#For all the kind words and the patience and the love

[natalianovnas]

❛❛ to 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒 ❛❛

  ꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: based on this lovely request by @mrsmothermaximoff ;)

  ꩜ ۫ . PAIRING :: ceo!wanda x reader

  ꩜ ۫ . WARNING :: 'enemies' to lovers trope, cold and slightly mean wanda (in the beginning), forced contract marriage.

꩜ ۫ . WORDS COUNT :: 6.5k || masterlist

an ; i apologise for the delay but it's here now & i'm not relly proud of how it turned out despite the insane amount of times i spent rewriting this but enjoy :)

You were sure there was a special place in hell for Wanda Maximoff.

Probably right next to the printer that never worked unless you whispered sweet nothings to it, and directly above the coffee machine that hated you. But even then, Wanda would rule supreme. Ice-cold. Iron-spined. A goddess in a power suit who made your life absolutely miserable, day after endless day.

And yet—you never quit.

You were overworked, underappreciated, and absolutely exhausted. But the pay was good, the benefits better, and your rent unforgiving. So you survived on caffeine, spite, and a tiny scrap of pride that wouldn’t let Wanda win.

“Miss Y/L/N,” came that voice—low, smooth, and dipped in condescension.

You didn’t look up from your screen. Not immediately. Wanda hated when you made her wait, but she hated desperation more. And if you had anything left in this war, it was your ability to pretend she didn’t affect you.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff?” you finally replied, tone clipped but professional.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor, each step a countdown to your next aneurysm. She stood behind your desk, all sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, dressed in navy with lipstick the color of fresh blood.

“My schedule for this afternoon is… missing details,” she said, gesturing to the tablet in her hand. “Are you slacking off, or simply testing my patience?”

You swallowed. “The update was sent thirty minutes ago, along with the attached files. You haven’t refreshed your calendar, Ma'am.”

A pause. You watched her nostrils flare the tiniest bit.

“Fix it,” she snapped anyway, as if you hadn’t already done exactly that. “And bring me the corrected briefing in my office. Now.”

She turned and walked away before you could reply.

You didn’t mutter a curse—but only because HR was one more complaint away from calling you in for a “tone check.”

Wanda Maximoff was also a tyrant.

There was no other word for it. She was brilliant, yes—built Maximoff Industries from the ground up after moving from Sokovia at nineteen. She was also relentless, poised, and terrifyingly beautiful in that rich, untouchable kind of way that made you feel like a peasant in a fairytale. But she had no sense of mercy.

You’d been her assistant for two years. Not her executive assistant—just her assistant. The one she assigned overtime to without warning. The one she emailed at 2 a.m. with subject lines like URGENT: color-coding is embarrassing. The one who, despite having a degree and enough ambition to fill a boardroom, was stuck being her glorified punching bag.

Sometimes, you wondered if she even knew your first name.

Most times, you knew she did—and just enjoyed saying it as little as possible.

“Something crawled up her spine and built a condo,” you muttered under your breath as you passed Peter in the break room, cradling your third cup of coffee like it owed you child support.

Peter raised a brow. “Maximoff?”

You gave him a look. “She’s on a warpath. And I think I’m the first casualty.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t last. “Yeah, she’s… not great today.”

“She’s never great, Peter.”

“Okay, true. But this?” He lowered his voice, glancing around to make sure no one else was near. “This isn’t normal. Not even for her.”

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. “What’s the deal, then? Mercury in retrograde? Her espresso machine died?”

Peter hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek.

You tilted your head. “Spill. You know something.”

He sighed, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Alright, look. Keep this to yourself, but… her visa’s expiring soon.”

You blinked. “Visa?”

“She’s still technically on a special investor visa from Sokovia. It got renewed a few times, but the latest application hit a snag. Bureaucracy crap. She has a few months, tops.”

You blinked again, slower. “But… she’s Wanda Maximoff. Her name is on the goddamn building. She’s a millionaire. You’re telling me she might have to—what—pack up and go home?”

Peter nodded grimly. “Unless she finds a permanent solution fast. And, well… you know how she gets when things feel out of her control.”

You stared into your coffee, the bitterness suddenly matching your mood.

It made sense now—the extra tension, the unusual edge in her voice, the way she barked orders like she was trying to distract herself from something worse.

.     .     .

You should’ve seen it coming.

The moment you stepped into Wanda’s office that afternoon—called in via a sharp, one-line email with no subject—your instincts screamed at you to run. But you didn’t. Because you never did.

Because even if she was fire and knives and deadlines wrapped in silk, you always showed up.

She didn’t look up when you entered. She was at her desk, eyes on her laptop, long fingers tapping something out fast. Deliberate. You waited, silently, in front of her desk, clutching the tablet with her updated itinerary—because that’s what she asked for.

Finally, she spoke. “Close the door.”

Your heart skipped.

Obeying, you turned, shut it quietly, and turned back. She gestured to the chair across from her without looking.

You sat.

And waited.

Wanda finally looked up—and the moment her eyes met yours, you felt something shift.

She looked… tired.

Not unkempt. Not messy. She was never those things. But there was a tension in her jaw that wasn’t always there, a strain behind the eyes like she hadn’t slept. And worse: a flicker of vulnerability trying to pass for detachment.

“I’m going to make this simple,” she said at last. “I need something. And you’re going to give it to me.”

You blinked. “You always make things sound like you’re about to blackmail me.”

She didn’t smile. “You’re not wrong.”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet.

“You’ve worked here long enough,” she went on, “to know how I operate. I like control. Precision. Solutions. And I don’t like my time wasted with unnecessary questions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of asking for a favor?”

“No.” Her gaze sharpened. “It’s my way of giving you an opportunity.”

You couldn’t help the dry laugh that escaped. “God, you’re really committing to the Bond villain routine, huh?”

Her jaw flexed. “I’m offering you a deal. You can either hear it, or I can accept your resignation.”

You went still.

“You’re kidding,” you said flatly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I need to stay in the country,” she said. “Legally. My visa situation is deteriorating faster than I expected, and every other avenue is closing. I’ve been advised that the fastest way to lock in my residency and maintain the company without interruption… is to marry a U.S. citizen.”

Your lips parted. Then closed again. Then opened.

“You’re telling me this why?”

“Because,” she said coolly, “it’s either you, or someone I don’t trust. And I’d rather marry someone I can predict. Someone who already knows how to survive my world.”

You gaped. “Survive—? Wanda, I’m your assistant. I bring you coffee and tolerate your daily tantrums. I’m not your—your fake wife!”

“You’ll be compensated,” she said, like she hadn’t just threatened your career. “A year’s salary, upfront. Your debt cleared. Paid leave after the interviews. A guaranteed recommendation from me. You’ll live with me, play the part, attend events when needed. Three months minimum. One year ideal.”

Your throat went dry. “And if I say no?”

She folded her hands on the desk. “Then you’ll receive a generous severance and be free to look for employment somewhere else. I won’t lie—I’ll make sure it’s somewhere far from this industry.”

You stared at her, heart pounding. “You’re seriously threatening me into marriage.”

“No,” she said evenly. “I’m giving you a choice. It just happens to come with consequences.”

You stood suddenly, knocking the chair back a few inches. “You are unbelievable.”

“And you’re an intelligent woman who knows a once-in-a-lifetime offer when she sees it.”

Your eyes stung, but you blinked fast. You wouldn’t cry in front of her. You never had—and today wasn’t going to be the day you broke.

“Why me?” you asked, quieter now. “You’ve treated me like shit for two years.”

Wanda’s gaze faltered.

For the first time in a very long time, she looked… conflicted.

“Because I know you won’t lie to me,” she said finally. “Because I know you’re loyal even when I don’t deserve it. And because I—”

She stopped herself. Her fingers curled on the desk.

You stepped back slowly. “You don’t get to manipulate me, Wanda. Not with guilt. Not with perks. Not with desperation.”

She stood too. Slowly.

“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “Think about it.”

You stared at her a moment longer—at the way she held herself stiffly, like a soldier refusing to show injury. And for just a breath, you saw something else flicker behind her practiced calm.

Fear.

You turned and walked out without another word.

But even as the door shut behind you, her voice echoed in your mind:

“You’re the only one I trust to do this right.”

And god help you—some part of you wanted to say yes.

.     .     .

You stared at your ceiling for most of the night. Wanda Maximoff, your boss, had proposed—no, offered—you marriage. Like it was a project to manage. A transaction. A contract. Just another calendar entry she could control.

Marry me or lose your job.

You replayed the words again and again, the ice in her tone, the half-glint of desperation in her otherwise impenetrable eyes.

She hadn’t said please. She hadn’t even asked. And still… you couldn’t shake the way her voice faltered when she said:

“Because I know you won’t lie to me.”

That wasn’t the Wanda Maximoff you knew.

And it haunted you.

---

“You’re not actually considering this,” Peter said, nearly choking on his pastry the next morning.

You’d asked him to meet before work. Neutral ground. Coffee shop. Public enough that he couldn’t yell at you.

You gave a long sigh into your cup. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh my God,” he muttered, leaning across the table. “You are. You are considering it.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Y/N,” Peter said, exasperated. “This is your boss. The same boss who once sent back your PowerPoint slides because the font gave her a ‘visual migraine.’ The woman who criticized your penmanship on a sticky note.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I know who she is.”

“She’s cold. Controlling. And terrifying.”

“She’s scared right now,” you mumbled, almost to yourself.

Peter stared.

You didn’t meet his gaze. “She’s losing control of the only thing she’s ever built. The company is everything to her.”

“Still doesn’t make you the solution. There are other ways to fix this. Legal ones. Less insane ones.”

“She trusts me.”

Peter laughed, short and dry. “That’s funny. Because I watched her ignore you for six months straight unless she needed coffee or someone to bleed on.”

You gave him a look.

He softened. “I’m just saying… I get that you feel like you owe something to that building, to your job, to her. But don’t let her guilt you into ruining your life.”

You were quiet for a beat. “It wouldn’t ruin it.”

Peter raised both brows.

“It’d be one year,” you said, barely above a whisper. “A fake year. With money, freedom, clean debt. I’d come out of it better off. That’s not ruining—it’s… survival.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

---

You didn’t go straight to Wanda’s office.

You paced around your desk. Sorted your inbox. Re-read her calendar six times. Practiced saying “no” in five different tones.

And then you did the unthinkable: you walked into her office without knocking.

Wanda looked up from her desk, not angry—just expectant. Like she’d known you’d come.

Her mouth twitched. “That was fast.”

You closed the door behind you. “I didn’t say yes.”

“Yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can you not treat this like a hostile takeover?”

She stood, slowly, and walked around her desk. “Then how should I treat it?”

“Like it’s not a game,” you said. “Like it involves me too.”

That stopped her.

Wanda’s arms crossed. “I thought I was giving you something. Freedom. Power. Money. And you’d get out after a year. Safe. Rich. Clean.”

“And what do you get?” you asked.

She hesitated. Just a flicker. But it was enough.

“I get to stay,” she said. “I get to keep what I’ve built. And I get… a little peace.”

The honesty startled you.

You blinked. “So that’s what I am to you? Peace?”

Her eyes met yours. “I don’t have time for someone I have to charm. Someone I need to lie to. You already hate me. You’ll survive this. And I trust you.”

You swallowed hard. “You trust me… more than you like me.”

Something flickered in her face. Something softer.

“I do like you,” she said, quieter now. “More than I should.”

Your breath caught.

But before the silence could stretch too long, she added, like ripping off a bandage: “So? What’s your answer?”

You didn’t say it right away. You walked out again. Sat back at your desk.

But you typed up a contract draft before lunch.

Just to see what it would look like.

You’d never signed anything that made you feel so… out of body.

And you’d signed an NDA that threatened jail time over gossiping about Wanda’s caffeine preferences.

But this?

This was next level.

A marriage contract—fake, yes, but binding. Your name beside hers, your future entangled with hers for the next year. It felt like volunteering to stand next to a tornado and hope it didn’t notice you bleeding.

Wanda hadn’t said anything when she received the contract. Just read it in silence, flipped to the footnotes, and smiled that little smile she wore when you surprised her.

Clause 3.1: Maintain boundaries at work—no "wifely" expectations during business hours.

Clause 3.5: No kissing, touching, or fake honeymoon antics unless publicly required.

Clause 4.2: One year maximum, subject to early exit with written consent.

Clause 5.0: If a dog enters the household, Y/N keeps it.

She hadn’t even blinked at the dog clause. Just said: “Very specific.”

You replied, “I’ve met you. I’m preparing for chaos.”

You tried not to look like you were dying when Peter found out.

But of course, you failed.

“You’re marrying her.” His voice cracked like his brain couldn’t compute it. “You’re marrying her.”

“Technically, fake marrying her,” you corrected, sipping your iced coffee like it would wash the guilt off your tongue.

Peter stared. “This is like watching someone walk into a lion’s mouth because the lion offered to pay their bills.”

“She needs this. I need the money. It’s one year, not forever.”

He leaned in. “You’ve worked under her thumb for two years and barely survived. You think living with her is going to be easier?”

“She’s not the same at home.”

He scoffed. “What, she says thank you now? Hums lullabies in her robe?”

You winced. “She’s not that bad.”

“She made a grown man cry last week because his pen ink was too blue.”

“… Okay. But that was objectively unprofessional ink.”

Peter gave you a long, stunned look. “Oh my God. You’re already falling into it.”

“I am not falling into anything,” you snapped.

Except maybe a quiet sense of curiosity. About the Wanda that existed off-hours. The one who never made eye contact in the elevator, but always remembered if you took your coffee black with two sugars. The one who never praised, but never forgot birthdays.

That Wanda.

The one who let herself say: “I trust you.”

. . .

You didn’t expect the shopping trip.

Or the personal driver.

Or the fact that the boutique staff already knew your name when you arrived.

“She’s paying you to fake love her,” you reminded yourself as you stood half-frozen outside one of Manhattan’s most exclusive storefronts. “This is work. These are just costumes.”

Wanda stepped out of the car next to you, her dark glasses reflecting the late morning sun. “Don’t sulk. You’ll wrinkle.”

“You didn’t warn me we were going full Pretty Woman today.”

She opened the boutique door with a deadpan: “You’re not wearing anything worth warning.”

You gave her a withering look. She smirked.

Inside, the boutique staff descended like well-dressed bees. Champagne offered. Garment racks unveiled. Names whispered and measured in thread count. Wanda moved through it all like she owned oxygen.

You, meanwhile, got dragged into a dressing room with five different “looks” shoved into your arms and strict instructions to “pretend you’re rich.”

The first dress was too tight. The second too floral. The third was so expensive you didn’t want to breathe in it.

The fourth made her pause.

Wanda looked up from her phone when you stepped out.

Black, fitted. Minimalist. Sleeveless. It clung in the right places and flowed in the rest, the neckline sharp but elegant.

You expected another snide remark.

Instead, she just stared.

Then: “That one.”

You blinked. “That’s it? No insult about my posture or poor color choices?”

Her gaze dragged over you again. Slower this time.

“That one,” she said, voice low. “We’ll have it tailored.”

You hesitated. “You okay?”

She blinked—just once—and whatever softness had flickered behind her eyes vanished.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Next fitting.”

But later, when she turned away, you caught her reflection in the mirror.

And she was smiling.

Not smug. Not snarky.

Just… quiet. And maybe a little awed.

The driver took you back to her place after, bags in the trunk, silence stretching between you in the backseat.

You watched her out of the corner of your eye—her arms crossed, legs crossed, sunglasses on even though the tint on the windows made it unnecessary.

“You know,” you said, carefully, “if we’re doing this, we’re gonna have to stop glaring at each other like sworn enemies.”

“I don’t glare at you,” she said.

“You definitely do.”

“I evaluate.”

“Like I’m a coffee brand you hate.”

That got a twitch of a smile.

“I don’t hate you,” she said after a moment.

You glanced over. “Sure. Just mild daily contempt.”

Another pause.

Then: “I don’t hate you,” she said again, quieter this time. “I don’t think I ever did.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you didn’t say anything at all.

.     .   .

You'd been warned that the gala would be overwhelming and you assumed that meant “dress to kill” or “don’t trip on marble.”

Not an elite ballroom filled with New York’s richest, at least six photographers outside before you even stepped out of the car and Wanda’s hand—firm, warm, possessive—resting on your lower back the second you stepped into view.

“Stop shaking,” she murmured as flashbulbs popped like fireworks.

“I’m trying not to throw up on your designer heels,” you muttered back.

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear for show. “If you puke, at least do it on Kellman's shoes. He owes me money.”

That startled a laugh out of you, a small, nervous one—and of course, a photographer captured it. You saw the flash, heard the shutter, and saw Wanda smile out of the corner of her mouth like she planned it.

She was playing the game like a master.

And you were just trying not to get eaten alive by it.

Inside the gala, it didn’t get easier.

The ballroom was gold-trimmed and glittering, a warzone of polished shoes, fake laughter, and whispered business deals behind champagne flutes. You barely recognized anyone. Wanda, meanwhile, floated through the crowd like she owned it—which, in some ways, she did.

You stayed close to her side, aware of every camera lens, every gaze. Her hand remained at the small of your back. It didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just stayed there—anchoring you, like she wasn’t just pretending.

When she introduced you, she used your name. Said it clearly. Said it with something close to pride.

“This is my fiancée,” she told a woman from Forbes. “She keeps me sane.”

You choked slightly on your champagne. Wanda didn’t even blink.

The real trouble started with Daniel Callahan.

You recognized him from finance meetings—a charming nightmare in a tailored suit. He smiled too easily, touched too much, and once called you “sweetheart” in front of the executive board.

And now he was at your elbow, saying, “I didn’t know Maximoff had such good taste outside of stocks.”

You smiled, tight. “She has excellent taste. That’s why I’m still employed.”

He laughed. “Employed and engaged? Impressive.”

His tone was light, but you felt it. The subtle leer. The disbelief that you were the one Wanda had chosen.

Wanda stepped beside you a moment later, gaze cool as frost.

“Daniel,” she said, all saccharine silk, “Still wearing those tragic ties, I see.”

He smirked. “Still stealing the spotlight, Wanda.”

She smiled. Then—casually, but unmistakably—she reached for your hand. Laced her fingers with yours. “Of course I am.”

You went still. His eyes flicked down.

“I was just telling your fiancée how radiant she looks tonight,” he said smoothly.

Wanda’s hand squeezed yours—gently, but with intent.

“She always does,” she said. “But I’d appreciate it if you looked with your eyes, Daniel. Not your ambitions.”

His smile faltered.

You blinked.

He chuckled after a pause and excused himself.

You turned to her slowly. “That was…”

“Too much?” she offered.

You shook your head. “Weirdly flattering.”

Wanda studied you. “You don’t realize how often people look at you.”

You frowned. “People don’t look at me.”

“I do.”

It wasn’t a performance. She wasn’t smiling when she said it. No flashbulbs. No audience.

Just her.

Just you.

And a pause that pulsed like a second heartbeat between you.

Later, as the event wound down, you found yourself leaning against the railing of the second-floor balcony overlooking the dance floor. You needed space. Air. Your skin still hummed where she’d touched you.

You heard her footsteps before she appeared.

“You handled that well,” she said.

“Which part?” you asked, not turning around. “The press, the fake ring, or your little public jealousy stunt?”

There was a pause behind you. Then: “That wasn’t fake.”

You turned.

She was watching you. No mask. No posture. Just Wanda.

Your breath hitched. “We’re supposed to be pretending, Maximoff. Not actually catching feelings.”

She walked closer, heels slow and deliberate. “Who said anything about catching?”

You swallowed hard. “Wanda…”

Her voice softened. “Tell me it didn’t feel real when I touched you.”

You couldn’t.

Because it did. It always did.

Every time she brushed your hand. Every time she leaned in. Every time she looked at you like there was something worth melting in her frozen world.

You exhaled slowly. “We’re in way over our heads.”

Wanda nodded. “We are.”

But she didn’t stop walking, didn’t stop until she was inches from you, neither until her hand found yours again—quiet, steady.

And you let her hold it.

Just for a minute.

Because you wanted to.

. . .

Moving in was surreal.

Wanda had a penthouse overlooking the Upper West Side. Of course she did.

Marble floors, skyline views, furniture that looked untouched. It was the kind of place you saw in magazines—clinical in its perfection. It didn’t feel like someone lived there. It felt like someone performed there.

“This is real wood,” you muttered under your breath the first time your suitcase wheels rolled across the floor.

Wanda looked up from where she was typing on her phone. "What did you expect? Plastic?"

You dropped your bag by the front door. “I expected rich, not hand-carved oak imported from Italy rich.”

