ”

You cut in, immediate. “Hold on- dramatic?”

He blinks, caught mid-thought. “What?”

“You said I’ve got flair for the dramatic,” you say, pointing at him with a slightly greasy finger and barrel past the rest like you didn’t hear it- like the word beautiful didn’t just casually detonate in Danny Ricciardo's mouth like it was no big deal. “Define that. Because that’s a loaded fucking phrase, Ricciardo.”

Danny blinks at you, amused. “Oh, you know. The whole vibe.”

“No,” you say flatly. “Spell it out. What vibe.”

He grins. “Theatrical. Cinematic. Bit of a main character thing going on.”

You tilt your head. “And that’s dramatic?”

He laughs, surprised and delighted. “That right there. See? That tone? Case in point.”

You sit back, arms crossed. “Calling me dramatic is dramatic.”

Danny just grins harder and stampedes ahead in the conversation, completely unbothered. Like he’s got something he just can’t wait to say. “...And…Christian told me you walked up to Helmut with a contract. In the middle of a party. In a cowboy hat.”

You freeze for half a second, because, fuck, that is exactly what you did. Then exhale sharply through your nose and roll your eyes so hard you physically tip your head back like a teenage girl. “Jesus Christ. He told you that?”

He laughs. “You did, didn’t you?”

You lift your head slowly, eyes half-lidded. “It wasn’t- ” You stop, think better of it, and shake your head. “You know what? Doesn’t matter.”

Danny leans in, practically beaming. “That’s a yes.”

You jab a finger toward him. “I am not confirming anything.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re stuck with it. The hat, the entrance, the eyes. Hollywood.”

You lift your head, squinting at him. “You know nicknames are supposed to be collaborative, right?”

Danny grins. “Nope. Not taking suggestions.”

You shake your head, but it’s helpless. He’s already taken the name and run with it, and somehow it doesn’t feel mocking. It feels… affectionate. Light. Like being given something instead of having something taken.

And as you both dig back into your food, sitting there in the brittle, biting cold with your Cokes sweating on the plastic table, you feel it again- that giddy, unfamiliar warmth.

A friend. Yeah. You and Danny Ric are friends. 

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

Series Masterlist

A/N: GUYS GUYS GUYS I have the next chapter ready for tmmrw and we are GOING places. Remember allllll those chpaters ago how this story started? WE ARE ALMOST THERE.

Also sorry for the single chapter last week, a little overwhelmed with all the details I had to coordinate and just life in general, but I am generally doing well. Shameless pandering warning: I cannot stress this enough, but the comments, asks, messages etc are what keep me going. Don't get me wrong I love to see others liking and interacting with the story silently, but people giving enough of a shit to write something about what they think is the highest compliment I can receive. And it's free. I give you hours and days and weeks (and months and years) of my time, and I really, really appreciate when you give me just a few minutes of yours.

[adragonprinceswhore]

Rumours

Aemond Targaryen x (Ex)Wife

Chapter III: Dreams 🎼 Masterlist

Summary: You miss Aemond, yet you can’t stand to be near him. Will performing a new song about your separation make you feel better?

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, angst, toxic relationship dynamic, possessive Aemond, fighting, smut, oral (f receiving), spanking, thigh riding, P in V, thumb in bum, spit kink, degradation

Word count: 5750 A/N: Thank you always my love @theoneeyedprince ♡

“This is the third day in a row that guy comes in here, orders a coffee, and pretends to work on his laptop as he stares at you”, Alysanne whispers in your ear and points to the silver haired man sitting in the back corner of the campus coffee shop. 

He’s clad entirely in black, and his long hair is neatly tied in a low bun at the base of his neck. 

“You should go talk to him!”, she urges with a gentle push on your shoulder. 

“What? No. He’s not been staring at me”, you shut her nonsense down, slightly embarrassed by your friend's pushiness. Alysanne is such a hopeless romantic; always convinced that the love of your life’s lurking around the next corner, constantly looking for a ‘meet cute’ to thrust you into. 

“Oh, come on! He’s definitely been checking you out! Maybe he’s just shy?”, she argues, staring at the stranger unabashedly as he sips his coffee. Her lack of discretion fuels the nerves bubbling inside you, eager to end this embarrassing conversation as soon as possible. 

“Aly, please. A guy like that doesn’t get shy. Typical rich fuckboy”

He certainly is good-looking, and probably knows it as well, dark designer clothes a stark contrast to the surrounding patron’s jeans and sweatshirts. He looks to be around your age, a student as well, you’d guess. 

Alysanne hums in response, moves to stand by the display of sweets by the register, and places a cinnamon bun on one of the small dishes stacked on the counter. 

Before your protests stop her, she walks towards where the stranger is sitting, a wide smile plastered on her face, 

“Hi there! My lovely friend and coworker over there made these earlier today. Would you like one?” 

Her voice is unnaturally cheery as she places the dish on the table next to the stranger's laptop. 

He looks up, nods stiffly in confirmation, and quietly mumbles a “thank you” before quickly returning to type on the keyboard, eyes again on the screen. 

“Would you like to talk to her? I can ask her to come over here”, Alysanne offers, voice still upbeat, so energetic it nearly comes across as intrusive.   

The stranger seems slightly thrown off by her forwardness. He looks up at her in surprise, but stays silent. 

To anyone else, his stoicism and unfriendly demeanour would be enough reason to leave him be. But not Alysanne, who turns around to catch your eye and gesticulates for you to come over with an exaggerated wave of her hand. 

From behind the register, you’d watched the scene unfold in horror, certain that your friend would embarrass you to the point where ‘rich fuckboy’ would tell everyone on campus about what a freak you are. 

You slowly make your way over, eyes boring holes into Alysanne as you force yourself to smile, dreading the inevitable faked  niceties you’ll have to exchange with the strange, silver-haired man. 

His face is even prettier up-close. 

High cheekbones, strong jawline, sharp nose, beautiful eye- 

Your gaze stops at his left eye. The baby blue iris is covered by a thin mist of white, and a red, angry scar slashes through the socket, starting at his forehead and ending at cheekbone. 

“Hope you like it”, you blurt out, trying to grab Alysanne’s hand and tug her away from the unbelievably awkward interaction. She’s still smiling, dodging your hand while her attention stays on the stranger in front of you, 

“Would you like her number?”