She smirked. “I like quality.”

“I like not feeling like I should tip the hallway.”

She chuckled. It was quiet. But it was real.

The first morning was the weirdest.

You woke up in one of the guest rooms—though she insisted it was now your room. There was fresh linen on the bed. A brand new vanity set already laid out. Her housekeeper had stocked the closet with three outfits in your size before you even arrived.

It was thoughtful. Organized. Weirdly… sweet.

But the kitchen was where you really saw her.

She was barefoot, in black silk pajama pants and a plain white tee, hair still damp from the shower. No makeup. Just her, in the soft light of morning.

Wanda Maximoff, pouring oat milk into her coffee like she hadn’t once told you to fix a typo with the fury of a Greek goddess.

You froze at the doorway.

She looked up. “There’s coffee.”

You blinked. “You… made coffee?”

“I do know how to function outside of boardrooms.”

You hesitated. “Do you?”

She smirked. “Stay long enough and you might see.”

You stepped in slowly. “I already feel like I’m on a reality show called ‘Rich People Do Normal Things.’”

“You’re the worst fake wife I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only fake wife you’ve ever had.”

“Exactly.”

But then she handed you a mug—already fixed the way you liked it—and just like that, your sarcasm softened.

She’d remembered. No cream. Two sugars. Always too hot.

You met her eyes. “Thanks.”

Something flickered there.

She nodded once and took a sip of her own.

You didn’t expect it to be easy.

You didn’t expect it to be… normal.

But the days began to settle into a rhythm. You went to work together. Attended a few small press lunches. She brushed your hair back gently at a networking event when a breeze caught it funny. You let your hand rest on her shoulder just a second too long when someone asked how you met.

At home, you didn’t talk much about the “marriage” part.

But something unspoken lived in the space between your mugs on the kitchen counter.

Like maybe neither of you hated this as much as you pretended to.

Not the metaphorical kind. The real, cold, thunderstorm kind.

You came home soaked after a late grocery run. Wanda hadn’t known you’d gone, and when you walked into the apartment dripping wet, she was pacing by the window.

She stopped when she saw you.

“You’re soaked.”

“Observant,” you coughed, wiping rain off your cheeks. “It’s only a monsoon outside.”

She crossed the space in seconds. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going out?”

“I didn’t think I needed to report to you.”

“You don’t—” Her voice cracked. “You don’t. But I thought something happened.”

You frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Because,” she snapped, then lowered her voice, “you’re not answering your phone. You left without saying anything. You’re living in my house. And I… I panicked.”

The vulnerability in her tone stunned you.

You stood there, soaked and cold and stunned, watching the most untouchable woman in the city look at you like you mattered.

“I just went for cereal,” you whispered.

She swallowed. “Don’t do that again.”

“Wanda…”

“I know this is fake,” she said, suddenly. “But I can’t—God—I can’t lose things right now. Not when everything else is one misstep away from collapse.”

Your heart cracked a little. “You’re not going to lose me.”

She looked at you—really looked. “Promise?”

You hesitated only a second. Then: “Yeah. I promise.”

She stepped forward. Her hands hovered for a second. Then she reached up, brushing soaked hair from your face. Her fingers were gentle. Warmer than you expected.

. . .

The rain didn’t stop for days.

New York blurred behind glass and gray skies, and inside the penthouse, the world shrank to the soft glow of lamps, the smell of tea, and the quiet comfort of silence not needing to be filled.

You’d never thought this would be the hard part. Not the paperwork. Not the parties. Not even lying to strangers about how you fell in love.

No. The hardest part was the quiet, the nights, the moments when Wanda was close enough to touch, but never did.

Not unless she had to.

Not unless the cameras were on.

But lately… there were no cameras, no one to watch and she was still close.

You found her in the kitchen again, barefoot, robe loose over silk sleepwear, stirring honey into her tea like it was a ritual.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

She didn’t jump. Didn’t act surprised to see you, even though it was just past midnight.

She glanced over. “Didn’t feel like dreaming.”

You frowned. “Bad ones?”

Wanda didn’t answer. She just passed you a mug—yours already waiting, already right.

No cream. Two sugars.

Your fingers brushed as you took it.

“I don’t like the sound the rain makes up here,” she said after a long moment. “Too high. It feels detached.”

You looked at her, then the view—sheets of rain washing over floor-to-ceiling glass, city lights blurred beneath it all.

“It’s loud at my old place,” you murmured. “Leaks through the window. But it feels... real.”

Wanda was quiet for a while. Then, barely above a whisper:

“Do you miss it?”

You blinked. “The apartment?”

“The space that was yours.”

The question hit deeper than it should have.

You shrugged. “I miss knowing which drawer held my socks. And that my silence was mine.”

She nodded once. “I miss things too.”

You waited. But she didn’t say what.

The power flickered a few minutes later.

Just long enough to shut off the lights, stall the heater, and kill the wifi.

You sighed. “Well. That’s our cue to pretend it’s the 1800s.”

Wanda rolled her eyes faintly but led the way to the hallway. “I’ll call maintenance.”

The bedroom you used—your room—was freezing. The rain made the windows weep. You wrapped yourself in two blankets and still shivered under them like your body had forgotten warmth.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock.

Wanda stood at the door, robe belted tighter now, a blanket over one arm.

“Heat’s out across the building,” she said. “It’ll take hours. Come to my room. The windows don’t leak there.”

You hesitated.

She added, gently, “You’re freezing.”

You didn’t argue.

Her bed was huge. More cloud than mattress. The kind of thing you had to climb into like a boat. Wanda didn’t say anything when you slipped under the covers, just turned off the lamp and got in beside you—far, far to the left, leaving oceans of space.

You laid there in silence.

Listening to the rain.

Feeling the quiet pulse of her presence, steady and near.

Then—after what could’ve been minutes or hours—she spoke.

“I used to picture this differently.”

You turned your head toward her in the dark. “What?”

“Sharing a bed,” she said softly. “Waking up beside someone. It was supposed to mean something.”

Your voice caught. “Does it?”

Wanda didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly, like a truth she hadn’t let herself say:

“It does now.”

You swallowed, heart suddenly a drum against your ribs.

The air shifted.

She didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you. But she didn’t move away, either.

Your fingers curled on the sheets. You didn’t touch her.

But you wanted to.

God, you wanted to.

You woke up before her. She was still on her side, facing you now, her hair a dark halo on the pillow. The early light barely touched her face. She looked peaceful in a way you’d never seen—like the storm had finally quieted inside her too.

You watched her breathe for a moment too long.

Then you slipped out of bed.

Made coffee.

Waited in the kitchen, hands wrapped around the mug she’d usually hand you.

She found you there twenty minutes later, sleep still in her eyes, robe loose, bare feet quiet on the floor.

“Morning,” she said softly.

“Hey,” you replied.

And then— she walked straight to you, took your coffee from your hands, took a sip and handed it back.

Your heart clenched.

Because it was exactly how you liked it, exactly how she liked it.

And she hadn’t even asked.

. . .

“Dress nice. 10 AM. My driver will take us.”

You stared at the handwriting for a full minute before turning to the small Pomeranian she hadn’t meant to adopt but had anyway, who now followed you around like you were the stable parent.

“Is she kidding?” you asked the dog.

The brownish fur ball barked and walked off.

The brunch was at a discreet little brownstone tucked between galleries in SoHo—charming, sunlit, deceptively casual. The kind of place rich people used to pretend they weren’t rich.

Wanda met you by the car. She wore soft ivory trousers, a long cream coat, and a small gold chain at her throat. She looked casual, effortless.

And, of course, utterly composed.

“You look nervous,” she said, slipping on her sunglasses.

“I didn’t realize brunch was with royalty.”

“It’s just my godmother,” Wanda said lightly. “And her judgmental wife. And a few others who might ask why I never brought anyone around before.”

Your stomach dropped. “Is this… an approval thing?”

Wanda opened the door for you. “It’s a test.”

Your eyes widened, “And you’re telling me now?”

“I didn’t want to make you overthink it.” she replied way too cooly.

You glared. “I hate you.”

She smiled like it was affection. “That’s the spirit.”

It started fine.

A few raised brows. Too many kisses on cheeks. Someone complimented your coat and then looked pointedly at your boots like they were confused how you existed in both at once.

You held Wanda’s hand under the table out of habit now—because it looked right, because it felt expected. Because her thumb sometimes rubbed slow, silent circles into your palm when the small talk got suffocating.

You were halfway through a fruit tart when it happened.

Someone—Wanda’s godmother’s wife, you think—asked how the proposal went.

You froze.

Wanda answered too smoothly, never too quickly.

“She said yes before I finished asking,” she said, hand squeezing yours. “I think she knew I wasn’t bluffing.”

There were chuckles. Some “aww”s.

And then she added, without thinking:

“I think I fell in love with her the moment she argued with me in front of three board members.”

Your heart actually missed a beat at that.

Laughter rippled around the table again. You forced a smile.

But Wanda… Wanda looked at you then. Really looked. And her smile faltered just enough for you to know:

That part hadn’t been part of the performance.

You didn’t speak in the car on the way home.

The silence felt different this time. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… held.

Like she was waiting to see if you’d bring it up.

And you didn’t. Because you didn’t know if it was safer to ask or pretend you hadn’t heard.

When you got back to the penthouse, you walked straight to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and leaned on the counter like it could hold up your confusion.

She joined you minutes later.

“You handled that well,” she said.

You gave her a tight smile. “I fake marry like a pro now.”

Wanda watched you. “You’re upset.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m confused.”

She took a step closer. “About what?”

You hesitated. Then: “You said you fell in love with me.”

Her throat bobbed.

“I thought the contract agreed,” you said quietly. “That there wouldn’t be feelings.”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“But you did.”

“I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

That made you go still.

“I don’t know,” she said again, quieter now, “when it stopped being pretend. If it ever really was.”

You stared at her.

Because you felt it too. The shift. The touch that lingered. The glances that said too much.

But admitting it?

That would break everything wide open.

So instead, you reached for her hand. Threaded your fingers through hers.

And whispered: “Then let’s figure it out.”

Wanda’s eyes lifted to meet yours.

And for once, there was no wall. No act. No mask.

Just her, just you.

And a truth neither of you could keep quiet much longer.

. . .

You didn’t sleep in your room that night.

You didn’t talk about it either.

There was no declaration. No sly smirk. No half-joking excuse about the heat or the window draft.

Just a quiet shift in steps—her slowing down in the hallway, your hand on the door to her room instead of your own, and a breathless moment where neither of you asked why.

You just walked in.

Together.

She lit a single lamp—low, warm, soft.

The city shimmered beyond the window, gold and blurry in the glass. You sat on the edge of the bed, unsure what version of yourself to bring into this room.

Wanda sat beside you, her thigh barely brushing yours. You could feel the heat of her, even without touch.

“You’ve stopped calling it fake,” you said, voice quiet in the hush.

“I know,” she replied.

“Is that intentional?”

“Does it matter?”

You turned your head, met her gaze. “It does if I’m not the only one confused anymore.”

She inhaled like she was steadying herself. Her voice was barely more than a breath when she said:

“You’re the only thing that’s ever confused me in the right way.”

That did it.

Whatever wall you’d built—professionalism, control, fake-wifely detachment—it cracked right down the center.

You didn’t lean in.

She did.

Softly. Slowly.

Like she was asking for permission with every breath.

And when her lips touched yours, they didn’t feel like a contract. Or a line crossed. Or an obligation.

They felt like something that had always been waiting to happen.

The kiss wasn’t urgent. Wasn’t for show. It was warm, unhurried, tender in a way you didn’t think she even knew how to be.

Your hand found her jaw.

Hers curled around your waist.

When she pulled back, your forehead rested against hers.

You didn’t open your eyes.

You whispered, “I don’t know what this is anymore.”

She whispered back, “Maybe it’s something worth figuring out.”

The next morning, Peter was already at your office before you even got there.

Coffee. Concern. A look on his face that made you brace.

“I saw the photos,” he said before you could speak.

You gave him a weary look. “Which ones?”

“The ones where she looks at you like you’re the last person in the world who doesn’t scare her.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. “It’s complicated.”

Peter sat down across from you, voice quieter now. “Is it fake still?”

You looked down.

He exhaled. “Y/N…”

“I didn’t mean for it to change,” you said softly. “But she’s—she’s different when she’s not surrounded by suits and pressure. And I don’t know how to unsee that.”

“Do you trust her?”

You nodded. “More than I should.”

“Do you love her?”

You froze.

Peter didn’t push. Just let the question sit there, heavy and true.

That night, you found Wanda on the balcony.

Blanket around her shoulders. Hair loose. No wine. No screens.

Just her.

Just quiet.

You stepped outside, wordless, and joined her under the blanket.

Her hand had found yours and you let her hold it.

. . .

The kiss didn’t fix everything.

But it opened something.

You both felt it—that strange quiet after something real slips between two people who swore they were just pretending. You didn’t talk about it the next morning. You didn’t have to. The air had changed.

So had the way she looked at you across the table.

Not calculating. Not possessive. Not even curious anymore.

Just soft.

Like you were hers in a way that didn’t need words.

You started cooking more.

It began with late-night pasta, just because she came home looking too tired to pretend she’d eaten. Then it was pancakes on a Sunday, because she’d mentioned—offhand, distracted—that her mother used to make them that way when it rained.

She didn’t say thank you the first time.

She just sat beside you, her fork slow and quiet, and said:

“You remembered.”

Like that was rarer than any gift she’d ever been given.

The first time she touched you without a reason, it was barely anything.

You were washing dishes, elbow-deep in soap, and she walked past—hand brushing across your lower back as she passed.

She didn’t look at you.

But she didn’t need to.

Your heart stuttered anyway.

At night, she started falling asleep before you.

You could tell by the way her breathing slowed, the tiny crease in her brow fading under the weight of whatever peace you’d somehow become for her.

And you—God—you watched her like she was a miracle you hadn’t asked for but were suddenly terrified to lose.

Some nights you stayed awake just to feel the way her hand would reach for yours, even unconscious.

Like some part of her had already stopped pretending.

She didn’t pull away anymore.

Not when your knee brushed hers at dinner.

Not when you leaned against her shoulder during a movie.

Not when you walked into the room after a shower in her shirt, hair still dripping, and she paused like the world went quiet just seeing you.

“Wanda?” you asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

She smiled. “I know.”

And then came the night it stopped being something between you.

And became something shared.

You were curled on the couch, her head on your lap, fingers lazily playing with the edge of her sweater. She was half-asleep, wine glass abandoned on the floor, a soft playlist humming in the background.

You thought she was dreaming until she said:

“I want you to stay.”

You looked down. “I live here, remember?”

She shook her head against your thigh, eyes still closed. “Not for the contract. Just… stay. Tonight. Tomorrow. And the days after.”

You brushed a hand through her hair. “Is that a new clause?”

“It’s not fake,” she murmured.

And when she opened her eyes—tired, raw, full of something too fragile to name—you knew:

She meant it.

Every word. Every glance. Every touch.

So you leaned down.

Kissed her like you weren’t afraid anymore.

Like you’d already chosen her in a hundred quiet ways.

And when she pulled you down beside her—blanket tangled, breath shaky, heart finally, finally open— You stayed.

Not as her employee, not as her fake wife but as someone who loved her and wasn’t going anywhere.

[kxsagi]

HIIII sorry for literally flooding your inbox but I just remembered a convo I had with a classmate a few years ago. She posted like a photo and she was wearing men's boxers and she was like "Yeah it's pretty common for girls to wear guys boxers" and I was like ??? I learn something new everyday. Anyways! Can you imagine bllk boys (Or just isagi, or your other favs or anyone honestly I'm not picky 🫶🫶) that are dating you and then they come home to see you wearing their boxers and they're just like 😳😳??? Thank you! Love you and your works muah muah ♥️♥️

“𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐛𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐲 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐬”

a/n: boys’ boxers are mad comfy for no reason 

also thank you so much and i love you moreee, mwah mwah mwah!

(additionally, dear pretty readers, apologies for the lack of posts, i've been super busy lately so thank you for your patience! 🥹)

suggestive content inside! 

ft. itoshi rin, kaiser michael, nagi seishiro, shidou ryusei, itoshi sae, isagi yoichi, mikage reo, bachira meguru

itoshi rin

he walks in post-training, dead tired and cranky, hoodie over his head and duffel bag hanging off his shoulder like he’s about to file a lawsuit against sunlight, but then he sees you. 

you. in his boxers. just his boxers. oversized, hanging loose on your hips, cinched up where the elastic clings to your skin. 

and you’re just standing in the kitchen like this is normal. like you’re not wearing the very same pair he had on two days ago. 

he stops in his tracks like he just walked in on a crime scene. “... what the hell are you wearing?” you blink. “your boxers. why?” “where are your clothes?” you smirk. “laundry.” 

rin looks like he’s buffering. he opens his mouth. nothing comes out. then finally: “you couldn’t just wear… pants?” “but these are yours,” you say sweetly. “they smell like you.” 

he turns red all the way to his ears. turns away. mutters something like “don’t say weird stuff,” but trips over his own duffel bag because he’s too busy looking at your thighs in the reflection on the microwave. 

he doesn’t say another word, just vanishes to the bathroom. (comes back five minutes later, dry-throated and slightly more disheveled.) 

(he’ll be requesting you wear those boxers again next time he’s home.) 

kaiser michael

kaiser walks in humming, coat slung over one shoulder, sunglasses still on because he’s him, obviously, and freezes when he sees you laying on the couch. in his boxers. legs sprawled, shirt half-riding up, scrolling on your phone like nothing is happening. 

he literally drops his jacket. 

"oh? ohhh? is this what we’re doing now?” 

he walks over dramatically and grabs the waistband, snapping it lightly against your skin with a grin. “you know those are mine, right? ‘cause they look illegal on you.” 

you look up innocently. “do they? i mean, they were just sitting in your drawer...” 

he leans down until he’s hovering above you. “yeah. and now i’m sitting on you. fair game.” 

kaiser’s brain is already in the gutter. fully immersed. 

starts fake-scolding you, “you’re corrupting me. corrupting my poor boxers. they were innocent–” “they have skulls and roses on them.” “innocent.” 

he keeps leaning closer and closer until you're giggling and shoving his face away. 

convinces you to let him take pictures for “research purposes,” but ends up just staring at them in his gallery like a down bad man. 

nagi seishiro

you didn’t expect nagi to come home early. 

so you’re just chilling in bed, snacks beside you, phone in hand, and wearing his boxers like pajamas. his soft gray ones. the kind he always says are his favorite. he walks in. sees you. and just. collapses. 

“... woah.” 

drops face first onto the mattress like a weighted corpse. wraps an arm around your waist and mumbles, “you look so good like this… it’s kinda unfair.” you snort. “they’re just boxers.” “yeah, and you made them sexy. how’d you do that?” 

he starts tracing his fingers over the waistband, tugging at it lazily. "they look better on you. keep ‘em." 

until he wants them back. then he’s like: “wanna trade? i wear yours, you wear mine, and we just never wear our own clothes again.” 

fully down to switch wardrobes. 

you call him a perv. he goes “mmm. true.” 

shidou ryusei

you wearing his boxers is equivalent to pressing the self-destruct button on shidou. 

he walks in, sees you in them, and physically stumbles backward. like you hit him with a truck. "HO-LY SHIT." hands on his head. mouth open. eyes wide. “you’re wearing those? babe, those are my tight ones.” 

he kneels like you’re some divine entity. "i am so blessed. i am so unworthy. oh my gosh–” you kick him lightly in the chest. he flops onto the floor like he’s been shot. 

“is this foreplay?” he asks, starry-eyed. “it feels like foreplay.” “i was just cleaning the house.” “well now i need cleansing because i’m having unholy thoughts.” 

he starts suggesting couples outfits made out of each other’s underwear. 

you’re crying from laughter. he’s genuinely taking notes. 

itoshi sae

you don’t think much of it, just slipped on his boxers after your shower and started folding laundry. 

he walks in, drops his keys, and just stares. doesn’t say a word. 

"hey," you greet casually. “...” "what?" "... i’m just wondering if you're trying to kill me.” 

he sounds bored. but he’s not. 

he’s looking you up and down like he’s trying to analyze exactly how you made boxers look like lingerie. 

you bend over to grab more laundry and he immediately looks away, like his own eyeballs betrayed him. 

mutters under his breath: “do that again and i’m not gonna be responsible for what happens.” 

he ends up walking around the apartment muttering curses and avoiding eye contact like he’s in catholic school. but the second you make a move toward the bedroom, he’s following. silently. with a mission. 

isagi yoichi

isagi comes home after a long, sweaty day of practice and finds you in the hallway. wearing his boxers and one of his practice shirts. his brain immediately blue screens. 

“h-hold on, uh… hi? wait, are those–” “your boxers? yeah.” he full-on chokes on his water bottle. 

he tries to play it cool. he fails. the man is red from his ears to his collarbone. 

"they look, uh, cute. no– you look cute. not that you don’t normally, but like, extra– not that i’m thinking weird stuff!!” (he is absolutely thinking weird stuff.) 

sits down on the couch and folds a pillow over his lap. watches you walk around the apartment like you’re a walking temptation. 

finally caves: “okay, but like… if you ever wanted to wear my jersey with them…” 

he’s got ideas. and regrets. and a very large blushing problem. 

mikage reo

reo does not handle it well. 

you think he would. he’s usually cool. confident. smooth. but the moment he walks in and sees you in his favorite pair, he physically stumbles like he forgot how to use his legs. 

he throws his keys. “OKAY??? MA’AM??” 

“relax, reo. they’re just boxers.” “just boxers? those are silk. they’re top tier. imported. limited edition. they cost like– actually, i forgot, but a lot.” “and now they’re mine.” 

he’s spiraling. spinning. taking mental photos. actual photos. 

“you can’t just be hot in my things and walk around like it’s not a whole event.” 

he’s pacing the room while ranting and complimenting you at the same time. 

“you good?” “no. absolutely not. take responsibility for what you’ve done.” 

next day, he buys you ten new pairs. all his size. all just for you. and he labels the drawer: “property of sugar baby (not up for debate)” 

bachira meguru

bachira walks in, eyes already wide and bright, and when he sees you in his boxers, he howls. throws his arms in the air and yells, “I WINNNNN!!” “what???” “I WIN IN LIFEEE!!” 

starts sprinting around the apartment, then dives onto the couch next to you. 

“meguru, calm down–” “no. i refuse. you’re wearing my boxers. i’m gonna cry. you look so good i’m gonna EXPLODE.” 

rubs his face into your thighs like a happy dog. 

asks you if he can borrow your clothes so he can “match the vibe.” 

comes out of the closet five minutes later wearing your shorts backwards and your crop top upside down. “do i look hot yet?” you laugh so hard you fall over. he falls with you. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[syrecjh]

──★✈️ ̟!! Swipe Error: He’s Right Behind Me

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

Airports have a strange kind of gravity. Not the kind that keeps planes grounded, but the kind that tugs at your nerves — stretches time thin, stretches patience thinner. You’ve been sitting for over an hour at Gate 34, legs crossed on the uncomfortable vinyl bench—the kind that were designed by someone who clearly hated comfort , headphones dying and patience already declared missing in action. The boarding gate screen glows blue with your flight to New York: delayed by thirty minutes. You nearly throw your iced coffee across the terminal in protest.

You weren’t built for waiting. You were built for movement, for noise, for anything other than scrolling endlessly on your phone under cold fluorescent lighting. You’re traveling solo for the first time — a summer break declaration of independence from university and all its soul-crushing midterms. And as poetic as that sounds, the reality looks more like leg cramps, stale croissants, and a dying battery. Not to mention, you are surrounded by families bickering, kids screaming, and couples who apparently think PDA belongs in an airport.

Out of sheer boredom — or possibly desperation — you open Tinder.

A mistake. You know it’s a mistake. But you tell yourself it’s just to pass time, and maybe to flirt. Definitely not to find love. Just swiping. Just harmless, mindless swiping. You start swiping through profiles with the detached precision of someone sorting socks — right, left, maybe, definitely left. It’s not that you’re picky, it’s just… well, okay, maybe you are. Half the guys look like they’d ghost you after borrowing your charger. A left here, a right there, a brief pause for someone with a decent dog in their profile. Another left.

And then he shows up.

Blond. Fierce-eyed. Hero suit in one of the pictures. Dynamight. You squint. What is he doing on tinder? I mean you don't judge anyone with one but you can't help it. It's him after all. You’ve seen him on news clips before — the explosive pro hero with a temper and a fanbase that probably writes fanfiction about his jawline. His bio is short and alarming: Don’t be annoying. I cook better than your mom.

You raise an eyebrow. Bold. Definitely not your type.

Blond guys never were.

Swipe left.

“Damn,” a gravelly voice says just behind you. “Hard pass for that one?”

Your soul leaves your body.

You whip around like a gust of embarrassment made flesh, and there he is. Sitting directly behind you. Arms crossed, thighs spread, hair as unmistakable as his voice, red eyes glittering with something dark and amused. Katsuki freaking Bakugo. The literal walking embodiment of the profile you just rejected.

You feel your face catch fire.

“Oh my god—” you blurt, mortified beyond repair, trying to stuff your phone in your hoodie pocket like that’ll undo your crimes. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t know it was me?” he says, feigning offense, leaning forward just slightly. “What gave it away, the hero name or the picture of my actual face?”

“I—I don’t even like blonde guys!” you blurt like that somehow helps.

“Oh, that makes it better,” he snorts, and there’s a devilish glint in his eye that says he’s going to be thinking about this for a long time. “So I’m not your type. Got it.”

“I mean—you’re handsome, obviously—” you sputter, digging a deeper grave with every word. “It was just… the vibe. You looked like you’d roast me alive for using the wrong fork.”

He leans back, arms stretching over the seat beside him like a throne. “Not wrong.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Kill me. This is why I don’t go outside.”

But Bakugo just chuckles — an actual chuckle — and something soft and dangerous unfurls in your chest. You glance up, blinking, just in time to catch the corners of his mouth still curved, his head tilted slightly.

“You’re funny when you panic.”

“And you’re mean when you’re smug.”

“So always?”

You glare at him, cheeks hot, but he just shrugs and props his boots up on his carry-on like he’s settling in for a show. You’re about to fire back when the gate agent’s voice cuts through the overhead speakers, finally announcing boarding for your flight.

You shuffle into line, praying to every deity that fate won’t take this joke any further. But of course, fate is petty.

You're seatmates.

23A and 23B.

You drop into the window seat like a woman being buried alive, and moments later, Bakugo slides in beside you with the lazy ease of someone who’s enjoying this.

“I swear I’m not a bad person,” you mutter as you adjust your tray table.

He shrugs. “Didn’t say you were. Just got a thing for brutal honesty, I guess.”

You blink at him, surprised.

And then he smirks.

“You’re really funny when you panic.”

“Don’t flatter me.”

“I’m not. I just like watching people suffer.”

“Wow. Romantic.”

You both glance at each other — and the tension hangs there, electric and strange, somewhere between playful and unreal. You don’t know what’s happening, not really.

You scoff softly. “I’ve just humiliated myself in front of a national hero and then get stuck next to him for twelve hours.”

“Could be worse.”

“How?”

“You could’ve swiped right.”

You snort, unable to help it — and from the corner of your eye, you see him smirk again.

You spend the flight talking, somehow. About trivial things at first — dumb airport food, weird quirks, how babies crying on planes should be banned. Then deeper things — pressure, expectations, what it's like to be known for something before you even figure out who you are.

You talk like people who have nothing to prove. You listen like people who might want to see each other again.

He tells you he plays music while cooking. You tell him you once cried because you dropped a slice of pizza face-down on your only pair of jeans. You exchange Instagram handles. He follows you before you even land.

Somewhere in the middle of the flight, you accidentally doze against his shoulder, he doesn’t shove you off. He just sighs — loud and dramatic — and lets you stay

And when the plane finally touches down in New York, taxiing slow across the runway, you turn to him, smiling despite yourself.

“So,” you say. “Still mad I swiped left?”

He stretches, cracking his knuckles with a lazy shrug. “Not really.”

Why not?”

He leans closer, voice warm like the sun creeping through the airplane window. “Because I’ve got twelve hours of proof you were wrong.”

You laugh, and he actually grins this time. Fully. Briefly. Like the sun rising and setting in one heartbeat.

As you walk off the plane side by side, you don’t feel like two strangers anymore. You feel like a story halfway told — and suddenly, you’re not so mad about the delay.

After all, some accidents are meant to happen.

────୨ৎ────

I actually got this idea weeks ago while scrolling through IG reels. It completely hooked me—I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Like it really happened to someone! Imagine swiping left on Tinder… only to realize the person you swiped left on is standing right behind you. I don’t know the name of the girl in the video, but yeah—thank youuu!

[zyettemoon1800]

Baby SFW

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

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A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

He is not the most affectionate person, however if you want to cuddle than he is down

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

You two probably meet at an underground rap battle

you two battle against each other and hung out a lot afterwards

He is the quiet friend that has no problem standing on business.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

He likes to cuddle you when it is just the two of you because he hates it when the guys tease him

He loves to cuddle you when you two are just lying in bed

He also like to be the little spoon, but he will not tell anyone that

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

At some point down the line, he does want to settle down, he is young and wants to enjoy his like before doing so.

He sucks at both cooking and cleaning, but he is not a messy person

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

He would just be straight up with you and tell you

F = Fiance (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

When he is down for you, he is down for you

As long as you are loyal and not toxic yall are good.

He would probably wait two or three years before asking you to marry him

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Physically, he is very gentle with you

You are his partner and baby

Emotionally, he can be kind of hard depending on the situation

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

He loves to hug you and will do it every day

Some hugs are just side hugs, but when he is really feeling lovey, he will wrap his arms around you and pull you into a big hug

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

He will wait about a month to see if he is really vibing with you

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

He doesn't get jealous often, but when he does, he will just pull you away from the situation

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

In front of fans, he will kiss you gently on cheek or hand.

When you both are at home, he will kiss you on your neck and lips

He also likes to be kissed on the neck or lips

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

He would want two kids since he was an only child

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

You two are wrapped up together in bed

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

You two are up late playing games or watching videos

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

It takes a while for him to truly open up to you

Since he is since as the baby of the group, he puts on a big front that makes him seem untouchable.

So, he has to make sure that you are the one, before he makes himself vulnerable

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

He doesn't get anger quick, but he does get annoyed pretty fast

When he gets like this, he will just walk away

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He actually remembers a lot about you, but he acts like he doesn't just to get on your nerves.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

When you two have rap battles especially when you can't rap

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

He is very protective over you and will protect you to the end of the world.

He has no problem with fighting someone or getting into someone's face in order to protect you.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

He would put enough effort into anything that will make you smile

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Sometimes he doesn't take serious things seriously which would make you upset

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

He is very concerned about his looks since he seen as the baby of the group

so he makes sure to take really good care of his skin

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

He would be upset when you are not around him because he loves being around you

As soon as he is by you again, he is clinging to you

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Though he loves hot and spicy food, he also has a sever sweet tooth and will eat bag after bag of sweets daily

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

I can see him not liking someone who treats him like a baby or someone less than

He is a man, and he expects to be treated like one

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

He is a busy sleeper

This being said he will kick and push you around when he is sleeping

[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ eyes on me ( lhs ! ) — part 3

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — heeseung x fem!reader

⤷ part 1 | part 2 | part 3 ⤷ word count — 11.7k ⤷ based on this and this by my lovely anons ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — and here’s part 3, the final piece of this little heeseung fic ! i had so much fun writing this one, and i really hope you guys enjoy it just as much as i did. thank you for reading and staying with me ‘til the end 💌

⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), idol au, idol!heeseung, dancer!reader, enemies to lovers (slow-burn), unresolved tension, secret relationship, clingy!heeseung, possessive!heeseung, desperate!reader, heeseung is in love and not hiding it, heavy makeout scenes, hotel room sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, creampie, overstimulation, body worship, manhandling, aftercare, fluff

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — maybe you were never supposed to fall for him. not the cocky idol with silver hair and too many smirks, not the boy who made rehearsals unbearable and your patience paper-thin. but somewhere between bruised egos, and hotel room doors slamming shut behind you—he kisses you like he’s waited forever, and touches you like he means it. and maybe you don’t know what this is. maybe he doesn’t either. but if it’s with lee heeseung—you’re starting to think it’s worth the risk.

Especially not when he kept looking at you like that.

Heeseung smiled at you—warm, unabashed, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made it impossible not to feel it in your chest.

You let out a soft laugh, raising your cup before sitting down across from him. “You look a little too happy, Bambi.”

Heeseung barked out a quiet laugh of his own, ducking his head as he pulled out his phone. “What, I’m not allowed to be happy now?”

“You’re allowed,” you teased, “But you’re smiling like you just won a medal.”

“Well…” Heeseung trailed off, glancing at you from under his lashes. “Maybe I did.”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh as you leaned in, curious when he started typing. He didn’t hide it, not even a little. You watched over his shoulder as he tapped into his messages. A text from Ni-ki popped up on the screen.

ni-ki [10:00 P.M.]: hyung where are you?

Heeseung snorted, thumbs flying over the screen.

heeseung [10:00 P.M.]: With (Y/N), why?

ni-ki [10:00 P.M.]: nvm have fun lover boy 😎

You slapped a hand over your mouth, holding in the giggle that threatened to break free as Heeseung sighed dramatically. “He’s never letting this go.”

“And you just keep feeding him,” you said, amused, watching as he tapped on the camera app.

“What can I say,” he murmured, angling the phone toward you. “Might as well give him something to work with.”

You scoffed but leaned into the frame, holding up a thumbs up and doing your best deadpan face.

Heeseung snapped the picture with a grin, immediately sending it.

A second later, Ni-ki responded with nothing but three heart emojis and a gif of someone fainting dramatically.

You finally laughed out loud, shaking your head. “You two are something else.”

Heeseung leaned back in his seat, eyes never really leaving you. “You’re stuck with us now.”

“I guess I am,” you murmured, voice light but honest.

Heeseung let out a quiet exhale, something like relief, before reaching across the table.

His hand found yours, fingers brushing before he gently took it into his own—his thumb grazing over your knuckles, tracing the curve of your long nails. His head tilted slightly, a small grin playing at his lips as he turned your hand this way and that.

“You really hated me five days ago,” he said suddenly, voice soft, almost sheepish.

Your brows raised, amused. “Mmm. Not really.”

Heeseung chuckled under his breath, but his ears flushed a little red. “Well, technically… I don’t really know you. Like, know you. Since you hated my guts and all.”

“You did say something stupid the first time we met,” you added, just to tease.

His nose scrunched as he leaned back with a groan. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Never.”

He grinned, but you saw the change—the way his confidence ebbed slightly as his hand stilled in yours, fingers suddenly fidgety. His voice dropped a bit lower, softer. “I… want to get to know you. For real this time.”

You tilted your head, watching him. His silver hair was a little messy from the hood earlier, and his eyes—those eyes—looked so open now, so earnest.

You leaned back into your seat and smiled again, folding your fingers with his. “Ask away, Bambi.”

His cheeks flushed deeper at the nickname, but he smiled, shy and lopsided.

“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “What’s your favorite food that isn’t matcha?”

You laughed at that, voice light and teasing. “I like anything that has matcha in it, obviously,” you grinned, nudging him with your knee. “But… I guess ramen. I really like ramen.”

Heeseung’s eyes widened—actually widened—like a kid in a toy store. “You like ramen too?”

The way his entire face lit up, soft silver hair haloed in the café lights, made you snort. “You really look like Bambi right now,” you mumbled, fondness threading through your voice before you could stop it.

“What kind?” he asked quickly, leaning closer, eyes full of expectation.

You shrugged. “Any kind. As long as it’s ramen, I’m good.”

He practically beamed. “Okay, we’re doing ramen when we get back. That’s non-negotiable.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Fine.”

He took that as encouragement, squeezing your hand just a little before asking again, this time softer, “So… why did you start dancing?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, watching your thumb draw idle circles on the back of his hand. “It’s something I’m good at. And I really love it. It’s the one place where I feel like I’m completely myself.”

Heeseung nodded slowly, soaking in every word like it mattered—and you think, for him, it really did. “Why not become an idol, then?”

You huffed. “Because the rules are annoying.”

He blinked. “Rules?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, leaning back with a scoff. “Like what do you mean I can’t date if I’m an idol?”

Heeseung laughed—a genuine, nose-scrunching laugh that made your stomach twist. “You’re not wrong.”

“And you’re an idol,” you deadpanned, narrowing your eyes at him. “So you probably shouldn’t be holding hands with one of your group’s backup dancers.”

Heeseung immediately pouted, grip tightening around yours protectively. “No,” he muttered, like a stubborn child. “I like holding your hand.”

You couldn’t help but sigh in a soft, defeated kind of way, your lips tugging up despite yourself.

That’s when the waitress finally returned, balancing your drinks carefully on a tray.

Her eyes darted between the two of you before she froze in place, letting out a small, audible gasp. “Oh my God,” she said under her breath. “You’re… you’re Lee Heeseung, right?”

Heeseung straightened instinctively, offering her a polite smile, cheeks slightly tinged pink. “Yeah, I am. Thank you for the drinks.”

Her gaze dropped to your intertwined hands, then back to his face. “Can I—um—would it be okay if I got an autograph?”

“Of course,” Heeseung said gently, taking the napkin she offered and signing with a flourish. You watched him, amused, until she suddenly turned to you.

“And aren’t you Le Sserafim’s pretty backup dancer?”

You blinked, caught off-guard. “Oh—no, I don’t think that’s me.”

“But you’re (Y/N), right?” she asked, brows raising.

You glanced at Heeseung who was now watching you with a proud, borderline smug smile.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah… how did you know that?”

“Oh, don’t worry!” she said quickly, waving her hands. “I’m not a sasaeng or anything—I just really like Le Sserafim! You went kind of viral a few months ago for being the really pretty backup dancer in that one stage, so…”

“Oh,” you said, blinking. “I… didn’t know that.”

“You’re amazing,” she beamed. “And you two… look really good together.”

Your eyes widened slightly as she grabbed the signed napkin and added with a wink, “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

And then she was gone.

You looked at Heeseung again. He still hadn’t stopped smiling.

“Shut up,” you mumbled before he could say a word.

“I didn’t say anything,” he sang, leaning in with a mischievous little grin. “But you’re famous, huh? Pretty backup dancer of the year?”

You threw a napkin at his face. “Drink your Java Chip, Bambi.”

As the glass doors slid open with a soft whoosh, Heeseung held one open with a gentle hand, nodding at you to go first.

You squeezed his hand in thanks, walking past him with a smile, your fingers still intertwined as you tugged him gently along.

“Thank you, Bambi,” you murmured, amused.

Heeseung chuckled under his breath. “You’re welcome.”

You stepped out into the quiet warmth of the lobby, a soft glow cast by the café lights behind you and the polished marble reflecting your shadows. The buzz of the hotel felt distant, hushed, as if the world had mellowed to make space just for the two of you.

“So,” you started as you led him down the corridor lined with shops, “why aren’t you with your members?”

He blinked, then exhaled a little laugh. “Well… Jungwon and Jay are crashing at Sunghoon’s room, for whatever reason. Jake’s still probably playing hide and seek with Ni-ki and Sunoo upstairs. And I…”

He paused, brushing a thumb over your knuckle, “had nothing else to do. Explored a bit. Then I saw you heading into the café, and yeah—here I am.”

You nodded slowly, hiding your smile as you asked, “So you did follow me.”

Heeseung grinned, unashamed. “I prefer the term ran into you by fate.”

You scoffed, bumping your shoulder into his lightly. “Right. Fate.”

He squeezed your hand. “Exactly.”

Heeseung tilted his head toward you. “What about you? Why aren’t you with the others?”

You shrugged. “They all had different plans. Some went to the spa. Some are probably sleeping. Others went out to find street food.”

You paused thoughtfully. “And I didn’t really feel like being around too many people tonight.”

Heeseung gave a soft hum in acknowledgment. “So… you chose solitude.” A beat. “But now you’re with me.”

You glanced up at him with a teasing glint in your eye. “Are you saying you don’t count as people?”

Heeseung smirked. “I’m saying I’m the exception.”

You rolled your eyes fondly—and before you could say anything else, he gently tugged your hand, pulling you off course.

“Wait, wait,” he said, eyes lighting up. “Look.”

You followed his gaze and saw it: the dim, softly glowing storefront of a Prada boutique tucked neatly between other two high-end shops.

The mannequins in the window were dressed in sleek neutral tones, and the glass glimmered beneath the gold-lettered logo.

“What, you want to buy a bag?” you asked dryly, raising a brow.

Heeseung gave you a look. “No. I just—” He smiled sheepishly. “I like looking at pretty things.”

You stared at him for a second, before scoffing again. “Smooth.”

“I try,” he said with a grin, pulling you gently toward the display window as the two of you slowed to a stop. You stood side-by-side, hands still linked, reflections casting against the glass.