Alysanne persistence causes dread to pool in your gut. God, she could be so forward it was disturbing; completely ignoring what you thought to be common social decency. 

Your heart is hammering in your chest as the stranger hums at your friend’s question, 

“Actually, I wanted to ask you about the open mic last week. Did you write that song?” 

“‘Planets of the Universe’? Um, yes, but it’s not really finished, um, I mean, I just sang it for fun, I was kinda drunk last Friday..”

Your babbling reflects how the stranger makes you feel; nervous and unsure. His face is impassive, and his tone so unemotional it borders on stern. 

You only performed that silly song because your friends were pushy and you were buzzing on way too many margaritas. Why does he care about who wrote it? 

“You’re not a guitarist, I assume?”, he asks and you notice the corners of his lips briefly turn upwards, as if to prevent a smile from breaking out. 

God, the audacity of this rich fuckboy. 

“No, but like I said, it was just for fun”, you bite back. 

You don’t care for his condescending tone, or his efforts to make you feel bad about your sub-par guitar skills. Does he not understand what ‘just for fun’ means? 

The stranger’s gaze is still locked on you as he hums in response. He stares with an intensity that leaves you feeling even more unsettled. 

“You’ve got a very unique voice” 

The unexpected compliment takes you by surprise, and a warmth spreads over your face; heating up your cheeks. 

“My siblings and I play a bit of music on the side, for fun” he says with an emphasis on the last part, mimicking you, “I think your voice would go well with the sound we’re trying to create”

He sounds very matter-of-fact, like he’s offering you a business proposal. You notice something shine in his intense gaze; something inviting that makes it hard for you to concentrate on what he says. 

“The song you performed has great potential, with a proper guitarist backing you up, that is. If you’re interested, we’re meeting up tomorrow night” 

You’re briefly lost for words, not expecting him to be so forward. Alysanne is practically vibrating with excitement next to you, glancing over at you with a wide smile and big, expectant eyes. 

“Sure, I’ll stop by after work” 

Your infatuation with Aemond started slow. 

Essentially, it was the small things he did that pushed you to the realisation that he isn’t just some ‘rick fuckboy’, but a quite caring and sensitive man. Albeit with a layer of stoicism obscuring his more tender side. 

Things like him insisting that he needs to walk you home after band practice, even if it’s still bright outside. Or him picking you up in his car when it rains, so you ‘don’t catch a cold’. Or him offering to help you with coursework, surprising you with detailed, hand-written notes tucked in between the pages of your textbook. 

Aemond is caring in such a genuine way, always asking you how your studies are going, how work at the campus cafe is like, if you’d eaten anything. Always straight-to-the-point. And when you answer, he listens to you with such intensity, you’d think whatever comes out of your mouth is of grave importance. For the most part, it’s not. 

You soon find yourself looking forward to seeing him, heart skipping a beat every time he picks you up after you've finished your shift at the cafe. He always waited outside of the cafe, observing you tidying up through the shop window with a cigarette glowing between his fingers. 

When he asks you one day if you’d like to grab dinner after practice, you eagerly accept his invitation, trying your hardest to hide the excitement you feel as he says a quick goodbye to his brother and sister before leading you out of the studio you used for practice. 

It’s not a date, not really, yet when you sit next to Aemond in that dimly lit booth at the rather posh Yi-Ti-inspired restaurant he’d picked, it sure feels like one. 

That night, after sharing a bottle of wine, your face is warm and you’re filled with alcohol-infused confidence. As you talk animatedly about your favourite musician, Aemond regards you with a small smile playing on his lips, eyes intensely meeting yours to take in all your telling him. You feel a sudden urge to kiss him, and though it is chaste and unplanned; a result of your slight intoxication, you feel mortified as you pull back, ready to apologise for placing your lips on his without consent. Before you have a chance, he places a hand on your cheek and pulls your face back towards his, kissing you passionately, though his lips are soft and gentle. 

As you pull away, eyes still closed and mind lost in the bliss of your first kiss, you hear Aemond murmur a quiet “finally”. 

As a partner, Aemond seems to study you just as diligently as he studies everything else. 

He quickly picks up on your favourite things.  

If you’d been admiring a particular flower when you passed by the flower shop on your way to campus, you’d later find a bouquet waiting for you at home. When you went to museums and exhibitions together, he’d lean in next to you, one hand gently on your waist and soft lips right by your ear, and tell you everything he knew about the artist or artwork in front of you. Later, he’d buy you postcards of the paintings you’d shown particular fascination with, so you could decorate your bedroom wall with them. 

Though he claimed that his knowledge of the arts simply stemmed from being a history major, explaining that “art is one of the greatest insights we have to previous decades”, you have a strong suspicion he actually knows so much because there’s a secret love for the arts tucked away inside him, where he keeps the more sensitive parts of his soul. 

Sometimes you’re privy to that too. 

Like the time he wanted to take you out to a fancy restaurant downtown to celebrate your six month anniversary. Being a student, you didn’t really have money to spend on anything besides rent and food, meaning that you hadn’t been able to reciprocate the lovely gifts Aemond had given you since you first got together. 

Determined to give him something meaningful, you purchase a small frame from the local charity shop, print out some pictures you’d taken together from the university library, and put together a little collage of your time as a couple. 

You include a message on the back of it, thanking him for everything he’s done for you; for being such a caring boyfriend. 

As you timidly hand him your homemade gift at the luxurious restaurant, you feel a storm of unease swirl within you, suddenly overcome with embarrassment that you couldn’t get him anything nicer. 

Aemond’s eyes light up in a way you’d hardly seen before. 

He turns the gift over in his hand, admiring the photo collage and reading the little message on the back. 

Grabbing your hand, he looks into your eyes and says a quiet “thank you”, and the gravity and sincerity of his voice lets you know that he appreciates the simple gift more than he can put into words. 

The coming week you stick to the same set list; kicking off each performance with ‘The Chain’ and finishing with ‘Go Your Own Way’. You’d like to pretend that the performances got easier as time went on, but that would be a lie. 

Each night, you’re forced to sing Aemond’s self-pitying words; ‘if I could, I’d give you my world’. You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes each time. What made him incapable of ‘giving you his world’ when you were married? He made it sound like he had no part in your divorce; like all he did was try and love you while you broke his heart. 