Heeseung’s grip shifted, fingers lacing more comfortably with yours as he pulled open the boutique’s gold-trimmed door, the soft chime above barely audible over the low hum of jazz playing through the speakers.

You sighed, only half-reluctant as you let him tug you in, your sneakers making the faintest sound against the polished marble floor.

Almost instantly, a shopping assistant appeared at Heeseung’s side. Dressed head-to-toe in black with a silver nameplate clipped to her collar, she gave a polite bow.

“Good evening, sir. Ma’am,” she greeted smoothly. “Welcome to Prada. How may I assist you tonight?”

You only nodded quietly in acknowledgment—but Heeseung flashed her a small smile and responded, “Hi. We were just looking around, thank you.”

His voice—calm, deep, fluent—never failed to make your stomach turn a little. You could hold your own in English when needed, but hearing him speak it so effortlessly always made you glance at him twice.

The assistant smiled and bowed slightly again. “Of course. Please take your time.”

Heeseung turned to you with a playful smile, nudging your arm.

“Come here,” he said softly, dragging you gently toward one of the glass casings near the window display.

Inside, laid out perfectly on sleek velvet trays, were keychains—tiny nylon robots dressed in mini Prada outfits.

You leaned in closer without realizing, eyes zeroing in on two in particular: one dressed in black with a silver emblem, the other a soft off-white with gold trim.

“These are cute,” you murmured, breath fogging the glass a little.

Heeseung watched you more than the display. “Do you like them?”

You glanced up at him, shrugging. “They’re adorable. Expensive adorable.”

Heeseung smiled, then turned to the assistant. “Would it be possible to take these two out?” he asked, nodding toward the ones you were staring at.

“Of course,” she said, gliding around to unlock the back. She slid out the velvet-lined tray smoothly and set it gently on top of the glass.

Heeseung reached out, picking up the two small robots—one in each hand—and held them up to you, his head tilted a little.

“White or black?” he asked. “I was gonna get both, but, you know, just in case you have a favorite.”

You blinked. “You’re buying these?”

He only smiled and wiggled the little robot in white. “I mean, they look like us, no?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “How?”

He looked at the black one, then at you. “This one’s you. All serious, sharp, cool.”

“And the white one?” you asked, amused.

He lifted it. “Me, obviously. Soft. Fluffy. Slightly lost.”

You snorted. “Delusional.”

“Maybe. But I still want to get them.” His gaze softened as he looked at you. “Let me get you one, yeah?”

You hesitated, but his hand reached for yours again—gentle, warm—and suddenly, refusing felt like denying something far too soft to let go of.

“…Fine,” you muttered.

Heeseung’s grin practically split his face in two as he turned to the assistant.

“We’ll take these two,” he said, gesturing toward the robot keychains, voice light with excitement. But then—his gaze shifted, catching something else.

You.

Just a few steps away, eyes darting across the display shelf of teddy bear keychains dressed in different Prada outfits—some fuzzy, some metallic, others wearing tiny sunglasses or knit scarves.

You weren’t even aware of the smile curling your lips as you leaned slightly forward to get a better look. The soft look on your face had Heeseung laughing under his breath.

God, you didn’t even know you were being cute. And that made it worse.

—or better.

The assistant gently took the robot charms and was about to place them back into a case when Heeseung’s voice dropped just a notch, leaning in slightly.

“We’ll get the teddy bear ones too,” he whispered, voice low like a secret. “All four.”

The assistant blinked, surprised. “All four?”

“Yeah,” Heeseung said, eyes flicking back to you. “She likes them.”

The assistant followed his gaze, eyes softening with realization as she smiled. “Understood, sir.”

“Oh, and—if it’s possible,” Heeseung added with a tiny smile, “could you grab a fresh stock from the back? I want them wrapped separately. It’s a surprise.”

“Of course,” she nodded with a conspiratorial wink, already moving discreetly to do as he asked.

Before you could turn around and notice, Heeseung tugged gently at your hand. You looked up, blinking out of your thoughts.

“Hm?” you asked.

“C’mere,” he murmured, pulling you toward the bag displays near the far side of the boutique. “You’ve been staring at those charms too long—you’ll start wanting to adopt them.”

You rolled your eyes, but a laugh escaped you anyway. “Can’t help it. Tiny bears with tiny sunglasses? That’s peak fashion.”

“Almost as fashionable as me,” Heeseung said, mock serious, scanning the shelves of leather bags.

“Mmh, I don’t know. Those bears might be winning,” you teased, nudging him gently.

Heeseung pressed a dramatic hand to his heart. “My own date hates me. How tragic, really. History books will weep for me.”

You snorted, elbowing him gently. “Oh? So this is a date?”

Heeseung tilted his head as if thinking. “Mmm… no, of course not,” he said with a straight face, though the curve of his mouth betrayed him.

“It’s just me, escorting a beautiful girl through Prada. Totally normal. Not romantic at all.”

You laughed again—softer this time—as he pulled you a little closer, weaving through the display rows with his fingers still wrapped around yours.

Behind you, the assistant discreetly handed the small box of charms to another staff member, quietly murmuring instructions to pack it up properly.

Heeseung let go of your hand for just a second, reaching out toward a sleek black bag on the top shelf.

“Didn’t see this one in any Prada stores last month,” he said, angling it slightly under the light. “Is this new?”

“Yes, sir,” the assistant answered promptly. “That’s the new Prada Buckle Leather Bag. Just released.”

He turned to you, testing the strap weight in his hand before handing it over. “Is it okay?”

You raised an eyebrow, taking it from him. “Oh, yeah. It’s actually… really light.”

Heeseung nodded once, satisfied as he turned right back to the assistant. “We’ll take this too, please.”

You didn’t get the chance to say anything because you were already distracted again—eyes drifting toward a black mini bag with gold details, tucked into the corner of the display wall like it didn’t want to be found.

You stared at it a bit longer than you probably realized.

Heeseung didn’t miss it.

He turned slightly. “That one,” he murmured to the assistant. “Is that also new?”

She smiled, already one step ahead. “Yes, sir. That’s part of the Spring capsule collection. Extremely limited.”

He hummed lightly. “We’ll get that too. Please wrap it—gift box if you can.”

“Of course, sir.”

Your fingers brushed against the edge of a different bag just as Heeseung returned beside you, wrapping his arm loosely around your waist this time.

“See anything you like?” he asked, voice low, almost teasing, but you could hear the genuine note beneath it.

You glanced up at him, eyes meeting his for a moment before smiling. “The keychains were enough.”

Heeseung gave you a knowing smile, eyes narrowing just slightly with fond amusement. “Mmh,” he hummed, clearly not believing you—but not pushing it either. Instead, he guided you gently toward the counter, his hand resting just behind your back.

At the register, the assistant already had the carefully packed bags waiting.

Heeseung stepped forward, slipped his black card out without a word, and handed it over with the ease of someone used to this—but there was a softness to the way he glanced back at you while doing so. Like it mattered more this time.

The cashier handed him the bags, three in total—all sleek, branded, carefully tucked together.

And without hesitation, Heeseung shifted them all into one hand, adjusting the handles with practiced ease just so he could free the other.

He turned back to you, that same boyish grin tugging at his lips. “Come on,” he said quietly, reaching for your hand again.

You slipped your hand into his, just as naturally as before.

The soft ding of the elevator echoed through the quiet lobby as the doors slid shut, sealing just the two of you inside.

Heeseung exhaled through his nose, a little puff of air as he set the shopping bags down carefully at his feet.

“One second,” he mumbled, reaching into the pocket of his denim jacket.

You glanced over curiously, brows raising just a little. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer right away—just angled his phone downward, thumb tapping quickly. A shutter click.

You looked down and realized he had taken a picture of your shoes next to his—your white sneakers, his chunky boots, side by side on the elevator’s gray floor tiles.

You let out a small laugh, the sound soft in the metal box. “Seriously?”

Heeseung slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket, unfazed. “What?” he said, eyes glinting as he bent down to pick up the bags again. “It’s for the memories.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t have to. Instead, you simply leaned into him, resting your head lightly against his arm as your fingers found the hem of his jacket sleeve.

Heeseung hummed low in his throat, the sound a gentle vibration against you as he rested his chin on the top of your head.

“Have you eaten dinner?” he murmured, voice muffled by your hair.

You were about to answer when he cut in, “Besides what we had earlier.”

You huffed, lips curling into a pout. “Then no.”

He tsked, his thumb absently rubbing over the fabric of your hoodie. “You’re eating with me later. Non-negotiable.”

You didn’t even argue. “Okay,” you sighed, knowing just how annoyingly stubborn he could be when it came to taking care of you these past few days.

The elevator gave a low ding as it reached the fifth floor, and the doors opened to a small crowd waiting to pile in.

Heeseung’s brows pinched. “Tsk,” he muttered under his breath, instinctively pulling you closer as people began to squeeze into the space.

You turned a little, confused—until you felt his hands slide from your fingers to your waist, tugging you gently but firmly so your back was flush against his chest.

You sucked in a quiet breath.

His body was warm—solid behind you. One of his arms wrapped loosely around your middle while the other held the shopping bags close to his side. His breath ghosted near your ear as he leaned down slightly.

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “Too many people.”

You didn’t respond—just let your hands rest lightly over the one he had around your waist. Your heart pounded a little too loud in your ears.

The elevator jolted softly as it moved up another floor, and instinctively, you shifted—just a bit—to avoid the girl in front of you whose backpack kept brushing your arm.

But in doing so, your back pressed further into Heeseung’s chest. His breath hitched—sharp, quiet, but unmistakably there.

You stilled.

But then the girl moved again, and you had no choice but to lean back more. Closer.

And when you did, his hand around your waist tightened—not possessive, but helpless. Like he couldn’t stop himself.

“Stop squirming,” he whispered into your ear, voice hushed and tight.

Heeseung’s jaw clenched for a second, his other hand gripping the shopping bags a little harder.

“Yeah, well…” he murmured, gaze flickering down to where your bodies pressed together. “Try harder.”

You blinked at him. “Why?”

And Heeseung—poor Heeseung—just gave a sharp exhale through his nose, eyes darkening with something a little more than fondness.

Then the girl in front of you shuffled again, bumping into your side, and without thinking, you moved—squirmed a little further into Heeseung’s chest, seeking space that didn’t exist.

You didn’t expect his breath to hitch so sharply.

Didn’t expect his fingers, already resting lightly on your waist, to tighten—digging in just enough for you to feel the tension ripple through his entire body.

But the moment your hips brushed against his—

You froze.

Because you felt it.

The thick, unmistakable press of his hard cock through his pants, pulsing against your lower back with nowhere to hide in the cramped elevator.

Your breath caught, eyes going wide as your heart slammed against your ribs.

Slowly, carefully, you turned your head to look up at him—disbelief swirling in your expression, heat crawling up your neck. “Heeseung…?”

But he wouldn’t meet your eyes.

Jaw clenched, face tilted toward the ceiling, and his cheeks—God, his cheeks were flushed red, his throat working like he was swallowing back a groan.

His grip on you hadn’t loosened, either. If anything, it had gotten tighter, fingers pressing into your waist like you were the only thing grounding him to this planet.

“Heeseung,” you said again, this time quieter, but laced with a breathless kind of shock. “Are you…?”

“I—” he started, voice low and rough, eyes still glued to the elevator lights above like if he dared look at you, he’d lose every ounce of self-control. “Fuck, don’t… don’t move like that.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

His head thumped back against the elevator wall. “Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

You could feel the heat pooling low in your stomach. The elevator felt ten degrees hotter. Heeseung was still holding you, like he couldn’t let go—even if he should’ve.

“I didn’t mean to—” you began, but the words died in your throat when you shifted slightly again, trying to face him better—

And the friction made his breath stutter. A quiet groan slipped past his lips before he could stop it.

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath. “(Y/N)—fuck.”

The elevator dinged open on the twentieth floor, the sudden sound slicing through the thick tension like a blade. Heeseung exhaled hard through his nose—sharp, clipped, and far from calm.

The group in front of you began to shuffle out, oblivious to the firestorm behind them, and Heeseung leaned forward just a little, his voice low and dangerously strained:

“Excuse us.”

Still holding your wrist, he pushed gently—but firmly—through the small crowd, pulling you behind him as if anyone standing in the way was a problem he was ready to fight.

You barely had time to register the plush carpet under your feet before he turned a sharp corner into the hallway—dimly lit, quiet, private—and your heart was slamming against your chest.

“Where are we going?” you managed to breathe out.

You didn’t even remember walking in.

One second you were talking with him in the hallway—voice low, breath sharp, eyes locked like always—and the next, your back slammed against the cold hotel door, Heeseung crowding into your space, chest rising with restrained ange or maybe something else.

His hands were firm on your hips now, rings cold against the thin fabric of your shirt, and his lips—God, his lips—were brushing along your cheekbone, your jaw, the sensitive spot just under your ear, teasing and taunting like he knew exactly what he was doing.

But not your lips. Not yet.

“You’re not saying anything now,” he murmured, voice low, almost mocking as he smiled against your skin. “Did I finally shut you up?”

You groaned in frustration, clutching the edge of his denim jacket, nails digging into the delicate threads as you tried to yank him closer—tried to make him kiss you. But he didn’t budge.

“Fuck you,” you hissed, tilting your head back against the door as he dipped lower, mouth barely grazing your neck. Your knees threatened to buckle. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

He chuckled darkly. “Doing what?” His grip tightened, and he pressed in—so close you could feel the hard lines of his body against yours. “Making you feel what I’ve been feeling for weeks?”

You hated the way your breath hitched. Hated the way his words made your stomach flip.

Maybe this was his payback—for ignoring him, for brushing past him at rehearsals, for pretending he didn’t get under your skin when he absolutely did.

You arched your hips into his out of spite. “Then why aren’t you kissing me?”

Heeseung paused.

His hand slipped up your waist, under your hoodie, fingers trailing heat across your bare skin as he finally lifted his head, eyes meeting yours with a look that made your thighs clench.

“Because I want you to beg for it.”

You could barely hold back your moan—chest heaving, body burning, pride unraveling in your throat.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

He smirked, lips hovering right above yours. “Lie again, and I won’t be so gentle.”

Your fingers fumbled against the neckline of his shirt, frustration bubbling into something wicked as you gripped the collar and yanked him down—until your noses brushed, until his breath mingled with yours, until he felt you tremble.

“What happened to that awkward, shy boy, huh?”

Heeseung’s laugh was a soft, almost dangerous rumble against your lips. “He had to grow up.”

He tilted his head slightly, lips brushing the corner of your mouth, maddeningly close. “Turns out… everybody has their limits.”

He pressed his body against yours, the weight of him pinning you to the door like he owned the moment—like he owned you.

Your breath hitched as his thigh slotted between yours, forcing your legs apart. He didn’t even touch you where you needed it, and still your entire body lit up with want.

“You’ve been testing mine,” he whispered, dragging his mouth down to your neck again, teeth grazing your pulse point just hard enough to make you gasp.

“The teasing… the ignoring… looking at me like I don’t exist when I know you’ve been thinking about this. About me.”

You bit your lip, back arching instinctively when his hands slid under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing. He pressed you harder against the door, your core brushing against his hip, making your breath stutter.

“And now?” he growled, voice rough. “Now that I’ve got you like this?”

You locked your arms around his neck, legs wrapping tight around his waist. “You gonna prove it?”

Heeseung’s mouth crashed into yours—hot, desperate, filthy. All tongue and teeth and tension finally snapping as he devoured the weeks of built-up want between you like he’d been starving.

You moaned into his mouth, tugging on his hair, grinding down on the hard outline pressing against your core.

He pulled away just enough to pant, “Bed. Now.”

“Then put me there,” you dared, breathless and soaked in every way that mattered.

Heeseung scoffed, low and guttural, like he couldn’t believe the audacity in your voice—and couldn’t help loving it.

“Don’t worry,” he muttered, voice sharp against your lips as he lifted you with ease—one arm under your thighs, the other steady on your lower back. “I plan to.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, tugging his hair, stealing another kiss as he carried you across the room.

This one was rougher—messy, all tongue and frustration—as if he couldn’t bear the thought of keeping his mouth off you any longer. His teeth tugged at your bottom lip before he pulled back with a smirk.

“Still so mouthy,” he muttered.

“Still so slow,” you shot back.

He barked out a laugh just as he reached the bed—then without warning, dropped you onto the mattress with a bounce, your back landing against the plush sheets.

The impact knocked a breath out of you, but before you could sit up, he was already towering over you.

Heeseung didn’t climb on the bed just yet.

Instead, he stayed standing between your parted legs, hands gripping your thighs as they dangled off the edge—thumbs digging into your skin just enough to leave a promise of bruises.

His dark eyes roamed you like he’d never seen anything so good. So ruined. So his.

You glared up at him, breath still shallow, fingers digging into the sheets.

“What?” you snapped. “Too scared to climb on?”

He raised a brow, slow and cocky. “Scared?” he echoed, voice dripping with challenge. “Baby… you’re the one trembling.”

Your lips parted to shoot something back—but he stepped closer, forcing your legs wider, the pressure making you whimper. His hands slid up, thumbs brushing dangerously close to your core over your thin shorts.

“You act like you’re still in control,” he whispered, leaning down just enough for his breath to hit your mouth. “But I haven’t even touched you yet.”

His fingers toyed with the hem of your waistband as he leaned down, body never quite touching yours, but his lips brushed against your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—everywhere but where you were aching for it.

“Say it,” he muttered.

You swallowed, struggling to keep your voice steady. “Say what?”

His hand slid between your thighs, the heel of his palm pressing down just enough to make your hips jerk.

“Say you want me.”

You met his eyes—stormy, focused, hungry—and whispered back, “I want you.”

He smirked again, satisfied. “Good.”

And then he dropped to his knees in front of you.

“I’ve waited long enough,” he said, dragging your shorts down slowly, lips following every inch of skin he exposed. His mouth followed, lips ghosting over your skin, warm breath fanning over the marks he hadn’t made yet.

You gasped as he bit down gently on the soft flesh of your inner thigh, lips sucking until color bloomed beneath his mouth—a dark red mark that pulsed with heat.

Then another. And another.

Sloppy, possessive, and everywhere. Hickeys, bites, wet kisses. It was like he needed to claim every inch of you before even thinking of going further.

You squirmed, fingers tangling in the sheets behind you, your thighs twitching with every sting of his teeth. “Heeseung��fuck—”

He looked up at you from between your legs, lips swollen, chin shiny. “What?” he said, a mocking tilt to his voice. “Didn’t you ask for this?”

“This—” You tried to snap back, but your breath stuttered when he ran his tongue flat over one of the bruises, slow and possessive. “This wasn’t what I meant.”

He chuckled, licking a trail up the inside of your thigh before biting just beside your panties. “Too late now.”

He hooked his fingers into the waistband and tugged your underwear down slowly, watching your face the whole time. His eyes darkened the moment your soaked core was exposed to him.

“Fuck…” he hissed, jaw clenching. “You’re dripping.”

Heat exploded in your cheeks, but the thrill shot straight between your legs.

“You’ve been acting all high and mighty,” he growled, sliding his hands under your thighs and dragging you closer to the edge of the bed. “And for what? You’re this wet just from a few kisses?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but all that came out was a choked moan as his tongue flattened against your cunt in one slow, hungry lick.

Your back arched off the bed instantly.

“Heeseung—!”

“Oh, now you’re saying my name,” he muttered against you, voice muffled, breath hot.

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading you open as his tongue lapped at you—messy, slow at first, tasting you like he had all night. But then he groaned low in his throat, deep and desperate, and that shy, sweet boy you used to tease? He was gone.

Heeseung buried his face between your legs like a man starved—licking, sucking, slurping at your clit until your moans turned into broken cries.

His nose brushed against you with every movement, his tongue relentless, his mouth filthy.

Your hands flew to his hair, gripping tight. “Don’t stop—”

He pulled back just for a second, chin wet, lips shiny. “Not planning to.”

Then he dove back in.

One hand slipped down to press two fingers into you, curling them just right as his tongue focused on your clit—his rhythm steady, precise, devastating.

You were a mess. A moaning, trembling, overstimulated mess.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice rough against your skin. “Say you want me.”

Your head fell back, chest heaving. “I want you—fuck, I want you so bad—”

Heeseung hummed low in his throat like your words were his favorite sound—his tongue never stopping, lips still wrapped around your clit like he was starving.

“Mm,” he groaned against you, vibrations shooting straight through your core. “You taste so fucking good.”

Your hips bucked up uncontrollably, hands flying to his hair again, threading through the strands as you tried—failed—to anchor yourself.