Fuck that. 

He broke your heart. And he kept breaking it. Every fucking night he made you sing his martyr complex bullshit. 

It wasn’t anything new, not really. This is how it so often went when you fought as a married couple, it had just taken a new form. The bones of it are the same; Aemond is upset and shuts you out, you try to reason with him and get burnt. 

There’s something about his attitude when you find yourselves in a fight. He could turn so condescending, berating you for your emotions. Like he’s better than you for not letting them get the best of him; for not shouting or crying. 

He thinks showing that something hurts him is a sign of weakness. That he’s too smart to let his insecurities and doubts overtake his senses. So he can pretend he doesn’t feel such unbecoming emotions. 

Even when they prove too strong to push down. 

Aemond has been quiet for the entire trip back home, jaw shut tight and eyes refusing to meet yours. 

You know something’s off in the way his usual stoicism doesn’t feel natural, but forced. He’s holding something back, keeping something from you, and you can’t figure it out for the life of you. 

As you enter your flat, he finally breaks the silence. 

“Did you like that?”

His voice is colder than you’re used to. You recognise the tone though, from when he’s had enough of Aegon’s endless shenanigans. 

You step out of your heels and turn around to face him, “Like what? The party?”

His face is set in a frown and he irritably clicks his tongue at your obliviousness, 

“You know what I mean, don’t play dumb” 

You really have no idea what could’ve prompted his sour mood, so you stay quiet, waiting for him to continue. You don’t feel like playing these games with him; they won’t lead anywhere. 

If he’d just tell you what made him upset, you could solve the issue and move on.  

He sighs at the lack of answer, “You liked all that attention, didn’t you?”  

Oh. 

He’s jealous. 

“Oh come on, Aemond, this is great for the band! We’re getting recognition! We’re recording our first album!”

You don’t want him to rob you off the excitement you’d felt today, talking to one of Westeros biggest record labels and finally getting the recognition you’d worked so hard for. 

He turns to face you, features still stern as he backs you into the wall, 

“But did you like it? The way that guy from the record label was eyeing you?”, he asks again. 

You know Aemond has a tendency to get protective of you; fussing over you and insisting that you listen to him. And when he’s caring, and when you feel anxious, it feels comforting to have someone protect you so fiercely. But you’re not a child, and he doesn’t have to treat you as one. 

“Why would I like it?”

Your challenge makes him move closer. You see the way his pupil is blown wide, the heat in his gaze radiating off him. 

“I think you did. I think you enjoy the attention”

It’s almost laughable; the fact that Aemond Targaryen, undoubtedly one of the most alluring people you’ve ever met, feels threatened by some sleazy guy from a record label. How could he think some guy flirting with you would affect your affection for him even in the slightest? 

Still, there’s something intriguing about the dark look in his eye. It’s so passionate; the way he observes you. Like he wants to devour you. Punish you. Claim you. 

It sparks something alight inside you. You want to match his fire.  

“Maybe I did”

You have to bite your lip to prevent a smirk from breaking out. Will he fall for the provocation? 

Aemond’s eyes narrow. They travel from your face down to your body, and his arms come up to cage you against the wall of your hallway, 

“You like tormenting me, is that it?”, he asks lowly and presses the tip of his nose to the side of your face, trailing it down your cheek. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, lowering your lips to press kisses onto his neck, 

“Yes”, you say against his skin, a light chuckle escaping your lips. 

It’s almost cute when he gets like this, and so flattering in the most twisted way. He’s just as enchanted by you as you are by him. 

He startles you by pulling away, grabbing you by your waist and flipping your body so you’re suddenly facing the wall. 

He rucks up the short skirt of your cocktail dress with much more force than necessary and a firm smack lands on your ass. The sudden sting of pain makes you inhale sharply and you feel your pulse elevate with excitement.  

Behind you, Aemond drops to his knees, kisses your stinging backside, and pulls at the flimsy material of your thong until it tears in two, falling to the floor. 

His insatiable display causes desire to pulse within you; an ache that nestles itself between your thighs and beats as fast as your heart. 

Pushing on your lower back, he urges you to lean forward as he continues to soothe the aching flesh of your ass with sweet kisses. 

The chill air of the room feels strange against your hot, wet cunt, and you wish he’d touch you in the place you needed him most. The place that painfully pounds with want for him. 

As if he could read your mind, Aemond grabs the front of your thighs with his large, warm hands and he presses his face against your exposed cunt, unwilling to waste any more time as he swipes his tongue over your swollen clit. 

You moan in gratitude and your forehead falls to make contact with the wall in front of you, the sweat of your forehead sticking to the cool surface. 

He knows exactly how to work you; how to make you squirm and tense up and reach your peak in no time. 

With each movement of his tongue against your clit, you feel your peak grow closer; an embarrassingly fast release only your beloved could elicit. 

As you lose yourself in the pleasure, and your hips begin to move in tandem with Aemond’s tongue, his debauched kisses lessen, and he pulls away from your cunt, wiping his sticky face against the back of your thigh. 

You let out a frustrated whine, turn around to face him, and look down at him, still on his knees. 

“That’s just cruel, Aemond”

He looks so beautiful kneeling in front of you, long hair dishevelled and cheeks flustered pink. 

“Maybe I like tormenting you as well”

He still has that darkness dancing in his eyes, but now accompanied by the playful grin that’s spreading across his face. He stands, leans in so closely your body gets pushed against the wall behind you, and places one of his legs between your naked thighs, 

“Beg me to fuck you”

He rocks his jeans-clad thigh against your exposed core as he makes his demand; blue colour quickly darkening from the stain of your arousal. 

You throw your head back and moan at the pleasurable friction, the harshness of the fabric providing wonderful relief to your aching clit. Your hips quickly meet the rhythm of his thigh, and when he lowers his face to bite at your nipple through the thin material of your dress, you feel your previously denied release approach once more. 

You move yourself more forcefully against his thigh, and as your movements turn sloppy from pleasure tightening inside you, he pulls away yet again.  

You know you look like a mess with your hair frizzy from the friction of the wall, spit covering the fabric over your nipple, and the lower part of your body fully exposed; inner thighs sticky from arousal. 

“Aemond, please”, you whine as he straightens up, face wholly entertained by your miserable state. 

“Beg me to fuck you”, he repeats, this time slower and with emphasis on each word. 