He didn't slow down. If anything, he doubled down, sucking harder, his tongue flicking in tight, fast circles that made your thighs tremble.

His fingers curled just right inside you.

“Heeseung—” you gasped, choking on your own moan.

“Yeah?” he panted, glancing up through half-lidded eyes, his lips slick, chin absolutely soaked. “Right there, huh?”

He angled his fingers again, hitting that same devastating spot over and over as he mouthed at your clit with reckless precision. You could barely hold still—back arching, legs trying to close around his head only for his hands to spread them wider, hold you open like he owned you.

“You gonna cum?” he asked, voice all heat and arrogance and need. “Gonna fall apart on my face like a good girl?”

You whimpered, your whole body shaking as the coil in your stomach snapped tighter, tighter, tighter—

“I—I can’t—” you breathed, tears prickling the corners of your eyes. “Heeseung, I’m—oh my God—”

He laughed breathlessly, like you saying his name like that drove him insane. “Yes, you can. Look at you,” he growled, fingers thrusting deeper, faster. “Fucking soaking my face. You're so close, baby, just let go.”

“Fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Cum for me,” he demanded, lips swollen, tongue ruthless. “Wanna feel you break.”

You shattered—head thrown back, a moan ripped from your throat so loud and desperate it echoed in the room. Your vision blurred, your legs shook violently as wave after wave crashed through you, and Heeseung didn’t let up.

He kept licking, kissing, praising you through it like a man drunk on every drop of you.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, voice slurred as he finally pulled away, licking his lips. “You taste like heaven.”

You barely managed to lift your head, chest still rising and falling in uneven gasps, your entire body trembling from the high.

Heeseung stood, breath heavy, chest rising with the same urgency that had taken over his voice. He looked down at himself and reached for his denim jacket—still creased and damp from where you clutched at it earlier, the collar twisted from your grip.

“Such a fucking bother,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you, voice low and breathless as he shrugged it off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

Then he grabbed the hem of his shirt, tugging it up over his head in one smooth motion.

You watched with wide, hazy eyes—every inch of exposed skin made your mouth go dry. His toned stomach, the faint trail of hair leading downward, the tension in his arms, his flushed neck.

He looked wrecked already, but his cock was straining against his jeans.

He unbuckled his belt with speed, the metallic clink making your breath hitch.

“All this,” he muttered, snapping the buckle open and dragging his zipper down in one fluid motion, “right after filming, too. You couldn’t even let me rest, huh?”

You swallowed hard. “You didn’t seem tired when your mouth was on me.”

He smirked, eyes dark, voice rough. “Because you taste better than anything I’ve ever fucking had.”

Before you could blink, he shoved his pants down and stepped out of them, kicking them aside. Then he leaned forward, hand flat on your stomach, and pushed you back into the mattress.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet.”

His mouth was on yours instantly—hot and greedy, tongue sliding between your lips as he kissed you like he needed to breathe you in. You moaned into his mouth, fingers already slipping down to shove at the waistband of his boxers, eager to feel him.

The fabric barely made it down his thighs before he was reaching for your hoodie, tugging it up roughly over your head.

He yanked it off you in one swift motion, arms raised for barely a second before he threw the hoodie to the side, eyes instantly dropping to your chest.

The way he looked at you—lips parted, breath hitched, pupils blown wide—like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he didn’t know whether to worship you or ruin you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, hands sliding up your sides. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

You gasped when his thumbs brushed over your nipples, teasing them through the thin fabric of your bra before he slipped a hand underneath—palm warm and rough as he groped your bare breast, fingers flicking against the hardened peak.

“Heeseung—” you breathed, but it came out shaky, barely a whisper.

He leaned down to bite at your collarbone, licking and sucking bruises into your skin as his free hand gripped your thigh, hiking it higher around his waist.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growled, dragging his cock along your slit, the head thick and flushed, teasing your entrance without pushing in just yet. “Been hard since the fucking elevator.”

You whimpered, lifting your hips to chase the friction, desperate and soaked. “Then do something about it—”

You didn’t even get to finish the sentence.

In one sharp thrust, he buried himself inside you—deep, thick, and stretching you so perfectly you cried out, the sound raw and wrecked. Your fingers clawed at his back, nails dragging down his spine as your walls clenched tight around him.

“F-fuck,” he hissed, his forehead pressing to yours, voice trembling. “You’re so fucking tight. Jesus—”

He pulled back almost completely, just to slam into you again—hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs.

You moaned, loud and unfiltered, back arching off the sheets.

“Heeseung—ah—don’t stop—”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he gritted, setting a punishing rhythm now, hips snapping into yours over and over, the sound of skin on skin loud and obscene in the room.

“You wanted this, right? This what you’ve been teasing me for?”

Your only answer was a broken moan—eyes fluttering shut, mouth open, thighs trembling from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Look at me,” he growled, grabbing your chin and forcing your eyes open. “Wanna see your face when I make you cum again.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he reached between you, thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit—messy, relentless, cruel.

Your legs shook instantly, the coil in your stomach winding fast, impossibly fast.

“I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he said, fucking you harder. “Cum all over my cock. Let me feel you.”

And you did.

You shattered—mouth open in a silent scream, whole body seizing beneath him as your walls clenched around him tight.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your thighs trembling as he fucked you through it, groaning at the way you squeezed him.

“God—shit—you feel so fucking good—” he cursed, hips stuttering.

But he didn’t stop.

Even as his release spilled into you, even as his cock twitched deep inside your pulsing walls—he kept moving.

Slow, deep thrusts, dragging himself through the wet heat of your cunt like he couldn’t bear to leave you yet.

You whined, trembling beneath him, body still wracked with aftershocks. “Heeseung—fuck—I just came—”

“I know,” he murmured, voice low, head dropping down to kiss you—deep, slow, possessive. His lips were soft, but his thrusts weren’t. “Felt you. So tight around me, baby. So perfect.”

Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, trying to ground yourself, but Heeseung wasn’t done wrecking you.

He pulled back only far enough to grip your thighs again, shifting your body, and before you could register what was happening, he pressed your legs up—then over his shoulders.

The new angle made your back arch, made you gasp out loud as he sank even deeper, cock brushing spots inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.

“Oh my God—” you cried, your nails raking down his back in desperation, leaving red, angry lines in their wake as your body arched into his.

Heeseung groaned through clenched teeth, dropping his head so your foreheads touched, breath ragged.

“You feel that?” he whispered, thrusting hard and slow. “Right there—fuck—taking me so well even after cumming.”

You could barely breathe. Your whole body was flushed, trembling again, but the pleasure didn’t stop. If anything, it was building all over again—hot and dizzying and impossible to resist.

“Can’t—can’t take another one,” you gasped.

“Yes, you can,” he said, kissing you again, tongue sliding into your mouth as he swallowed your moans.

“You will. I want to feel you cum around me again—legs shaking, saying my name like it’s the only fucking word you know.”

And when he angled his hips just right again, hitting that same sweet, brutal spot inside you, your legs did shake—body arching beneath him as tears pricked your eyes from how good it felt.

“Heeseung—Heeseung, fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growled, slamming into you harder now, his grip on your hips turning bruising. “Let me feel it. Be my good girl and cum for me.”

And you did. Again.

Back arching, thighs trembling, lips parted in a silent scream as your second orgasm ripped through you—longer, messier, more intense. Your entire body clenched around him, milking him.

He kissed you again—open-mouthed, teeth dragging against your lip, moaning softly against your tongue like he was just as ruined.

But instead of collapsing against you, instead of giving you a moment to breathe, Heeseung groaned low and leaned back—his hands gripping your hips, still trembling slightly from the high you just dragged out of him.

Then, without warning, he pulled out.

You gasped at the emptiness, at the warm slick dripping down your thighs, your eyes fluttering open just in time to see him grabbing your hips, flipping your exhausted body onto your stomach with a roughness that made you whine.

“Wait—Hee, I—” you panted, back pressed into the sheets as you wiggled slightly in protest, your body still twitching from aftershocks. “I just came…”

He didn’t answer.

He just tapped your ass twice—firm, commanding—and said in a voice that had dropped an octave lower, husky and almost possessive, “Come on. Up. Now.”

You whimpered at the tone—deep, dark, dripping with want—but you still obeyed.

Despite your trembling arms, despite the overstimulation making your legs feel like jelly, you pushed yourself up slowly onto your hands and knees, arching your back just like he liked.

“Good girl,” he muttered under his breath, palming your ass with both hands, spreading your cheeks wide to look at the mess he’d made of you. “Fuck, look at you—dripping.”

You could feel his cock, already hard again, nudging against your entrance, smearing more slick against your folds.

“Didn’t know you were this greedy, baby,” he murmured, leaning over you until his chest pressed to your back, lips brushing your ear.

“Two orgasms and you’re still giving me this pretty little pussy?”

“I hate you,” you gasped, breath shaky.

He smirked against your neck. “No, you don’t.”

And then he slammed back into you in one sharp, brutal thrust that had you screaming into the pillow.

“Fuck—Heeseung—fuck—”

He groaned, gripping your hips so tight you knew you’d bruise. “This what you wanted? This what you were teasing me for all week?”

You tried to answer, but all that came out was a wrecked, desperate moan as he started pounding into you from behind—each thrust deep, ruthless, making the headboard slam against the wall, the wet, obscene sound of skin on skin echoing in the room.

“Yeah?” Heeseung growled, voice sharp, breath hot against your spine.

“That’s all you’ve got now, huh? No more smart mouth, no more teasing—just fucking moans.”

You whimpered, burying your face in the pillows, hands fisting the sheets, body jerking forward with every brutal thrust.

“You like this,” he hissed, hips slamming into you again, again, again. “Fucking love it when I use you like this—like a toy, my little fuckdoll, so good and wet for me.”

He gripped your hair suddenly, yanking your head back enough to make your back arch, forcing your spine to curve beautifully as he thrust into you harder—deeper.

“But you’re still so fucking perfect,” he muttered, voice breaking, eyes drinking in every inch of you. “So fucking good for me. Taking me so well, like you were made for this.”

Your legs shook violently, another orgasm building so fast it was unreal, pressure coiling deep in your core, every nerve screaming his name.

“Please—” you sobbed, voice muffled, broken. “Heeseung—please, I’m—”

He leaned forward, pressed a hand between your shoulder blades and shoved you deeper into the mattress, hips never slowing, thrusts sharper now, meaner.

“You wanna cum again?” he snarled. “Even like this—fucked out, drooling into the sheets, stuffed full of my cock and still begging for more?”

You nodded helplessly, tears pricking your lashes as your thighs trembled around him.

“Then cum for me,” he said, breath ragged, voice tight with want. “Cum for me like a good girl. My good, dirty, cock-drunk little thing.”

And you did.

You screamed, body collapsing, clenching so hard around him it nearly forced him over the edge.

Your walls fluttered, pulsed, milked him, and he growled low—deep from his chest—as he kept going, fucking you through it like he was chasing your soul.

“Fuck—” he gasped, losing rhythm, “gonna fill you up again—gonna make sure you don’t forget who you fucking belong to—”

And with one final snap of his hips, he came inside you again—hot, thick, endless—as he spilled deep into your sore, overstimulated cunt.

Your body went limp beneath him, slick and trembling, his name falling from your lips.

Heeseung slumped forward, his chest pressing against your back as he caught his breath, skin damp with sweat. He was still inside you, still twitching slightly, but now his arms curled around your waist, pulling you closer like he couldn’t let you go.

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. Then another. Then another—slow, tender, scattered across your spine and neck like he was trying to kiss away the ache.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough but gentle, “you okay?”

You let out a shaky breath, cheek pressed into the pillows, muscles utterly spent.

“…Yeah,” you managed to whisper, and even though your voice cracked, you nodded. “I’m okay.”

He stayed like that for a moment longer—just breathing with you, kissing the back of your neck, hands smoothing down your sides with careful, featherlight touches.

Then, reluctantly, he pulled out, and you whimpered at the loss—at the soreness, the stickiness, the ache.

“Sorry,” he said softly, thumbing over your hip as he sat back. “I’ll take care of you. Promise.”

And he did.

He scooped you up into his arms without a second thought—completely bare, both of you—holding you bridal-style as your arms looped weakly around his neck.

You blinked up at him, flushed and dazed. “You don’t have to carry me…”

“Shut up,” he mumbled, looking down at you with this small, crooked smile. “You can’t even walk.”

You laughed—breathless and wrecked—and leaned your head against his shoulder.

He nudged open the bathroom door with his foot and gently set you down on the edge of the tub. The soft sound of running water filled the space as he turned the knobs, checking the temperature carefully with his hand before letting it fill.

All the while, he stayed close—kneeling in front of you, brushing hair from your face, pressing kisses to your knees and thighs, hands resting on your legs.

You smiled, a little dazed. “You’re being soft.”

“I just rearranged your insides,” he said with a low chuckle, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Let me be soft.”

When the tub was full, warm steam curling into the air, he helped you in first, holding your hand as you sank into the water with a sigh.

He followed a moment later, sitting behind you, pulling your back flush to his chest as his arms wrapped around your waist under the water.

“Better?” he murmured against your temple.

You nodded, letting your head rest back on his shoulder, letting him hold you like you were fragile.

He kissed your damp skin again, fingers lazily tracing patterns on your thigh under the surface. “I’ll wash your hair in a bit.”

Heeseung smiled softly against your skin, his lips brushing your shoulder. “I should’ve done it sooner.”

His hand kept moving—fingertips tracing idle lines on your thigh, slow and featherlight, until the circles started getting smaller, slower, closer.

You opened your eyes slightly, lifting your head just enough to glance back at him, your breath hitching when his fingers dipped lower, skimming between your legs under the water.

“Bambi,” you murmured, the nickname trembling in your throat, “what are you…?”

“Shh,” he whispered, voice low and honey-warm as his nose brushed behind your ear. “One more. Just wanna feel you fall apart one more time.”

You whimpered softly, and that was all the permission he needed.

His fingers found your clit, barely there at first—just gentle strokes, circling slowly, barely enough to register but soaked in tenderness.

His other arm held you tighter against him, chest to your back, lips pressing slow kisses to your neck, your shoulder, your jaw.

“You’re so sensitive,” he whispered, smiling when your hips twitched under the water. “Still so responsive for me. That feel good, baby?”

You nodded, biting your lip, gasping as his fingers moved in tighter circles—consistent and slow.

“Say it,” he murmured against your skin. “Tell me how good I make you feel.”

“Feels—” your voice broke, the words barely air, “so good, Heeseung. So fucking good…”

“Mmm,” he purred, rubbing tighter now, middle finger dipping down to slide against your folds before coming back up—warm, wet, wrecked from the inside out.

“You gonna cum again for me, pretty girl? Just from my fingers this time?”

“Fuck—Hee—I’m gonna—”

“That’s it,” he cooed, still rubbing your clit as he whispered filth sweetly into your skin. “Let go for me. You’re doing so good. I’ve got you, baby. I’ve always got you.”

And then you were cumming again—back arching, legs shaking in the water, soft cries escaping your lips as the pleasure overtook you.

It was slower, deeper, more intimate than before, but somehow more intense, like he had cracked your heart wide open and made himself a home in your chest.

He kissed your temple as you trembled in his arms, easing his hand away gently, like he knew how sensitive you’d be.

“Good girl,” he whispered against your damp cheek. “That’s my girl.”

You smiled, dazed and breathless, cheeks warm despite the water.

Heeseung leaned in, lips brushing against your temple, then your cheek, and finally your lips—soft, slow pecks that made your chest flutter more than anything else that night.

You turned to him, still curled up in his arms, and pressed a few kisses back—one on his jaw, another on the corner of his mouth, and finally one right on the tip of his nose.

That made him laugh, quiet and sweet, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, grinning like a fool. “You really are.”

His silver hair was sticking to his forehead, wet and messy, but he still looked—God—so good. Soft and flushed and golden under the bathroom light, with that post-bliss daze in his eyes that made your stomach flip all over again.

You reached up, brushing his bangs back, fingertips grazing his temple.

He let you, watching you like you were something fragile, something precious.

Then he gave a soft, playful sigh. “Alright. Let’s actually get clean for real, yeah?”

You giggled, still slumped lazily against his chest. “We’re literally in the bath.”

“Yeah, and you’re still covered in evidence,” he smirked, nudging your thigh under the water. “Not exactly spa-level clean.”

“Gross,” you laughed, swatting at his arm weakly.

“Honest,” he teased back, then leaned forward slightly, reaching over the edge of the tub to grab the shampoo bottle sitting on the sink.

He twisted the cap open with one hand, the other still wrapped around your waist like he had no plans to let you go. “Turn around for me?”

You did, settling between his thighs again as he poured the shampoo into his palm.

His hands were gentle as they massaged it into your hair—fingers digging into your scalp with just enough pressure to make you hum. His nails scratched softly, soothing and slow, the lather building into a rich foam as his thumbs moved in calming circles at your temples.

“Feels nice,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice low and warm. “My pretty girl deserves nice things.”

Your heart melted all over again.

If the sex made you feel wanted, this made you feel loved.

You were curled into Heeseung’s chest, your leg slung over his waist and one of his arms tucked firmly under your neck, holding you close like you were something to protect.

His other hand lazily traced shapes along your spine, skin still warm from the bath, your body draped in one of his oversized shirts—soft, worn-in, and smelling like him.

The glow from the TV bathed the room in soft blues and flickers of white, some random action movie streaming in the background. Neither of you were paying attention.

“You good?” he murmured, voice soft and a little scratchy from the earlier chaos.

You nodded, sighing contentedly into his collarbone. “Mmhm. Comfy.”

He chuckled, shifting a little to kiss the top of your head. “Okay, what do you wanna eat? I’ll call room service.”

You blinked up at him, cheeks pressed to his chest. “I dunno. Pizza sounds good.”

He nodded. “What else?”

“…Chicken. Something fried.”

“Solid choices,” he said, already reaching for the hotel phone on the nightstand. His movements were smooth and casual, like this wasn’t the hundredth time he’s done this for you. He pushed a few buttons with practiced ease.

You bit back a grin as the line picked up and he sat up slightly to speak, voice immediately switching into that cool, composed tone that made your stomach flutter all over again.

“Hi, good evening,” he said politely, still absently rubbing your hip with his free hand. “Can we place an order to room 2005?”

A pause.

“Yeah—can we get a large pepperoni pizza… a basket of fried chicken… iced tea… and—” he glanced down at you, and you raised your brows curiously.

“Lasagna?” he added with a grin.

You giggled softly, curling into him even more.

“Yes, that’s all,” he said, nodding to himself. “No rush, thank you so much.”

He hung up and tossed the phone gently back onto the nightstand, settling down again with a satisfied sigh. “All set.”

You laughed, hand pressed lightly to his chest. “Pizza, chicken, lasagna and iced tea? Are we feeding a football team?”

He smirked. “You really underestimate me.”

“You’ll eat all that?”

“I could,” he shrugged confidently. “Especially after the workout you just gave me.”

You let out an embarrassed whine, burying your face into his neck. “Lee Heeseung!”

He laughed, loud and delighted, wrapping both arms around you and tugging you closer. “I’m kidding. Maybe. We’ll see.”

“You’re such a menace,” you mumbled, though you were smiling into his skin.

Heeseung laughed again, tugging you tighter into his chest, lips brushing your forehead.

“I told you,” he murmured, his voice smug and low, “this is my revenge. For all the pain you caused me.”

You tilted your head, looking up at him with a skeptical brow. “Pain?”

He gave a dramatic sigh, like the weight of your teasing over the past weeks had aged him. “Emotional damage. Every time you walked past me. Every time you rolled your eyes and ignored me. Every time you smiled at other people and not me.”

You rolled your eyes with a scoff, grinning despite yourself. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re evil,” he shot back, poking your side.

Before you could retaliate, there was a sharp knock at the door—three quick taps.

You both paused.

Heeseung blinked. “Room service can’t be that fast.”

You tilted your head up. “Maybe they knew it was you.”

He snorted, then slid off the bed, padding barefoot to one of the suitcases near the wall. “Nah. Probably one of my members.”

He unzipped it quickly and pulled out a large, oversized hoodie—black, worn-in, and practically big enough to be a blanket. He tossed it your way, grinning as you caught it mid-air.

“Here. Put that on before I let anyone in.”

You raised a brow. “You’re so protective all of a sudden.”

Heeseung smirked. “You’re not answering the door with those thighs out, babe. Not when I know exactly what they’ve been doing tonight.”

Your jaw dropped. “Lee Heeseung!”

But he was already walking away, laughing under his breath.

You pulled the hoodie over your head with a huff, the hem falling just above your knees. His scent—clean linen and expensive cologne—wrapped around you like a second skin, making your cheeks flush.

And then the door creaked open.

“Hyung—!”

“Dude, you took forever—”

Sunoo and Jungwon’s voices flooded the room, loud and unfiltered as they practically shoved their way past Heeseung like they owned the place.

You laughed under your breath as Sunoo made a beeline to the coffee table, tossing down two bags of chips and some instant ramen cups like it was a scheduled sleepover.

Jungwon, meanwhile, was deep in conversation with Heeseung—something about the setlist changes—and didn’t notice you right away.

“Hi, (Y/N)-noona!” he chirped brightly at first, glancing your way like it was just another chill visit.

And then—

He blinked. Paused. Did a double take.

His jaw dropped.

“Noona?!” he screeched, pointing an accusatory finger as he took in the hoodie—the unmistakably Heeseung-sized hoodie, the flushed cheeks, the messy post-bath hair. “Noona—wait—no—don’t tell me—!”

He practically short-circuited in real time.

You smothered your laugh into the sleeves as he turned in place, grabbing at Jungwon's arm like he needed backup.

Jungwon finally stepped inside properly, eyebrows rising when he spotted you.

Then he glanced at Heeseung. Then back at you. Then at the hoodie. Then at Heeseung again.

He gave the oldest member a very slow, very knowing smile.

“…I see,” he said simply.

Heeseung sighed dramatically, stepping aside and closing the door behind them. “You two are so nosy.”

Sunoo looked absolutely betrayed. “Hyung?! That’s why you didn’t come down with us?!” He pointed again. “Is this why you ghosted Ni-ki? She’s why you—you lied—”

“She didn’t sneak in, Sunoo,” Heeseung deadpanned. “You literally saw her leave practice with me.”

“But I didn’t think—” Sunoo whined, practically pacing now. “I didn’t think you’d actually—oh my god.”

Jungwon just calmly sat on the edge of the bed, peeling open a bag of chips. “So… how many times?”

You choked.

“Yang Jungwon—!” you squeaked, clutching the sleeves of the hoodie.

“Don’t answer that,” Heeseung groaned, dragging a hand down his face, shooting Jungwon a death glare. “I hate all of you.”

Jungwon snickered, completely unbothered. “No, you don’t.”

And clearly, he didn’t, because Heeseung didn’t bother kicking either of them out. He just sighed and moved to grab the hotel menu on the table like he could somehow undo the absolute circus in his room.

Meanwhile, Sunoo had made himself very comfortable, sitting down right beside you on the bed with a dramatic pout, shaking your arm like you owed him the world.

“Noona!” he whined, voice laced with betrayal. “I thought you hated him!”

You giggled, trying to keep a straight face as his hands clutched your sleeve.

You glanced toward Jungwon, who was lounging with a proud grin, and repeated his words with a soft laugh, “No, I don’t. Not really.”

Sunoo let out a long, over-the-top groan and flopped his head onto your lap like the world had ended. “I can’t believe this. I’ve been lied to. Deceived.”

You ran your fingers gently through his hair, still smiling. “You’ll live.”

“No, I won’t,” he muttered, voice muffled in your lap. “Not after this.”

Jungwon laughed under his breath and tossed a chip at him. “Drama queen.”

A sharp knock rattled against the hotel door again.

Heeseung sighed like it physically hurt him. “Now what?”

He padded over, opening the door with the energy of a man completely over it all—only to blink as a staff member stood on the other side with a cart full of food.

“Oh—yes,” Heeseung said, straightening slightly. “Room service. Just… leave it there, thank you.”

The staff member nodded politely and wheeled the cart into the room, setting it by the small table near the window. “Enjoy your meal, sir.”

“Thanks,” Heeseung replied, already pushing the door closed behind him.

When he turned back to you three, still curled up on the bed, his face was the picture of resignation.

“I hate this night,” he muttered, though the slight smile tugging at his lips betrayed him completely.

“No, you don’t,” Jungwon and you both said at the same time.

It was quiet inside the jet—too quiet for how chaotic the trip had been. You hadn’t expected to be the first one there, but as you stepped up the small staircase and into the cabin, there were no familiar voices, no rustling bags or echoed laughter.

Just you.

You pulled your suitcase behind you, dragging it slowly toward the side aisle, scanning the rows of plush cream-colored seats.

You found your name on one of the tabs and paused, glancing up at the overhead compartment and internally groaning. You were not tall enough for this.

You were just about to turn and ask one of the nearby flight crew for help when someone beat you to it—fingers wrapping around the handle of your suitcase, lifting it with ease like it weighed nothing.

You turned around fast, already a little startled—

—and then sighed in relief. “Oh.”

Heeseung.

He was dressed in casual airport clothes: gray joggers, a fitted long-sleeve shirt, baseball cap low over his silver hair. And still… he looked unfairly good.

He slid your suitcase into the compartment, shutting it closed with a soft click before turning to you.

“You’re here early,” he said, lips curling into a soft smile. “Didn’t think I’d see you until boarding was half over.”

You shrugged, stifling a yawn behind your hand. “I need sleep. I figured I’d knock out as soon as I got here.”

He hummed in response, then tilted his head slightly toward the seat. “Well? Sit down, sleepyhead.”

You slid into your assigned window seat with a quiet sigh, adjusting the blanket draped over the armrest.

And then Heeseung plopped down into the seat beside you—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You raised a brow. “Isn’t your seat… somewhere else?”

He leaned back, arms crossed behind his head, smirking slightly. “What? Can’t I sit with you now?”

You gave him a look, biting back a smile. “You’re gonna get scolded by staff again.”

Heeseung just scoffed, his lips twitching into that familiar smug grin as he shifted closer in his seat. “What, for sitting next to you?” he teased, already leaning in to adjust the blanket over your lap like it was second nature.

With practiced hands, he tugged the fabric up gently—folding the edge over your knees, making sure your arms weren’t trapped, smoothing it down before giving it one final pat.

And then he turned his head slightly, flagging down one of the nearby cabin attendants with a polite, two-finger wave.

“Excuse me—can we get a couple more pillows here, please?” he asked, voice calm and warm, laced with that quiet, casual charm that made people say yes before they even realized they’d agreed.

The flight attendant smiled. “Of course, sir.”

As she stepped away, Heeseung turned back to you, looking far too pleased with himself as he sank deeper into the seat beside you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“What?” he asked innocently. “I’m just trying to make sure you sleep comfortably.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. “This is suspiciously… considerate.”

He snorted, grinning. “I’m always considerate. You’re just used to bullying me.”

You opened your mouth to argue but were promptly cut off as he threw an arm behind your headrest, moving slightly closer, voice dropping into that lazy, teasing tone of his.

“And anyway—what are they gonna do?” he murmured. “Scold me?”

He tilted his head, lips twitching.

“I’m old enough to make my own decisions.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly, caught between a laugh and a flush that crept up your neck a little too fast for your liking.

“Cocky much?” you muttered, turning toward the window to hide your face.

Heeseung laughed under his breath, soft and low. “Nope. Just sure of what I want.”

And when the pillows came a minute later, he took them with a quiet thank you, immediately fluffing one and tucking it between your seat and the window.

He gently cupped the back of your head and guided you to lean against it, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulder like he was tucking you in.

You looked up at him, heart fluttering, and he just smiled—calm and soft and real.

“Close your eyes,” he said quietly. “I’ll be right here.”

Your lashes fluttered once, then shut as you let yourself melt into the softness of the seat, trusting him, letting the hum of the jet cradle you to sleep.

Heeseung didn’t move right away.

Instead, he reached out with careful fingers and slid his hand into yours, squeezing gently. You squeezed back—barely there, barely conscious—but enough.

He smiled at that, then reached down to his bag, pulling out his iPad and earbuds, placing them on his lap. Something to distract himself, to keep the silence company while you slept.

But before he could press play on the half-loaded drama episode queued up on screen, you moved.

Your head dipped slightly onto his shoulder, cheek resting softly against the fabric of his shirt, one hand still curled around his. You sighed quietly—peaceful, trusting—and Heeseung stilled completely, the iPad forgotten.

He glanced down at you slowly, eyes softening.

“…Comfy?” he whispered.

You didn’t answer.

But your body tucked closer, like you were drawn to him even in your dreams.

Heeseung let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh, and kissed your forehead—just the gentlest brush of lips against skin.

Then, without a word, he reached up, plucked the baseball cap off his head, and placed it beside his iPad on the armrest. His hair fell messily over his brows, but he didn’t fix it. He didn’t care.

All his attention was on you.

Your breathing.

Your warmth.

The way your face softened in sleep.

He had never thought someone could look so beautiful doing absolutely nothing at all.

And maybe neither of you knew what this was—not yet. Maybe it was messy. Maybe it wasn’t the right time. Maybe there were still miles and silence and unspoken things between you.

But if it was you—Heeseung would go through every ounce of confusion.

Every ache. Every wait. Every crack in his heart.

He’d go through all of it again if it meant finally getting the girl he never dared to dream he’d have.

His fingers tightened around yours just slightly.

“I’ll be here,” he whispered again, like a promise this time.

He leaned his head gently against yours, careful not to wake you. The weight of you resting on him was calming in a way he hadn’t known he needed. His smile was small, but real—tucked in the corner of his lips like a secret he wouldn’t mind keeping forever.

Outside, clouds drifted quietly past the windows, the sky soft with fading light. Inside, the hum of the engine filled the silence—but in his chest, all Heeseung could hear was the steady thrum of something deeper. Something beginning.

He didn’t know where this was going.

Didn’t know what it would become.

But in that moment, with you curled up beside him, breathing slow and steady in your sleep, Heeseung knew one thing for sure:

If this was you, if this was real, he’d wait.

He’d fight.

He’d fall.

Again, and again, and again.

And maybe—just maybe—this time, you’d fall with him.

⤷ part 1 | part 2 | part 3

⤷ permanent taglist — @m1kkso @ilovhoonie @jiyeons-closet @manobillie ⤷ piece taglist — @yohanabanana

© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[mortal-ethos]

I got my degree in psych and soc, and specifically focused on women and gender studies, so I can offer a bit of insight here. As kids start pubescent development, during the teenage years a couple different things happen. And then without intervention they progress into adulthood.

Number one, the search for identity is super strong. This one should be pretty obvious. It's when they start to feel more independence, more autonomy, this leads to the typical teenage rebellion for a lot of us. We're testing the limits, we're learning more about the world around us and what society expects of us, we're learning if we like it. This includes gender and sexuality obviously, so we've got young queers realizing they're, well, young queers.

Number two, is group alignment. They're aligning themselves with the queer community, or not. We see a lot more ingroup/outgroup dynamics start to form, cliques and all. Along with identity comes this group alignment, and this goes with societal norms. Either you align with the societal norms, or you don't. This is also where we start to see "we're not like those queers" because being a member of an outgroup isn't just that. It's also social isolation, it's loss of opportunities and experiences, it's bullying and mental health issues, you get it. We all know it. We also want to be seen as a person of social value, which is why we will often try to become a part of a perceived socially valuable group, i.e. performing as "one of the good ones" for cis het peers.

Now this circles back to identity formation. Humans love to categorize things, especially in the initial stages of learning about a topic or concept. We often like to categorize ourselves, we like to be part of a group, we like to have a label, we like to identify ourselves and have our identity be validated and accepted, or at the least we don't want to be disrespected and bullied for it. Because our identity, is us. And us don't want to be seen as gross or weird or bad. Our search for identity will lead us to categorize ourselves, which will lead us to align with a group, and we will want to align with the group that will cause us the least perceived harm, or the most social capital. This will cause young queers to not put themselves in a position of further unsafety, and they will fawn and perform.

Now this leads to resentment for the members of the outgroup, especially the members of a similar identity to themselves (queer). Because they place so much value on being part of the ingroup, that the member of the outgroup being ok with being themselves and not searching to please the ingroup is infuriating to them. Anger often comes from holding our own values over someone else's. Basically a whole, "if I had to perform as the good queer and hide more of myself, then you have to as well." And because queers are often raised to believe that we are the problem, that we need to assimilate rather than that the wider society needs to get over it and accept us, when a young queer seeking assimilation sees another queer that isn't seeking assimilation, the blame for the lack of overall cultural acceptance gets pushed onto them. It's a whole lot of suppression of the self and internalized transphobia/homophobia/exorsexism/etc.

I am sure I could go in deeper in some points, but overall I hope it gave some deeper understanding into why this happens. Most of all, please treat everyone with kindness! The best way to get someone to hear your perspective is by being compassionate and listening to them speak about why they believe the way they do. If you can offer young queers that are struggling with this a listening ear and a kind word, it will take patience but, you can absolutely guide them towards growth and becoming kinder to their queer siblings. We are a family and we really need to start acting like one.

the baby gays are trying to dictate identities again and I am Tired. why does it matter? why does anyone having contradictory identities matter to you? you're happily pushing a transphobic rewrite of history in order to dictate how people are allowed to identify now and I am so tired.

let me be the one to break it to you: it does not matter how other people identify. the people in power who want to erase us are not working from a checklist of "good" vs "bad" queers. we are all filthy degenerates in their eyes. it does not matter if you have a label that "makes sense" - if you're not cishet, you've got a target on your back too. it won't save you to tape an extra one to the backs of your community. you will still be punished for deviating from the norm. so stop helping your oppressor. stop doing their work for them.

and for the love of all things good and queer in this world: educate yourselves. read up on your history. speak to queer elders. log the fuck off social media and go and immerse yourself in queer spaces if you're safe to do so. you need to be educated. this political climate relies on you being uneducated and easily manipulated. do not give them the satisfaction.

stand with your community, not against us. we want you to survive.

[bluebnny]

So, look, I don't know if your requests are open (especially when you're in exams 😭), BUT I really love how you write Law and more with the toxic HC. There's a song that I love and it's really like a necessity to read something related to that song. I don't know if you can write something similar or like that 😞. The song is "Supermercado" by Mon Laferte (yes, it's in Spanish, but there's a translation on YouTube 😭), I've never requested something like that so I don't know how it works, sorry 😔. Yes, it could be something like hurt/comfort or angst (fem!reader), I'm not really complaining. Thanks for everything and sorry for so little 😔✋️🩷 (I hope your exams went amazingly well 🫶🏻)

Sorry if I'm sending it wrong, I genuinely don't know how to request things kdhdks,thanks x everything 😌🩷

What are we?

trafalgar law x fem!reader

content: reader and law fight after a lot of tension for the past days, mostly angst, some comfort at the end

warnings: angst, descriptions of a toxic dynamic, emotionally constipated law, slightly evil!law at the end lol idk how to describe it

a/n: toxic law request?!?!?! SAY NO MORE 🫡🫡🫡!!!! thanks for sending a request based on a song, i love that idea! (i asked my bf if he knows mon laferte since he’s latin american, and he does! idk why I’m telling you that lol i just thought it was funny.) hopefully this is somewhat what you had in mind, i tried to go with the song's vibe without being too literal with it. This was a lot of fun to write, so i really hope you enjoy it <3<3

(Dividers made by me)

word count: 2.892

You find yourself once again on the Polar Tang. Under normal circumstances, you would be nothing short of thrilled about having a reason to stay on your boyfriend’s ship for a couple of days. After all, dating is tough when you each have your own crew and general pirating-things to look after, and the submarine has become almost like a second home to you.

But you aren’t thrilled. Far from it.

And you’re not the only one.

Law has been in one of the worst moods you’ve ever seen him in, and that’s saying a lot. He’s irritable, cold, distant, and clearly in need of a break that he simply won’t allow himself. He isn’t loud, on the contrary. Law is quiet. The kind of silence that signals danger rather than safety. And it’s contagious. Even the crew – usually in an unshakably good mood – are more quiet than usual.

It's as though a thick layer of snow has fallen over your life this past week. Cold, silent, creeping. Muffling all sounds, dulling all your senses, gently laying itself over you like an icy blanket over the last embers of a dying fire.

And it’s unbearable. Suffocating.

The way he barely responds to you when you talk, the way he doesn’t seek you out the way he usually might – where he would stiffly request your presence for an important matter, only to press you up against the wall like a man starved once you’re alone. He even avoids your gaze.

So far, you’ve been taking it quietly, knowing he’s dealing with a lot, that the mission you just finished is still weighing heavily on his shoulders. But your patience is starting to wear thin, and you start to feel this unendurable feeling that you need to stand up for yourself.

It all comes crashing down one day as you’re docking at a small winter island town on your way back. Despite some hang ups, you had finished the mission earlier than expected, meaning you had time to kill before your crew would be ready to pick you up.

So here you are, stepping off the deck of the ‘Tang (Law hates when you call it that), with a genuine smile for the first time in weeks. You feel the crisp air in your lungs when you take a deep breath, and let out an elated sigh as you feel it clear your head.

Law grumbles next to you, pulling you back down to reality. But you’re determined to stay positive.

“Come.” Is all you say before you grab his hand tightly and begin pulling him with you, intending to take him out on a little lunch date before exploring the town together. You insisted he join you, thinking it would help him forget his worries for a little.

Law follows you but doesn’t say anything. You’ll take that for now. The two of you make your way through the docks and into the main street of the town. Looking around in awe at the shops around you, you can’t help pointing out some of the things you notice to him.

You finally settle on a ramen shop whose delicious smells you simply couldn’t resist, and find a table to sit at while waiting for your food. Law slumps down into the seat across from you with a heavy sigh.

There’s a moment of silence between you, occupied by Law glaring around the shop like it owes him money. You try to strike up a conversation.

“It’s nice here, right? I’m starving!” You follow the path of his eyes, trying to meet him halfway, show him you’re trying to take an interest.

“Mhm.” Law doesn’t even look at you, eyes still lazily wandering around the place.

“You’re not too warm?” You nod toward the thick coat he still has pulled up to his nose.

The only response you get is a quick glance in your direction and another sigh as he zips open his jacket. You don’t try to make conversation again after that. You think you might cry if he keeps acting this way, and you very much want to avoid making a scene.

A few minutes pass in silence before your food is ready, and you dig in hungrily. It’s delicious, but you barely notice, no longer able to fully enjoy it.

The silence stretches between you while you eat, like a wall of ice, and it’s still there when you’ve finished your food.

But it’s not silent inside your head.

Your mind is racing with things you want to say. You’d hoped some fresh air and proper food would lighten Law’s mood slightly, but he hasn’t changed one bit since the morning, and the way he’s acting like you’re nothing more than some annoying fan pestering him for an autograph is making you insecure.

Suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.

“What the fuck has been your problem today?” Your voice isn���t harsh or loud, almost casual, so it takes Law a few seconds to register your words. When he does, his eyes narrow and properly fix themselves onto yours for the first time that day.

“What?” His tone is sharper than yours, but no more loud.

“I asked what your fucking problem is! You have been pissed off at me for days, acting like a sulking child to everyone. Even the crew.” You’re trying to remain calm, but it’s difficult with the emotions now bubbling up inside you “You don’t look at me, you don’t talk to me. You haven’t touched me in days. Like I’m some sort of disgusting animal to you.”

You hadn’t meant to say that last part, and the words hang in the air between you like poisonous gas. You continue. Both to fill the deafening silence and because you feel like you might explode if you don’t say something.

“Did I do something wrong? Do you not… like me anymore?” You say the last part quietly. Like making the words too loud would make them real.

Law takes a few moments to respond, his voice low.

“Don’t be dramatic.” He’s not even looking at you.

And it shatters you. The casual way in which he says it, as if brushing off an annoying fly trying to land on his shoulder. You can’t stop the tears from spilling over now, and you try to move your head in a way that it isn’t clear how much you’re crying already.

He still notices, and after a few moments of silence, gives another sigh and stands up.

“Y/n… let’s just go back to the ship.”

You don’t respond, your head still tilted down as if inspecting the table. But your vision is too blurry to actually see anything. When you feel his hand touching your shoulder, you stiffen. You don’t know what comes over you, but you feel a new wave of anger surging in your chest, and in this moment, you feel nothing but hatred for the man standing in front of you.

You stand up abruptly.

“Eat shit, Law.” Despite the slight tremor in your tone, your voice is steadier than you expected.

“What?” He looks like he doesn’t know whether to be more surprised or angry. But you couldn’t care less at the moment. All you can think to do to shield yourself is to hurt him back.

“You heard me. Fuck you. I’ve fucking had it with you!” You’re unaware of the fact that you’ve gotten louder; but it’s not like you’d care anyway. “I have been nothing but nice to you. And patient. For years. And if this is the only way you know how to treat me, well maybe I’m just wasting my time then.”