You bite your lip and look at him. You can see the hardness of his cock straining against his jeans, but you know he’ll never relent; never give you what you want until you give him what he wants. 

“Please”, you plead, hands moving forward his zipper to undo his trousers. 

He tuts and slaps your hands away, 

“Beg”, he repeats, face returning to its previous, stern expression. 

You’d like to think you’re as good as him at playing these games. But you’re not. You don’t have the patience. 

“Please fuck me Aemond. Please make me come, please make me feel good, please stretch me out on your cock, please-” 

Your pathetic surrender is cut off by his lips on yours, kissing you passionately, stealing your breath. 

Pulling down his zipper, he takes his length in hand; rock hard and glistening with arousal. He pushes your body up against the wall and you quickly catch on, wrapping your legs around him as he enters you in one swift motion. 

“Fuck! Thank you!”, you cry out when he finally gives you what you want, and an amused snort espaces his nose. 

Aemond wastes no time in ravishing you and sets a brutal pace, pelvis repeatedly hitting your clit as his cock hits your g-spot. You’re unable to do much more than to just take it; take the mind-numbing pleasure he’s forcing upon you. 

For the third time, your peak is within reach, so close your cunt starts to tighten around Aemond’s cock. To your dismay, his pace slows, and you’re back to begging,  

“Please, I’m so close. Please let me come Aemond”

He pulls out, smiles at the devastated frown on your face, and turns you around once more. 

This time, he presses your body against the small side table by the front door, pushing his hand on the back of your head so that the side of your face makes contact with the wooden surface, ass prettily propped up and glistening entrance waiting for him. 

He presses the slick tip of his cock against your leaking hole, and pauses without entering. His large form looms over you as his hand reaches for your face, thumb stroking your lower lip, pulling it down to reveal your teeth, 

“Who do you belong to?”

His voice is lower, and calmer, than before. You look up at him; at his lust-filled eyes and kiss-swollen lips. 

You. Always you.

“You” 

Aemond’s thumb is still on your lower lip. He leans down and pushes his length fully into you again, making you let out a cry in blissful relief. 

God it feels so good. 

You see him purse his lips together, spit collecting between them, and he slowly lets it drip down to where his thumb is. 

Onto your lower lip, your tongue, your teeth. 

He smears his spit around your lips and tongue with his thumb, pace of his hips picking up to thrust into you harder. The table beneath you rocks against the wall aggressively loud. 

“Would you let anyone else fuck you like this?”, he asks, trailing his spit-soaked thumb down your body, stopping between your asscheeks to push at your puckered hole. “Never”, you assure, moaning as he pushes his thumb in, never ceasing the pace he’s set as he fucks you on the table. “Didn’t think so. You’re my little slut. Mine. No one else will ever see you as fucking cockdrunk as I do”

Maybe it’s the heat of his tone. The dark, possessive passion that excites you, even in its volatility. 

Maybe it’s the way he knows your body. How he can turn you into a begging, pathetic mess by the briefest of touches. 

It’s hard to decipher what makes your orgasm feel so utterly consuming, but when it hits, and your body shakes from the force of it, you know that no one else will ever have this effect on you. 

You. Always you.

You’ve made it a habit to go back to your hotel room between the sound check and the show, not able to bear spending more time around Aemond than absolutely necessary. 

Both of you had tried to keep up with the cordial act, but even Erryk had started to catch on to how forced each of your interactions felt. Whenever you or Aemond addressed the other, everyone around you tense up and the air feels thick; like you’re all just waiting for what’s bubbling beneath the surface to finally erupt. 

Tonight, as you’re getting ready for the tour’s fifth stop in White Harbor, no amount of breathing exercises seem to lessen your nerves, making your hands clammy and heart flimmer in anxious anticipation. 

You’re finally going to perform one of your new songs for Rumours. 

What if the fans hate it? 

Writing has helped you deal with the aftermath of your separation; a tedious effort to make the painful end of your relationship into something meaningful. A song about lost love. 

What if it sounds awful live? 

Recording separately means that this will be the first time the band actually plays the song, as opposed to each member recording their own part in solitude. 

The song sounded good in post-production. It’ll sound great live too.

You try to repeat the comforting phrase to yourself as you spot Aemond and Alys in your peripheral vision; her arms around his neck, his lips coming down to brush against her cheek. 

You don’t know if you’d rather barf or cry at the display, but when Aemond’s seeing eye briefly searches for yours, your stomach turns in disgust.

The intro of your new song starts to play; upbeat drums accompanied by a melancholic guitar melody. Aemond plays it flawlessly, just like you knew he would.

This is it. Your time to shine; to actualise the pain that’s been wearing you down for the past months. To make it into something that means something. 

Your music.

‘Now there you go again, you say, you want your freedom’

‘Well who am I to keep you down?’ 

You don’t want to look at Aemond, don’t want to mimic the staring contest he challenges you to each time he sings ‘The Chain’ or ‘Go Your Own Way’. 

You’re not doing this for him, you’re doing this for yourself. To make sense of the suffering he’s caused you. You’re doing it for the fans; all those who can resonate with what you’re singing.

‘But listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness’

‘Like a heartbeat drives you mad in the stillness of remembering what you had’

‘And what you lost’

Oh but gods, do you want to throw him a quick glance though. 

See hurt in his eye. 

See his jaw tick in anger at your words. 

‘Thunder only happens when it’s raining’ 

‘Players only love you when they’re playing’ 

Now you understand why he wanted you to do backup vocals on his new songs. You feel so powerful as you make him sing your lyrics, a sudden rush of hubris getting the best of you as you steal a glance of him.

‘They say women, they will come and they will go’

‘When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know’ 

You’re disappointed to find him in his usual state, stoic face turned away from you.

The recent rage-filled, passionate tone his voice had adopted is gone. He sounds just as calm and precise as he usually does. 

‘Now here I go again, I see the crystal vision’

‘I keep my visions to myself’

‘It’s only me who wants to wrap around your dreams’

‘Have you any dreams you’d like to sell?’

‘Dreams of loneliness like a heartbeat drives you mad’

‘In the stillness of remembering what you had’

‘And what you lost’

Like the previous nights, you’re in a rush to get back to your hotel room as soon as the show ends. 