There’s a silence again and you can just make out Law’s angry expression through the thick veil of tears blurring your vision.

“Y/n, let’s talk about this la-”

“NO!” You’re yelling now. “I’m going back to the ship. Don’t follow me!”

And with that, you’re walking off, more angry than you’ve ever been, and also more hurt. The cool air outside soothing your burning face, and it’s a relief to be away from the other customers who must have been staring.

Although you want to be left alone, a small part of you is hurt that Law isn’t trying to talk to you a little harder and is just letting you leave like this. You would have welcomed even some stupid bickering with open arms. Especially after the coldness of the past days.

You reach the ship, glad that no one from the crew is by the entrance. The path to Law’s room is automatic to you, and you’re there in only a few short minutes. You intend to gather your most necessary belongings and move them to a spare room to avoid Law for as long as possible, but when you push open the door to his room, he’s already there.

“Shit, I forgot about your stupid devil fruit.” You grumble, quickly getting over the initial shock of seeing him so unexpectedly. “I’ll be quick, I ju-”

“Stop it, y/n.” Law still looks just as annoyed as before, and his tone is doing nothing to convince you to calm down. But you stay where you are. You don’t even know why, as he looks even more pissed than before. Maybe you’re simply so starved for any kind of attention that this is still preferable to getting the cold shoulder. That thought makes you let out a bitter chuckle.

“Why?” you retort. “Remembered that most people are nice to their girlfriends?” You know it’s a bad idea to rile him up even more when he’s like this, but your common sense is long gone. There’s only pain, fear, and confusion, and the only way you know how to deal with it is to hit back to distract from the emotions eating you alive.

“Just- just stop, y/n.” He’s also yelling now, and it takes everything in you not to flinch as he takes some quick steps in your direction. “Stop being like this!”

“And why should I? You’ve been such an asshole ever since we ended that stupid mission, and you expect me to not stand up for myself?” Despite yelling, your voice is shaking, and you hate how desperate it makes you sound.

Another heavy sigh. “You know that’s not- Look can we just forget about it? I don’t like fighting.”

“Should have fucking thought about that a little earlier then.” Your throat is too sore to let you be loud anymore, but you try to put as much finality into your words as you can. You make to collect some of your things, reaching out for a book of yours lying on Law’s bedside table, but he quickly grabs your wrist.

You flinch at his action. He isn’t hurting you; you just never expected him to actually go as far as to physically hold you back.

“Let go.” You’re not looking at him.

“No. Not until you talk to me.” His voice is low.

“I said, let go!” When you raise your free hand to attempt to loosen his grip on you, he simply grabs that one as well, forcing you to face him.

“No. You were right before. We should talk.” His voice is more level now, but the intensity in his eyes hasn’t left. He’s a little breathless, and you realize that you are too.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“You had plenty to say in that ramen place. Want to go back there?” He creates a room around you, and you scoff.

“Don’t be stupid.” You almost smile from the absurdity of the situation, and he catches that. His face softens for only a fraction of a second. It’s so fast you think you might have imagined it.

You stay like this for a few moments, him still gripping your wrists in his much larger hands, searching your eyes with an unreadable expression. It’s confusing. You’re both still angry. Hurt. But you also feel how much you love him. And it’s terrifying.

“Law?” Your voice sounds so small in the silence. Like it’s failing to fill the endless void that seems to be between you two, only drawing more attention to the distance there.

“Hm?”

“What are we?” The question sounds so pathetic. Only more so from how hoarse your voice is. Like a pitiful whimper from someone who doesn’t know when to give up. But you have to ask. You can’t let it linger any longer. It’ll eat you alive.

“What do you mean? You know what we are.” His eyes narrow a little.

“No, actually. I don’t think I do anymore.” You keep pressing on. “What am I? To you?”

“You’re my girlfriend, y/n.” He still has that edge to his voice. Like you’re being stupid on purpose. Like you’re wasting his time. And fuck, it hurts.

“Yes, obviously, but- do you… do you love me?” You let out a dry laugh. “Do you even like me?”

“Y/n-”

“I just mean- plenty of people hate their girlfriends.” You explain. “Am I not more than that to you? Just a title?”

“What do you-” But you cut him off again.

“I just mean that sometimes – well, quite often actually – you sort of treat me like I’m… convenient.” You want to beat yourself up for the bitterness in your voice. But it feels good to say it. Even though it hurts like nothing has ever hurt before. “Like I have a function. And it makes me feel like… like if I stopped being useful to you…”

There’s another short silence, then “So, do you like me? Or do you just need me?”

“I like you.” He says. “You know that.”

You don’t fully know what it is that’s making you cry again. Maybe it’s how childish you feel. Or how Law sounds like he’s just trying to get this conversation over with so he can go back to sulking in peace. Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve had to go through so much to hear him say something nice, only to realize how pathetically little it is.

You don’t want to stand anymore. It’s simply not a priority at the moment, and you need something other than Law’s hands to steady yourself. So, you sink down on the floor, and he lets go of you.

You’re crying uncontrollably now, your entire frame shaking with sobs. One hand on the floor in front of you, the other on your mouth. You hear Law sigh again, and feel him crouching down next to you, placing a large, warm hand on your back.

“Y/n, stand up.” His voice is a little softer now, but it doesn’t stop your crying. If anything, you’re sobbing harder than before.

You don’t even respond. You don’t think you can. So, you simply stay like this.

After another short moment “Come here.” Law picks you up, knowing you’re not about to move any time soon, and carries you over to the bed, where he sits down with you on his lap.

You don’t know what comes over you, but you grip onto his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. He doesn’t say more for a long time, simply letting you cry it out, with his back against the wall and his chin resting on your head. You feel him sigh again, but it feels a little less judgemental this time, and his hands start caressing your back. Slowly. Steadily. Like he’s done this a hundred times before. Because he has.

Your arguments always end this way.

You, falling apart because of him. For him.

And Law, calm. Like nothing is out of the ordinary. Like this is the most natural situation for him to navigate.

You stay like this for what feels like forever. You’re still holding on to Law like you’re afraid he’ll disappear, and his arms are around your shaking back in a warm, steadying embrace. You know you should be angry at him. Know how pathetic you’re being. But you simply need him too much to dare push him away right now.

After an eternity, he speaks.

“Y/n. You know I love you, right?” His voice is soft again. No trace of anger detectable.

“Y- y- you do?”

“Of course. You mean the world to me.” He continues. Quiet. Almost like he’s telling you a secret. “I’m sorry for taking you for granted sometimes.”

You grip him tighter, still unable to stop your tears. Still too far gone to speak. Deep down, you know that you being like this is what makes Law open up as much as he does. He doesn’t like being vulnerable. So, his only option is to make sure you are.

You sit like this for many more hours. You on Law’s lap, both holding on to each other, and him whispering nice things to your ear every now and then, as your body is still wracked with sobs. Eventually, you fall asleep from pure exhaustion, but Law still doesn’t let go of you. He simply sits there with you wrapped in his arms. It’s almost like seeing you like this has put something in him at ease.

Like he knows you’ll never leave him.

Like he has proof you need him more than you need to be happy.

thanks for reading!!! I really hope you liked it! :D <3 and thank you sm for giving me another reason to write toxic!law <3

(This is my fic, don't repost or use in any AI training programmes! Reblogs are always appreciated <3) Here are my rules, and my masterlist.

[hatsuyuki00]

Is this life… real

Chap 1

SUMMARY: You wake up in a forest — no memories, just pain, confusion, and the feeling that a stranger might have once meant the world to you. As threats close in and others offer shelter, the questions won’t stop: Who are you? Who can you trust? What comes next?

Something inside you says you’ve been here before… but nothing is the same.

Warning: No Y/N, amnesia, grumpy Joel, grumpy x sunshine, love triangle, character death, blood, injury.

A/N: This story is inspired by the game The Last of Us. Thank you so much for reading — it truly means a lot. English isn’t my first language, so I appreciate your patience with any mistakes along the way. I hope you enjoy the story!

W/C: 2.6K

Series Masterlist

You wake up in the middle of an unfamiliar forest, your body sore and heavy. The air is damp and slightly chilly, and the rustling leaves, mingled with the distant calls of birds, only deepen your confusion. No memories surface—you have no idea who you are, why you’re here, or what happened.

Slowly, you sit up, cautiously scanning your surroundings. Not far behind you, a young man about your age lies motionless at the base of a tree. Your heart tightens unexpectedly, though you don’t understand why. Even without knowing who he is, a strange sense of familiarity rises within you. As if… you once trusted this person deeply.

You get to your feet, staggering a little, then approach him. Kneeling, you gently shake his shoulder.

“Hey... wake up.”

The young man stirs slightly, his heavy eyelids slowly opening. He looks at you with a dazed expression, then lets out a weak, hoarse laugh.

“We’re... still alive, huh?”

You frown, concern threading through your voice.

“Alive? What do you mean?”

He blinks a few times, still disoriented. “You don’t remember? We were ambushed by a group of bandits. I thought we weren’t going to make it... but I guess we were lucky. Still...” — he glances around, his expression darkening — “They took everything. Our supplies, our gear… all of it’s gone.”

You help him sit up. He winces from the pain but manages to stand with effort. Then he looks at you, worry clouding his eyes.

“How’s your head? Back there... you hit it pretty hard when that guy knocked you down.”

Almost instinctively, you reach behind your head. A sharp pain spreads as your fingers brush a swollen lump.

“It hurts a bit... but I think I’m okay. So… what do we do now? And… why are we even here?”

Matt — the name suddenly pops into your mind, though you have no idea why — stares at you, his gaze gradually shifting to suspicion. His voice is raspy, tinged with irritation.

“What’s wrong with you? You were the one who said we were running low on supplies and suggested we go out to find more. Now we’ve got no food… and no bullets either.”

You press your lips together, on the verge of asking more—but stop. A wave of unease rises in your chest—partly because nothing he said stirs even a flicker of memory, and partly because you don’t want him to know that your mind is completely blank.

Maybe… it’s better to stay quiet. To figure things out—little by little. You walk behind Matt, keeping a careful distance. The sound of dry leaves crunching beneath your feet blends with the soft rustle of wind weaving through the treetops. Neither of you says a word. Silence drapes over you both like a heavy blanket—but in your mind, a storm of chaos rages.

You can’t remember why you’re here. You don’t remember who Matt is, although something in his eyes, his voice, and the way he always slows his pace to wait for you fills you with a strange sense of familiarity—warm, safe, and oddly comforting. Every step you take, every sound in this unfamiliar forest feels like walking through a blurry dream—or worse, a nightmare with no end in sight.

Food? Ammunition? Bandits? What kind of life was I living before this happened?

A hundred unanswered questions whirl in your head like a storm.

Matt suddenly stops and turns around, making you jump.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice much softer than before. “I was a bit short with you earlier. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. Are you okay? You’ve been quiet today.”

You meet his eyes. In those deep brown eyes, there’s something that feels… familiar. A sincere concern is written clearly across his face. You offer a small smile, trying to seem at ease.

“I’m fine. Just… thinking about a few things.”

He squints slightly and takes a step closer. “What is it? You know you can talk to me, right?”

You hesitate. In that moment, you almost want to tell him everything. You want to ask: Who am I? Who are you? What were we to each other?

But a flicker of unease passes through you. You’re not sure if now is the right time—or maybe… you’re afraid of how he’ll react if he finds out you don’t even remember him.

You avoid Matt’s gaze, forcing a small smile. “It’s nothing. Just random stuff.”

Matt keeps watching you, as if trying to read the thoughts behind your smile. Silence falls again between you—not an awkward silence, but one heavy with things left unsaid. He seems like he’s about to speak again, but—

Clop. Clop.

The sound of galloping hooves echoes from the distance. Matt tenses instantly, his expression shifting in a blink. Instinctively, he spins around and grabs your arm, pulling you to his side. You barely have time to react before both of you duck behind the trunk of a large tree, bodies pressed close as you crouch in the underbrush.

His breath brushes the side of your face — fast, quiet. He doesn’t say a word, but his body shields you like a barrier.

Your heart pounds in your chest. You can hear your own shallow breaths — and Matt’s, quick and close beside you. One arm stretches protectively in front of you like a shield, while his eyes stay locked on the direction of the sound, ready for anything.

You glance at him, crouched beside you, dagger in hand, eyes sharp and alert. Dappled sunlight filters through the leaves, casting shifting shadows across his face. For a moment, your chest tightens.

Partly from fear—but also… because something inside your heart stirs. You can’t name it yet, but you know one thing for certain: This person… once meant a great deal to you.

You don’t know who the riders are, but Matt’s hand tightening around yours tells you one thing clearly: he’s tense. And he’s trying to protect you.

You hold your breath and listen. The sound of hooves halts somewhere beyond the trees. Voices drift through the canopy—not loud, but clear enough to reach you through the rustling leaves. They’re talking. The words aren’t distinct, but you’re certain of one thing— only two voices. No more. One, with a low and commanding voice, is chastising the other over something. It sounds like an argument, but not an angry one—more like the kind that happens between people who’ve traveled together too long to stay truly mad at each other.

You press yourself closer to the tree, trying to steady your breathing, heart pounding so loudly it nearly drowns out everything else. But then—your whole body tenses.

Movement—just below the leaves near your feet.

A small snake, thin-bodied and sleek-skinned, slithers toward you, silent and swift. You freeze, barely breathing, choking back the rising urge to cry out. But when its body brushes across your ankle, your instincts betray you—you flinch backward, and a strangled sound nearly escapes your throat.

Immediately, Matt whips his head around, eyes sharp with alertness. Without a word, he lets go of your hand, reaches out, and clamps his palm gently but firmly over your mouth, pulling you close against him. The two of you blend into the shadow of the tree as one. His breath is hot and fast against your ear, filled with tension.

You don’t dare move. You don’t even breathe.

But it’s too late.

“I know you’re there.” a man’s voice cuts through the silence—crisp, sharp as a blade. “Show yourself before I make you.”

Matt goes still. A short, heavy breath escapes him. Then, slowly, he rises, lifting both hands in the air.

“We mean no harm.” he calls out, trying to keep his voice calm and level. “Just travelers passing through—we’re not a threat.”

A middle-aged man watches, his expression cold and unyielding, eyes like knives slicing straight through Matt. He doesn’t lower his weapon— instead, he raises it higher, aiming it squarely at Matt’s chest.

“We?” the man echoes, voice dry, lingering on the word like a challenge—as though he’s not satisfied with a half-truth.

Guilt coils in your stomach. You should’ve been more careful. If it weren’t for you…This wouldn’t be happening.

Slowly, you step out from behind the tree, hands raised reflexively. You stand behind Matt, steadying yourself, and lift your gaze toward the two strangers.

And then—it happens again.

That feeling.

A flicker of confusion ripples through your mind. You’re certain you’ve never seen these people before—at least, not according to the fragile pieces of memory you have left. But something in the older man’s eyes strikes a chord deep inside you, like a forgotten song echoing from long ago. No clear image, no solid memory—but a flood of emotion.

That same strange pull you felt the moment you first saw Matt.

The man aiming the gun at Matt is tall and broad-shouldered, his posture in the saddle steady and practiced, like someone born and raised in the saddle. His salt-and-pepper hair is cut short, tousled by wind and road dust. His face is all hard edges, worn by time and battles, with a beard streaked with silver and black tracing his jaw and chin. His brown eyes are sharp, cold — the kind that have seen too much and grown tired of anything unfamiliar.

The one riding beside him looks younger—his features sun-warmed. He wears his dirty blond tied back, a well-groomed beard giving him a seasoned look. He has a gentler air than the first man, his gaze not sharp but searching, weighing whether you’re a threat… or just another lost soul.

Both men stay mounted, still and wordless, eyes locked on you and Matt—watching, waiting, as if weighing whether to trust you… or to act. 

“I think they’re telling the truth.” the younger man tilts his head, voice low but loud enough for his companion to hear. “Nobody survives out there unarmed.”

The older man—his gaze still locked on Matt—is frowning

“Doesn’t matter. We don’t drop our guard—not after what happened. You forget how many raiders roam this area? Or the group we just cleaned out?”

The younger man furrows his brows, then pauses as if something clicks.

“…Earlier—didn’t one of them mention they’d just looted a decent haul off two people? You think it could’ve been them?”

The older man doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick over you and Matt again, sharp and calculating. Matt is still standing protectively in front of you, arms raised. But it’s obvious—neither of you carry anything of value. No bags, no weapons, no water, no food. Like everything has been taken.

Matt catches that scrutinizing stare, and something in his jaw tenses. He snaps, his voice edged with frustration:

“Can we go now? I already said we’re harmless and have nothing. How long do you plan to keep that gun up?”

The older man’s frown deepens, lips parting as if to reply—but the younger one speaks first.

“Are you clean?”

The question cuts through the tension like a blade. You frown, not understanding right away. Clean? What does that mean?

You open your mouth to ask, but Matt beats you to it, his voice colder now, almost defensive:

“Why would we answer that? That’s none of your business.”

The younger man gives a casual shrug, his tone lighter than his companion’s, but not careless.

“Hey, man, we’re just trying to help. Out here, walking around like that you won’t last three days.”

He glances between the two of you before continuing.

“Besides… looks like you’ve got nothing left, right? After we dealt with those raiders, we found some supplies. I’m guessing they were yours.”

A flicker of tension passes through Matt’s eyes, but he doesn’t respond immediately.

The silence stretches. Only the whisper of wind through the treetops and the steady shifting of hooves breaks it. Then Matt finally speaks—slow, deliberate, resolute:

“All right… what’s the deal if we take your help?”

The younger man relaxes a little, shoulders easing as though relieved not to keep arguing.

“We’ve got a shelter. Food, beds, basics. In return, you two will work to earn your stay. Nothing too hard. Just small tasks.”

Matt turns to you.

For the first time since the gun had been pointed at him, his expression wavers—uncertainty clear in his eyes. He isn’t wondering whether they can be trusted.

He is wondering whether you will be okay… if he trusts them.

Whether this is a safe choice for you—the person by his side, disoriented, empty-handed, clinging to the only familiar thing left: him.

Whether he is about to walk you into something worse—something he can’t protect you from.

He doesn’t have to say a word. You see it all in his eyes—that quiet, unwavering protectiveness that doesn’t need to be spoken, but is strong enough to make your chest tighten.

Matt stands there, hesitating—because all he cares about—more than the offer, more than the risks—is whether you will be safe.

“If you don’t want to come, that’s fine. We’re not forcing you,” the younger man says, tilting his head slightly. “But… if you need help, we’re willing.”

Matt doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you again, as if confirming something one last time—then replies, voice steady: “All right then.”

The younger man immediately dismounts. He approaches, not quickly, but with firm, deliberate steps. Instinctively, Matt pulls you half a step back, shielding you completely.

The older man remains on horseback, gun still raised, his watchful eyes never leaving Matt.

But the man walking toward you raises both hands, palms open as if to show he means no harm. His voice softens, calm, and reassuring:

“I’m Tommy. The guy up there is Joel. We live in a town nearby—Jackson. We’ll take you there. Don’t worry,” he glances toward Joel, “he won’t shoot… unless you give him a reason.”

Tommy. Joel. Jackson. 

You don’t know why, but those three names stir something deep in your mind. Like echoes. Like something once familiar. Something you should remember. But your memory remains a fog you can’t lift.

Tommy offers to have you ride with Joel while Matt comes with him.

Matt frowns instantly. He doesn’t like that idea—you can see it in the way his eyes flick to Joel, quickly and cautiously. Subtle, but telling. Like he doesn’t want you anywhere near that man—an instinct, a protective reflex against anything he can’t control.

“No,” Matt says firmly. “I’ll go with Joel. She rides with you.”

Tommy pauses for a brief second, then gives a small nod, saying nothing more.

Matt climbs onto Joel’s horse, every movement careful but without hesitation. Joel doesn’t react—not a glance, not a word. He simply turns his horse around in silence.

You ride with Tommy. He looks back and gives you a friendly smile, one hand loosely holding the reins. Along the way, he speaks to you—his voice light, easygoing. He asks simple questions: where you are from, how long you’ve been out there, whether you are hurt.

You don’t say much—maybe because you can’t remember, or maybe because you don’t fully trust him. Or anyone. You reply vaguely or stay silent, your eyes fixed on the thinning forest ahead.

But Tommy doesn’t push. He keeps talking, casually, like he doesn’t mind the silence.

In stark contrast, Matt and Joel say nothing the entire ride. No conversation. Not even a glance is exchanged.