As are your bandmates; no one really enjoys the tension that seems to be a permanent feature whenever you are all in the same room. 

As you’re about to jump into a taxi with Helaena outside of the venue, you realise that you forgot the tote bag you keep your notebooks and music sheets in backstage. You tell her to go ahead and quickly make your way back to retrieve your forgotten bag. 

A security guard lets you back in and you spot your tote immediately, laying on one of the many cheap fold-out tables lining the walls of the room. As you make your way towards it, you hear someone clear their throat in the other corner of the room. 

You’ve no idea what he wants, but you turn around in an instance, leaving your bag on the table. 

Aemond is sitting by himself in a dark corner of the large room, stomping out a cigarette onto the silver ashtray he's holding in his left hand. He places it on the ground and leans back in his seat, 

“I never said that, you know”. 

His voice is low. He sounds tired. 

“Said what?”

You’re still sadistically disappointed by the fact that he’d acted so indifferent during your performance of ‘Dreams’, and it reflects in your voice. He has a talent of bringing it out of you.

“I never said ‘women come and go’, or whatever. The reporter said it” 

His voice grows more irksome with each word, matching yours. 

Sure, he hadn’t said it. But he might as well have. 

“Whatever, Aemond”, you sigh, too tired to engage in pointless discussion with him. You turn to leave, reaching for your bag, but he stops you once again,  

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t perform that song again”.

You let out a startled, joy-less laugh at his audacity, “Too bad”

“Then change the lyrics. It’s obviously about our… relationship” 

You can sense strain in his voice. He’s holding something back.

Maybe you finally got to him.

“So are your new songs”, you counter. 

He is such a hypocrite, it’s almost laughable. An unbecoming characteristic of his that reared its ugly head more frequently as your relationship got worse. 

“I never say they are though. You’re quoting me, hard to assume it could be about anyone else”

His voice is low and dark, you have to focus to properly hear him. 

“Thought you didn’t say that?”

You have to bite the inside of your lower lip to keep yourself from grinning as you add, 

“Maybe the song is about the reporter?” 

The provocation works. Aemond swiftly stands up, seeing eye dark and threatening as his voice grows louder, 

“My songs aren’t filled with blatant lies, you’re calling me names and shit” 

His nostrils are flaring as he breathes heavily, hand flexing in an attempt to stifle his rage. 

You’d got to him. 

“You can’t be for real, Aemond! Every fucking time you perform your new songs you're staring at me on stage, singing about how I can ‘go my own, lonely way’! You have no right dictating what I write or how I express myself”. 

He’d gotten to you too. You can’t hide your irritation any longer, a whole week being in his insufferable presence proving to be too much.  

It’s his turn to throw a condescending laugh your way. 

“Well, you’re the one who kept going on about how lonely you were”

Back when you were still together, when the fights had became a permanent, unavoidable recurrence, you had accused Aemond of never truly letting you in, leaving you feeling lonely in your relationship. 

But there’s a difference between feeling disconnected from your partner, and being unable to be on your own. 

“You couldn’t be alone for a second, Aemond, that’s how fucking lonely you are. How long did it take you to hook up with Alys? 3 days!?”

“Because you left me!”, he shouts back. 

And there it is; the anger that he pretends he doesn't have within himself. The ugly, raw emotion he thinks he’s too good to let overtake his senses. 

His voice isn’t cold anymore. 

His face isn’t indifferent. 

His eyes shine with heartbreak, but so do yours. 

“You chased me away with your fucking obsessive behaviour! You deserved to be left!” 

Sometimes when you fought when you were married, you’d hold yourself back, still trying to protect Aemond’s feelings to some degree by not purposefully hurting him just because you were angry. 

Not anymore. 

He grimaces slightly at your words and you feel a sick sense of satisfaction.

He deserves it. 

You can’t bear to look at him, and you can’t hear anything either, heartbeat thumping in your ears so loudly it’s giving you a headache. 

If you stay, and see that the fire in his eye has been extinguished by regret, you might cave in. 

You can’t. 

So you turn around, grab your bag in a haste and storm out of the door, rushing to get hold of a taxi on the busy street by the venue. 

You hold it together in the car ride to the hotel. You thank the driver and offer him a tip, you enter the building and go to the elevator, smile at an elderly couple who engage you in some polite smalltalk about the weather. 

It’s not until you enter your hotel room and lock the door behind you that you allow the tears to fall. 

They seem endless, and all you want to do is crawl into bed and sleep. 

Seeing the empty space, the empty bed, makes you feel so lonely a stinging pain goes through your chest. You're pulled back to the memories of living with Aemond, coming back home to him; sleeping in the same bed as him. 

You miss him so much it hurts. Not the person you’d just had a fight with backstage. You miss the Aemond he was before; your Aemond. 

You think about the Aemond in the museum, who’d tell you about the history of the Water Gardens and Prince Maron Martell.

You think about the Aemond that kissed your forehead before each show. 

You think about the Aemond that loved you. 

You go to your closet, stretch your arm all the way to the back, and search for what you know to be there. Your hand finds the soft sweatshirt and you pull it out from the dark corners of your hotel room closet, quickly pulling off all of your clothes until you’re standing in nothing but your underwear. 

Aemond’s uni hoodie still smells like him. You cry harder, uglier, as you put it on, burying your nose in the fabric and inhaling deeply. 

Maybe the Aemond you miss still exists in your dreams. 

You get under the duvet, nose still nuzzled in the soft fabric and body shaking from the violent sobs leaving your body, and fall asleep.

A/N: Before you ask, no. She doesn’t know if Aemond met Alys exactly three days after their separation. She’s exaggerating for emphasis, as one often does when fighting. The point is that he “moved on” suspiciously fast.

Planets of the Universe is a demo song that never made it onto Rumours, but it so good; very raw and real. TY for reading 🩵

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

50 Shades of Red || Chapter 13

pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff

summary: Wanda meets Natasha's mother, and then they have an interesting conversation over lunch.

content warnings: mentions of past sexual abuse

word count: 3.5k+

masterlist

comments and reblogs are always appreciated! happy reading ♡

Natasha sits up on the bed, the sudden shift in her weight causing Wanda to sink into the mattress as she struggles to follow the woman’s movement.

“Come on, we need to get dressed if you want to meet my mother.” She grins, leaping off the bed and pulling on a pair of slacks. They’re perfectly pressed, and Wanda can’t help but watch in slight awe as Natasha puts herself together neatly. She looks like she’s been up for hours in business meetings, rather than fucking Wanda within an inch of her life. 

“Natasha, I can’t move.”

Those pearly whites flash as she grins, leaning down and undoing the tie. She gently kisses Wanda’s wrists as she does so, the slight indents fading with each second. It’s sexy… and caring. Natasha gazes at her, amused green eyes filling Wanda’s vision. She kisses her forehead quickly before pulling away from the bed and standing fully. 

“Another first,” she acknowledges, but Wanda has no idea what she’s talking about. 

“I don’t have any clean clothes here.” Wanda is filled with a sudden panic, her heart leaping into her throat at the prospect of meeting Natasha’s mother. Fuck. She only has her wrinkled clothes that Natasha had torn off of her, and that wasn’t a good first impression. “Maybe I should stay in the bedroom.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Natasha threatens. “You can wear something of mine.” She slips into a plain white t-shirt and runs a hand through her just-fucked hair. In spite of her anxiety, Wanda loses her train of thought as she gazes at the woman. She will never get used to looking at this beautiful woman. 

Her beauty is derailing. 

“Wanda,” Natasha murmurs, leaning in and pulling her up from the bed gently. “You could be wearing a sack and you’d look lovely. Please, don’t worry. I would like for you to meet my mother.” Her eyes are warm, calming Wanda. “I’ll go and calm her down.”

Those green eyes harden slightly. “I will expect you in the other room in five minutes, otherwise I’ll come and drag you out in whatever you’re wearing, understood?” The order rings out, and Wanda feels herself flush. Fuck, why was that so hot?

“My t-shirts and crewnecks are in the closet. Help yourself.” Natasha eyes her for a moment, smirking and kissing her gently on the lips before pulling away and leaving the room, the door shutting softly behind her. 

Holy shit.

Natasha’s mother is in the other room. This is so much more than Wanda had bargained for. Perhaps meeting her will help put together more of the puzzle pieces that make up the woman that Natasha Romanoff is. Suddenly, Wanda wants to meet her. 

Quickly, she pulls her shirt off from the floor, pleased to see it survived the night and is mostly wrinkle-free. Finding her bra from under the bed, she dresses quickly, hesitating at her still slightly damp panties. Rifling through Natasha’s chest of drawers, she pulls out a pair of soft black boxer briefs, worrying her bottom lip before slipping them on and suppressing a small smile.

Pulling on a pair of loose jeans and slipping into her converse, Wanda grabs her jacket and dashes into the bathroom. The girl that looks back at her is flushed, her eyes a little too bright and hair mussed in a decidedly just-fucked sort of way.

A ponytail will have to do.

Wanda’s subconscious purses her lips and mouth’s the word ‘ho’. She ignores her. Pulling the jacket on, relief fills her at the cuffs hang over the rope marks that had dug into her skin. With one last nervous glance at the mirror, Wanda makes her way tot he living room, reminding herself to straighten her back. 

“Here she is.” Natasha stands from where she’s lounging on the couch. 

Her expression is warm and appreciative. The dark-haired woman beside him turns and beams at Wanda, a full smile. She stands too. She’s impeccably attired in a sandy colored knit sweater dress with matching suede shoes. She looks groomed, elegant, beautiful, and inside Wanda dies just a little, knowing she looks like a mess in comparison.

“Mother, this is Wanda Maximoff. Wanda this is Melina Vostokoff-Romanoff.”

Dr. Vostokoff-Romanoff holds her hand out, her eyes sharp yet warm. “What a pleasure to meet you,” she murmurs. If Wanda isn’t mistaken, there is wonder and maybe stunned relief in her voice and a warm glow in her eyes. 

Wanda grasps her hand and can’t help the small smile that spreads on her face, returning the warm. 

“Doctor,” she responds.

“Oh please,” the woman smiles, a faint russian accent wrapping around her words. “Call me Melina.” She winks. “So how did you two meet?” She looks questioningly at Natasha, unable to hide her curiosity. 

“Wanda interviewed me for the student paper at WSu because I’m conferring the degrees there this week.”

Oh fuck. Wanda had forgotten about that.

“So, you are graduating this week?” Melina asks.

“Yes.”

Wanda’s phone starts ringing. The sound reverberating from it’s spot in the kitchen. 

“Excuse me,” she murmurs, her ears burning as she makes a beeline for the counter. She doesn’t bother checking the number, already prepared to hear Kate’s voice. 

“Kate.”

“Oh thank God, Wanda!” Ah shit, it’s Vision. He sounds desperate. “Where are you? I’ve been trying to contact you. I need to see you, to apologize for my behavior on Friday. Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

“Look, Vision, now is really not a good time,” Wanda glances anxiously over to Natasha. Those green eyes are watching her intently, the woman’s face impassive as she murmurs something to her mother. Wanda turns her back on them. 

“Where are you? Kate is being so evasive,” he whines.

“I’m in Seattle.”

“What are you doing in Seattle? Are you with her?”

“Vision, I’ll call you later. I can’t talk to you right now.” Wanda hangs up, shaking off her annoyance. Nochalontly, she walks back towards Natasha and her mother. Melina is in full flow. 

“... And Yelena called to say you were around, I haven’t seen you for two weeks, darling.”

“Did she now,” Natasha murmurs, gazing at Wanda, her expression unreadable. She reaches out a subtle hand, gesturing for Wanda to stand by her side. 

Almost too eagerly, Wanda tucks herself into Natasha’s side, loving the feeling of the woman’s hand immediately wrapping around her hip. It feels natural and Wanda feels warmth spreading through her body from where Natasha’s fingers gently stroke her waist.

“I thought we might have lunch together, but I can see you have other plans, and I don’t want to interrupt your day.” Melina gather’s up her long cream coat and turns towards Natasha, smiling gently at her. She doesn’t reach out, simply offering her cheek and murmuring something in Russian when Natasha kisses it briefly. 

“I have to drive Wanda back to Portland.”

“Of course, darling. Wanda, it’s been such a pleasure. I do hope we meet again.”

Melina holds her hand out to Wanda, her eyes glowing, and they shake hands. It’s brief, and not as awkward as Wanda had thought it would be. 

Nick appears from… where?

“Mrs. Romanoff?” he asks.

“Thank you, Nick.” He escorts her from the room and through the double doors to the foyer. Taylor was here the whole time? How long has he been here? Where has he been?

The hand around her waist tightens slightly, and Wanda turns to see Natasha’s eyes on her. She looks intense, and Wanda immediately feels nervous. 

“So the photographer called?”

Fuck.

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

“Just to, you know, apologize. For Friday.”

Natasha narrows her eyes. “I see.”

Immediately, Wanda feels as though she’s done something wrong. She stands in anxious silence as the hand around her waist retreats, Natasha walking over to her study and slipping inside, returning a moment later with a few papers in hand. 

Something must have shown on Wanda’s face, because the woman's stony expression softens the moment she sees her. 

“Tell me what’s wrong, Wanda.”

Natasha is suddenly at her side again, guiding her over to the couches and sitting her down. The papers are set on the coffee table, the woman’s cinnamon scent engulfing her as one of her hands rests gently on her thigh, the other rubbing soothing circles on the back of her neck. 

Wanda can’t help but get a little turned on. 

“I-” she stammers, “Well the vibe just changed after that phone call. Should I not have answered it?”

Natasha’s eyebrow quirks up at the word vibe, but she takes a breath, collecting her thoughts before speaking. “I apologize, Wanda.”

“No you don’t have to-”

“Do not interrupt me while I am speaking.”

Wanda feels her lower gut pool with warmth. Now is not the time, her brain whispers even as her clit pulses happily. “Sorry,” she murmurs, feeling Natasha’s fingers relax and resume their gentle touches. 

“I became upset when the photographer was brought up, and frankly, the idea that he believes he can still call you after everything that’s happened,” Natasha says, her jaw working slightly. “It may have seemed like my frustration was directed at you, and for that, I sincerely apologize.” 

Oh.

“God, you speak like such a CEO,” Wanda giggles, the tension in the room dissipating, “Thank you.”

Natasha nods, smiling at her before reaching for the papers. Gently, she slides them onto Wanda’s lap and places her fingers on her chin, forcing eye contact. Wanda’s clit does that funny pulse thing again.

“These are some things I would like you to go home and research. We’ll discuss it next weekend. I want you to know what kind of kink you’re getting in to.“ She pauses, “We’ll talk more about our specific wants and needs once you have a better understanding of the BDSM community and what it entails" 

“Like, different toys and stuff?” Wanda asks, her cheeks burning slightly. 

Smiling, Natasha chuckles softly. “Yes, but this packet also goes over the basics of respect in a power dynamic, safewords, different ways to provide aftercare for both the Dominant and Submissive, amongst other things.”

Natasha’s expression grows serious.

“Wanda, please don’t hesitate to ask any questions you have, especially if you’re confused by what’s on the internet.”

Internet! She doesn’t have access to a computer, only Kate’s laptop, and she can’t exactly use the school’s computer lab for this sort of research. 

“What is it?” Natasha asks, cocking her head to the side.

“I don’t have my own computer. I’ll see if I can use a private brower on Kate’s laptop.”

Smirking, Natasha taps the papers again, before she stands. “I am sure I can… lend you one. Allow me to dress, then I’ll be ready to drive you home.”

“Sure,” Wanda murmurs, watching the woman retreat down the hallway. She glaces at the papers in her lap, her curiosity getting the better of her as she flips to the first page. It’s not that bad, she recognizes a lot of the words from her romance novels, but she can tell that Natasha wants her to take this seriously. Looks like she has a bit of studying to do.

Natasha reemerges, dressed in a black leather jacket and holding a messenger bag. “Ready?” She asks, holding a hand out to Wanda.

Nodding, Wanda stands, gripping the papers in one hand and her phone in the other. She slips it into her pocket, taking Natasha’s surprisingly soft hand in her own as they walk toward the elevator. 

The ride down to the garage is quick, and the sheer amount of cars causes Wanda’s eyes to bulge slightly.

“Nice cars,” she murmurs dryly. 

Natasha grins. “I know,” she says, her expression suddenly young and carefree. It warms Wanda’s heart, and she smiles like an idiot when Natasha opens the passenger door of a sleek, black sporty car. She slips inside, reverently touching the dark maroon leather seats as Natasha gracefully slips into the driver’s seat. 

“So what sort of car is this?”

“It’s an Audi R8 Spyder. It’s a lovely day, we can take the top down. There’s a baseball cap in there. In fact, there should be two.” She points to the glove box. “Also sunglasses if you want them.”

She starts the ignition, and the engine roars to life. Placing her bag in the space behind their seats, Natasha presses a button, and the roof slowly reclines. With the flick of a switch, soft jazz surrounds them. Grinning easily, Natasha eases the car out of the parking space and up the steep ramp. 

Then, the bright Seattle May morning hits Wanda’s face. She reaches into the glove box and pulls out two black baseball caps, handing one to Natasha before slipping her ponytail through the loop in the back and pulling the brim down low.

People stare at them as they drive through the streets. For a moment, Wanda thinks it’s because they recognize Natasha, but then the paranoid part of her thinks that everyone is looking at her because they know what she’s been doing in the last twelve hours. Then, she finally realizes that it’s the car. 

Natasha glances over, her eyes hidden behind a pair of Ray-Bans. Reaching over, she gently places her hand on Wanda’s thigh, her fingers firm as she squeezes slightly. 

“Hungry?”

Not for food. 

“Not particularly.”

Natasha’s eyebrow raises. “You must eat, Wanda,” she chides. “I know a great place near Olympia. We’ll stop there.” She squeezes her thigh again, “Let me take care of you.”

Well, Wanda can’t say no to that.

The restaurant is small and intimate, a modern looking wooden cabin the middle of the forest. The décor is rustic with random chairs and tables and wild flowers in little vases. 

“I’ve not been here for a while. We don’t get a choice on what we eat, they cook whatever they’ve caught or gathered.” She raises her eyebrows in mock horror, and Wanda can’t help but laugh.  The waitress takes their drinks order. She flushes when she sees Natasha, avoiding eye contact with her and hiding under her long blonde bangs. 

“Two glasses of the Pinot Grigio,” Natasha says with a voice of authority. Wanda purses her lips. 

“What?” Natasha asks, tilting her head.

“I wanted a Dr. Pepper,” Wanda whispers. 

Those green eyes narrow slightly, and then she shakes her head, speaking patiently. “The Pinot Grigio here is a decent wine, it will go well with the meal, whatever we get.”

“Whatever we get?”

“Yes.” Natasha smiles, her head cocked slightly, and Wanda can’t help the way her heart thumps at the sight. She can’t help but reflect that glorious smile back at her.

“My mother liked you,” she says dryly. 

“Really?”

“Yes, she was always worried I’d be lonely once I came out as a lesbian.”

“Oh.”

“You know, Wanda, it’s been a weekend of firsts for me too,” she says quietly. 

“It has?”

“I’ve never slept with anyone, never had sex in my own personal bed, never flown a woman in my helicopter, never introduced a woman to my mother. What are you doing to me?” Her eyes burn, their intensity taking Wanda’s breath away. 

The waitress arrives with their glasses of wine, and Wanda immediately takes a quick sip. “I really enjoyed this weekend,” she murmurs. 

“Stop biting your lip,” Natasha mutters, her eyes glancing down before she takes a sip of her wine. “So did I,” she adds.

“What’s vanilla sex?” Wanda asks, if anything to distract herself from the intense, burning, quite frankly sexy look Natasha is giving her. The woman laughs. 

“Just straightforward sex, Wanda. No toys, no added extras,” She shrugs. “You know… well actually you don’t, but that’s what it means.”

“Oh.” Wanda had thought it was melty chocolate fudge brownie sex they’d had, with a cherry on top. But hey, what does she know?

The waitress brings them soup. They both stare at it rather dubiously. 

“Nettle soup,” the waitress informs them, before turning and flouncing back to the kitchen. Wanda doesn’t think she likes being ignored by Natasha. She takes a tentative taste. Fuck, it’s delicious. 

Natasha and her look up at each other at the same time with relief. Wanda giggles, and Natasha cocks her head to one side. 

“That’s a lovely sound,” she murmurs. 

“Why have you never had vanilla sex before?” Wanda asks, intrigued. 

Natasha nods slowly. 

“Sort of.” Her voice is wary. She frowns for a moment, seemingly engaged in an internal struggle of sorts. Then, she glances up, a decision made. “One of my mother’s friends seduced me when I was fifteen.”

Holy shit that’s young.

“She had very particular tastes. I was her submissive for six years.” She shrugs. “So I know what it involves, Wanda.”

“Oh.” Wanda just stares at her, unable to articulate anything, her mind spinning.

“I didn’t really have the typical introduction to sex.”

Curiosity skinks in.

“So, you never dated anyone in college?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Natasha smiles slightly, her eyes locked onto her soup. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t want to. She was all I wanted, needed really. And besides, she’d have beaten the shit out of me.” Natasha smiles fondly at the memory. 

Wanda can’t help but want to know more, as awful as the picture Natasha is painting is. 

“So if she was a friend of your mother’s, how old was she?”

Natasha smirks. “Old enough to know better.”

“Do you still see her?”

“Yes.”

A flash of jealousy runs through Wanda. “Do you still…?”

“No.” Natasha shakes her head and smiles slightly at her. “She’s a very good friend.”

“Oh. Does your mother know?”

Natasha gives her a flat stare. “Of course not.”

The waitress returns with venison, but Wanda’s appetite has vanished. What a revelation. Natasha as the submissive?

Wanda takes a large sip of her Pinot Grigio. It’s delicious. She needs time to process this, when she’s on her own, not when she’s distracted by Natasha’s presence. She’s overwhelming in the best way, and that’s not good for a clear head. 

She glances up at Natasha, watching her cut into her venison, perfectly happy. This woman, having revealed that she was sexually abused as an adolescent, acting like she didn’t just drop a bombshell in casual conversation. 

“Is this what our, um, relationship will be like?” Wanda whispers. “You ordering me around?”

“Sort of,” Natasha says, taking another sip. “It goes much deeper than simple orders, Wanda. Once you’ve done some research you’ll have a better understanding.”

“It’s a big step,” Wanda murmurs, finally taking a bite of her food.

“It is.” Natasha closes her eyes for a moment, before opening them to gaze intensely at her. “Wanda, you have to go with your gut. Do the research, I’m happy to discuss any aspect of this relationship with you. I’ll be in Portland until Friday if you want to talk in person about it before the weekend. Call me if you need to I just… I want to make this work. In fact, I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want this to work.”

Wanda just nods, stunned into silence. They resume eating. The food is delicious, but Wanda can’t focus on it too much at the moment, her mind churning with new information. Natasha waves the waitress down, putting a thick black metal card down without even looking at the receipt. 

When they stand, Natasha holds her hand out, interlocking their fingers as they walk back to the car. Public display of affection, that’s new.

The drive is quiet, both of them lost in their own thoughts. Natasha’s hand doesn’t leave Wanda’s thigh, and she idly plays with the soft skin of her fingers. 

When she parks in front of Wanda’s apartment, it’s five in the evening. The lights are on, Kate is home. Packing for the summer, no doubt, unless Yelena is still there. Natasha switches off the engine, and Wanda realizes she’s going to have to leave her presence. 

“Do you want to come in?” 

“No, I have some work to do,” Natasha says, before twisting her fingers with Wanda’s and bringing her hand up to her mouth. She kisses it softly, the gesture so intimate that it makes Wanda’s ears burn. 

“Thank you for this weekend, Wanda. It’s truly been the best. Do you want to get dinner on Wednesday?” Her expression is hopeful. “I’ll pick you up from work, from wherever you’d like?” 

“Wednesday,” Wanda agrees. 

Natasha smiles widely, kissing her hand once more before she opens the door and walks around the car to open Wanda’s for her. Fixing a smile on her face, she clambers out of the car and heads up the path, knowing she has to face Kate and her multitude of questions. She turns, gazing at Natasha as she steels herself. 

“Oh… by the way, I’m wearing your underwear.” She gives her a small smile and pulls down the waistband of her pants slightly so she can see. Natasha’s mouth drops open, shocked.

Wanda’s mood shifts immediately, and she smiles as she turns, opening the door and slipping inside. 

The last thing she sees before closing the door is Natasha still standing there by the open passenger door, her green eyes intensely watching her. 

Fuck, she really does love those eyes.

---

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