The four of you ride through the sparse forest. Dry leaves crackle under the horses’ hooves. Above, the sky fades to a pale orange—sunlight dripping through the canopy like it is dissolving into the air. Beautiful, but not enough to quiet the strange weight pressing against your chest.

You don’t know where you are going. You don’t know what awaits in that place called Jackson.

But for now… at least you aren’t alone.

[butyoudidthis4what]

I cannot believe there are a thousand of you out there who want to follow me and read my stuff! It is truly incredible to me and I can't express how much your support is appreciated and how thankful I am for it. I would be nothing without you guys, and I know how valuable everyone's time is and how scarce free time can be, so I'm so grateful and appreciative for you spending a little bit of your time reading my things and interacting with me! ♥️

To celebrate, and help me with a little bit of writer's block that I think is hitting because my brain just needs a little break from long heavy emotional writing I would love for you guys to send in some drabble requests for me to write! More info below the cut!

How long will the drabbles be? Your guess is as good as mine! 😂 They might be a few sentences, 500 words, 1000 words, more than 1000 words. The prompt might end up turning into a whole fic if the idea strikes me hard.

Send me an ask (anon or not) with the character you would like and a prompt from one of these lists: drabble prompts, five word sentences prompts, smut prompts, jealousy prompts, fluffy prompts, hurt/comfort prompts from now until July 6 (I might close earlier depending on how many I get). Also feel free to send in a director's cut ask or an author ask.

For the drabbles and five word sentences prompts feel free to include the kind of vibe you'd like it to take on if it's not obvious (e.g., serious, happy, angry, jealous, sad, defeated, etc.).

Please make sure you either include the prompt in the ask or include the name of the prompt list with the number! I'm going to keep it to one prompt per ask for right now (but might open it to two) and one character per ask!

I will write for Jack Abbot, Michael Robinavitch, and Andrew Pope Cody!

Please have patience with me while I work through them! My writing brain works weird so some things take longer than others. It's likely I won't get to every ask immediately/within the week, but I promise none will be deleted so that I can get to them in the future and that I won't forget about them! (If you already have a longer fic ask in my inbox I promise it's on my list of things to write and I'm still thinking over exactly what I want to do with the ask and have not forgotten!).

Thank you all again so much!! Consensual forehead kisses for all of you!! ♥️

I did not proofread this post as per usual so please ignore any typos. Gifs made very quickly and very shittily by me. Graphic made using canva. HUGE SHOUTOUT TO @loveyhoneydovey for spending a ton of her free time helping me get that god forsaken graphic into a tumblr acceptable format.

[leejenowrld]

author’s note

this is something that hasn’t been an easy decision for me

hey angels. i’m still (technically) on a break, but i needed to pop in and announce a few things before i disappear again (if i do) —h2h three is dropping tonight. literally in a few minutes. it’s a little surreal, honestly, and i hope you read this before you dive in.

the truth is, i had most of this chapter finished even before i stepped away. i only had to write the ending, and in a weird, unexpected way, coming back to h2h during my break actually helped me. it gave me something to hold onto when i was feeling really low. sometimes writing can be a tether, and this time, it genuinely was. and i want to be honest—so many people have messaged or asked when h2h three is coming out, including people who haven’t really interacted with me or have ignored my posts about my health and needing a break. i know there’s a lot of excitement for this chapter, and i really hope it lands with you. just know this is me sharing a real piece of my heart. i put everything into these stories, and it’s strange to feel so seen and so invisible at the same time. i hope you can feel how much of myself i’ve poured into this.

i also have to admit, posting this chapter is really, really hard for me. the topics i explore in h2h three are some of the heaviest i’ve ever tried to write—trauma, death, medical realism, uncomfortable dynamics, mental illness, imposter syndrome, grief, abandonment, survival, love that’s desperate and messy and so painfully human. in a lot of ways, putting this down on paper helped and healed me; it gave me a way to process things i couldn’t say out loud. but that also means sharing it is terrifying. i worry about how it’ll be received, if it’ll resonate with you, or if it’ll just be too much. there’s a strange kind of fear in releasing something so vulnerable—especially when i know how easily it could be misunderstood or passed over. i worry about silence, about judgment, about whether it’s “too much.” this isn’t just a story for me—it’s a kind of lifeline, and sharing it feels exposing in a way that’s hard to explain. i’ve debated a hundred times whether i should just hold onto it for myself. it hasn’t been an easy decision at all, and i hope you read it with the same care i tried to pour into every line. it means a lot, more than i can really put into words. there’s also one more important thing i have to reveal that is quite heavy and emotional but i can’t tell you guys that until after h2h four drops.

i won’t lie, i’m in a strange place about posting at all right now. i’ve talked about feeling insecure being on tumblr, about being anxious over how people engage—or don’t engage—with my work. it’s hard to explain what it’s like to upload something people have been waiting for when you’re also dealing with a lot offline, and when you’ve expressed just how much engagement (or lack of it) affects you. i said part three would be out in a month or two after part two, and then i dropped part two just ten days ago—so part of me already feels the regret and anxiety creeping in. i really, really hope you all will show some love back. i’m not saying it lightly: i need it. please, if you’re reading, let me know what you think. send an ask, drop a comment, reblog, message me privately, anything. silent reading is fine, but these chapters take so much out of me, and hearing from you is the only way i know if any of it lands, if you care, if you’re here. it genuinely matters. if you love something, let me know. it’ll mean more than you realize.

i also want to say i have quite a lot of asks piling up in my inbox, sent while i’ve been on my mental health break—messages i haven’t had the energy to answer yet. i promise i see you all, i love you all, and i’m overwhelmed and grateful for every bit of kindness and patience. i’ll make my way around to all of them, but please don’t be off put from sending asks just because some are still sitting in my inbox. spam me, yap at me, tell me anything—my inbox is always open, and i really do love hearing from you.

part three is, hands down, the heaviest thing i’ve ever written. please read with care and be gentle with yourself. i put so much of myself into this one, and there are some very dark, intense themes. please take your time, and step back if you need to. also, surprise: i’ve added another full part to the series, so h2h will now have four main parts and an epilogue. part three is not the end—there’s more coming, though i can’t promise when, for all the reasons above.

thank you for waiting, for reading, for caring (if you do). i’m wishing myself a little bravery and hoping you’ll meet me halfway. i love you guys. i really do.

see you on the other side. soph <3

[magnificentmaleficent]

FORKED | Noa x H! Reader

𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: Noa x Human! Reader 𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: After a year living with the Eagle Clan, a group of humans from your past invite you to leave with them. Noa, secretly in love, struggles to let go but believes you may be happier with your own kind. Will you choose humanity or Noa? 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 @daydreaming-allday-everyday 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝: " Hii ✨ could I request a Noa x reader scenario? where the reader has lived with the clan for a year and is already considered one more, but a group of humans appears (maybe she already knew them) and offers her to join their group. Noa has feelings for her and doesn't know how to tell her to stay but at the same time he wants her to be happy and thinks she will be with her own kind. The reader also wants to stay but doubts whether she really belongs to the clan with Noa. It's the first time I make a request 🤭 I hope it's okay and I expressed myself well. I loved your other two fanfics and I hope to read more ❤️❤️❤️❤️" A/n: I'M FREE!!! I finally finished my Master's so now I'm free to go back to my ape business!! Thank you so much for your request & patience!! I hope you like the story!!❤️ I also wanted to let you all know that I'll be going through my request in the next weeks, so keep your eyes on these notifications! If you have any requests or ideas, let me know! I love reading you guys!❤️

Recomended song to read this fic

Please like, reblog and comment. Your support and comments is what fuels me to keep writing

☆彡.。.:・☆彡.。.:・☆彡.。.:・☆彡.。.:・☆彡.。.:・☆彡

The morning mist still clung to the trees when they arrived.

A small group of humans—scarred, weather-worn, cautious—stood at the edge of the Eagle Clan’s village. Their appearance was sudden, ghostlike, as if the forest had breathed them out. Noa stood on the ridge above the clearing, every muscle in his body tense as he watched them speak to you.

You, who stood apart from the clan, facing them.

 Not fearful. Not hostile. 

Just... quiet.

They knew your name, too.

The tallest of them—a man with a faded red scarf and eyes that seemed to recognize every line of your face—called you (n/n). Not the gentle (y/n) that the young apes used when they climbed into your lap for stories, nor the same Dar said with warm affection. No, this was a name from another life. 

A name that didn’t belong here.

And yet... 

Noa swallowed the knot in his throat. For a year now, you had been living among them. A whole season of gathering berries, of weaving cloth with Soona, of goofing around with Anaya, of helping build shelters and tend the sick. A whole season of sitting beside him by the fire, shoulder brushing his, a season of furtive glances shared in those long quiet silences that said everything.  A season of shared meals. Of quiet smiles when you handed him water or helped lift the youngest eagle to its perch.

He remembered one night when you fell asleep beside the fire, leaning against his shoulder. He hadn’t moved a millimeter until dawn. The warmth of your body had settled into his skin like sunlight. And when you woke and smiled sleepily up at him, something unspoken between you. A moment he had replayed every night since.

But what was a year to a human who once had a world?

He climbed down slowly as the humans prepared to leave. One of the women handed you a small satchel and you took it hesitatingly, hands trembling slightly. The leader spoke again, low and earnest, words Noa could only partly hear: "...you don’t have to live like this. You can come with us. You can come home."

Home.

Noa stopped a few paces behind, his body language slightly threatening, hackles raised. “(y/n).” He called. You turned around, expression unreadable. 

The moment stretched as the humans whispered something to you before starting to leave, put off by Noa's clear intimidation and shortly so did the apes of the clan that gathered to watch, the silence remained between you two, held in the humid charged silence.

"They want me to join them," Finally you spoke, softly as if your words would set Noa off like a resort.

He nodded rigidly.

"I used to know some of them," you added quickly, trying to fill the suffocating silence. “ From before I... I thought they were all gone."

He looked past you, at the group that retreated slowly into the trees, his mouth opened and closed, afraid that one wrong word might pull you away.

"Do you want to… go?"

Your lips parted then closed. "I don’t know." You whispered, searching for Noa's gaze.

"They are your kind" Noa signed as he keep his eyes in the trees, his body language guarded, like he was forcing the words out, even as they sliced through him. "You might be safer with them. Happier." He hooted softly.

You blinked, pain flickering across your face. "Do you want me to go, Noa?"

He looked down at his hands. Calloused. Tensed. Full of furr. So... Ape. "Noa wants you… to be free. To… choose." He spoke in a low voice.

"That’s not what I asked." You replied.

He, then, met your eyes and something broke loose in him. A dam he hadn’t realized he’d built. "If you go, this place will be… colder. Quieter.” Noa signed, then spoke. “ Noa will… miss your voice in the morning. Miss the way you laugh when Anaya ...does something dumb.” You had never heard him speak so much, you had almost forgotten how his voice affected you as tears built in the corner of your eyes. “Noa… will miss your stories… and your light and... you." His green eyes finally meet your teary ones, and Noa had to fight himself to not hug you, bring you to his nest and never let you leave.

You stared at him, stunned, eyes glittery with unshed tears.

"But… more than that," he whispered, voice hoarse and rough, "Noa will miss the life... we never started."

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks. "Do you think I don’t feel the same? That every time I see you helping one of the little ones with their eagle, my heart doesn’t hurt? That I don’t ache when I sit beside you, so close yet so far and wonder if you’re thinking the same thing I am!?"

Noa stepped forward, slowly, as if afraid you might vanish.

"I don't know where I belong!" you whispered, shoulders trembling from contained sobs. "But when I'm with you, I feel like maybe I do."

He reached out, his hand brushing yours, his fur tickling your knuckles and then curling around your much smaller, softer one. "Then… stay. Not because you… owe Eagle clan. Not because you... owe Noa. But because… your heart is already here."

Finally you closed the distance between you both, resting your forehead gently against his. "I was never going to go, Noa. I just needed to hear you say it."

Noa closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of your hair, the warmth of your skin against his and finally he could feel his body relax, his breath evening and his heartbeat mirroring yours . The trees rustled around, and somewhere above, an eagle cried.

That night, as the clan sleept, you found him beside the fire again, sitting quietly beneath the stars. You sat beside him, shoulders touching, your hand finding his in the dark, interlocking your fingers together.

"Do you think," you said, voice barely a whisper, "we could build something? Not just a place to live. But... a life. Us. Together."

He looked at you, analizing your profile, how the breeze bushed your hair, how your eyes reflected the sparkling night sky. His heart pounded in his chest as his hand tightenedaround yours. "Yes. If you stay, Noa… will spend every day…trying to make that life… with you."

And you smiled sweetly at him, the kind of smile that made the nights feel warmer, the stars feel closer and Noa feel fullfied. You leaned in, and for the first time, your lips met his—a gentle, tremblingly inoccent, inexperienced kiss full of promises and unspoken love.

The path had forked, yet you had chosen him.

And he would choose you. Every day, for the rest of his life.

☆彡☆彡☆彡

A/n: Noa, the precious ape that you are...Let me know your thoughts!! Pls reblog, comment... Your feedback is important to me and gives me energy to keep writing! If you have any requests, please let me know♥︎

[lotus--pond]

okay spoilers ahead obviously!

I forgot how much I absolutely ADORE writing Icarus's POV in this Au, exploring why they do that they do and their thought process and motivations, it's just such enrichment for me

If you're wondering why this chapter took two months, well there is the whole finals plus moving house bit, but also I may have pulled a cantripped and put the coworkers in breakfast and could not get them out for way longer than was narratively necessary

Ari taking one look at Icarus being difficult about Rae stuff and just being like "haha nope, they're your problem man it is way too early for this shit." To Ven is my favorite thing

I don't know why I lied to myself and said the wet birds would be subtle. These two are so gay. They fucking live together. They're domestic. Quit lying

One of the best pieces of writing advice I've ever received is that if you're feeling really stuck in a scene, change the weather. On that note, the description of the storm is the way we Segway out of breakfast:D

something I'm really trying to drive home with Icarus is that if you are determined to be angry and upset about a person, there is basically nothing that person can do to convince you otherwise. You will take every bad thing, every honest mistake, every action that when you think about it was actually good and twist it to fit the vision you have that they are a bad person. This can also be applied in the inverse when you are so convinced that someone is good.

Everytime I have to insult Isla in Icarus POV I take like ten psychic damage. I love her so bad but Icarus is so angry:((( they will let you pull all their teeth out of their mouth before saying something kind about their mother

oh Fable you're so condescending and manipulative and mean </3

hmmm I wonder what he wants to talk to Rae about?? Guess we'll just have to find out next chapter shrug

Please everyone pay attention to how angry Icarus genuinely gets at the thought of someone pitying them. That quote is not from a character you've seen in this fic yet. They have. A History.

Icarus: "they would not be friends, and they most certainly would never be brothers"

Oh Icarus Gilded in the next 27 chapters I am going to make you EAT. YOUR. WORDS.

Hope you all enjoy my gratuitous use of bold and italics, it will not stop, it will only get worse heart emoji

I just think they're neat:D

Thank you for reading my ramblings tehe and what for your patience, it's been a rough two months but I did it!! Hopefully I should be able to get another chapter out soon lmao

hey guys remember when I posted the first two chapters of this within a week and then didn't touch it for two months- yeah crazy

ANYWHOOSIES chapter three of band au! Icarus and Rae meet and neither of them is all too excited about it

Hope you enjoy:D will put more spoiler-y thoughts in the reblogs but for now I go skitter back to my cave

[amethystina]

I just wanted to say thank you

For the past couple of days, I've been at a huge book fair as a part of my job and when I wasn't manning our booth, I could go on the various seminars and lectures that were being held. And, during one of them, an author was recounting how moved she'd been when one of her readers had reached out to let her know just how much her book had meant to that reader.

And, as I was watching this author struggling to hold back tears, it struck me just how often I've felt the same. That, more than once, someone has reached out to me to tell me that my writing has helped them through a rough time or maybe even changed their life. Maybe the latter is a bit of a hyperbole but, at the same time, I have no doubt that, sometimes, it wasn't.

And that just blows my mind. Not only that I'm capable of writing something that can touch people's lives to that degree, but that my readers are also willing to reach out to me and tell me when that has happened.

I will forever be grateful for that.

So thank you so, so much to all of you who have done so. But I also want to thank those of you who haven't. If my writing has moved you in any way, whether you've let me know or not, I'm thankful. I'm thankful that you gave me the opportunity to move you and I hope that the experience made your life better. Remembering that I've been able to bring so much joy and meaning to other people's lives has definitely been the highlight of my life these past couple of (admittedly rough) weeks.

So thank you all so, so much.

I love you 💜

[soothedcerberus]

Erik!! I keep seeing your adorable centaur OCs and I always wanted to ask what's the story behind them??

Plushi!! Sorry for the mega-late reply… 🥺I was so happy to get this ask but I didn't know how to explain my silly ocs…I will try now-more under the cut.

Dael Braam (dwarf) is a cooped up farmhand looking to see the world, but being immune-compromised from birth it took a lot of persuasion to convince her parents to let them go. They relent under the condition that she finds a capable and strong person to travel with to keep her safe… Just so happens that a strong and capable centaur knight is visiting in town…

Rembrandt (horsey) was created from a dark fusion spell by an amateur mage, who had intentions to construct a powerful warrior to do his bidding.

However, the spell cast did not result in a powerful and fully-armored warrior…. but instead a frail baby knight centaur, with only its top half made of living armor. The mage, not wanting to raise any kind of child, promptly abandons his creation. He can always try to make another one after all.

Into adulthood, Rembrandt still carries a lot of pent-up abandonment and self-esteem issues. You wouldn't know that from the proud facade he puts on though, lying about being a royal knight yet helping all those he comes across with a smile, but never staying long. When the opportunity of having a long-term travel companion (and perhaps a friend…?) arises from Dael requiring a bodyguard, his craving for companionship and affirmation outweighs his worries about her seeing eldritch elements of himself.

Dirk (beefy dragon thing) is the second (and more "successful") attempt from the same mage to create a powerful monster. Think Rembrandt's "big evil" brother. Except he's quite a bit younger. Dirk emerged fully-developed except for his wings-which remain as little nubs. Despite his brawn and warrior-appearance, Dirk was mostly a glorified errand boy, using his impressive strength to terrorize the nearby towns and their land-collecting resources for the mage.

Dael and Rembrandt meet Dirk after hearing word of a giant dragon-knight ravaging villages (and their livestock yum yum).

(I also like the idea of the mage sending Dirk to capture Rembrandt + Dael when he recognizes is his first attempt is not only alive and strong, but also quite proficient in battle.)

One way or another Dirk ends up roaming with the two. At first, Dirk is over-confident, rude, and stubborn... Overall a huge pain for them to travel with. After being shown kindness for the first time and being subject to more than a few humbling situations, Dirk allows a protective, loyal and softer side of him to emerge.

Lots of found family shenanigans and adventures occur-and yeah! This was rambly but thank you for reading about my guys! 💖

[sourrind]

Mercy Manifested - Prologue (II)

Life is Strange - Victoria Chase/Kate Marsh

READ ON AO3

“I know you hate me and you should! But I only want to see you smile again. Please let me know if you need anything.” Taylor had told her to be kinder and to make it less about herself, that maybe Kate deserved more than just twenty-five words. Courtney was on the other end of the spectrum, suggesting that signing the big card they all got her would’ve been more than enough. But at the end of the day, this was the thing that she thought was the most appropriate. Three little sentences – one that would disarm Kate and humble Victoria just enough to make the second sentence seem genuine and then the last one, an empty-handed offering of help that she presumed Kate would never have the audacity to take up. Victoria had wanted to give her more than this, but she didn’t know how. She was kind – or at least, kind enough to her friends – but would Kate have even believed it if she had opened up with how she really felt? At least what she did send her gave them both an out if they wanted it. Victoria could keep her head high knowing she was untouchable, but still gracious enough to show mercy, and Kate could go to bed with her stuffed animals thinking that the Queen Bitch of Blackwell had a heart. Win-win. “Oh, you’re awake.” Victoria whirled around, not having heard the door open, but definitely hearing the familiar voice of the girl behind her. “I’m not snooping!” Reflexively, Victoria thrust her hands behind her back, the letter held in her hands, and her heart pounding in her chest. Kate was standing there, a closed door behind her. In one hand, she held a tray of food, and in the other, an electric kettle full of boiling water. The last time they were alone like this, Kate had found her after Nathan had been taken out of school. It wasn’t something that Victoria liked to dwell on; she barely even remembered what had happened. But she remembered how she felt when Kate approached her – to hear someone that she had treated so terribly pity her? It made her feel low. Lower than low. Maybe that incident was just a sign of things to come. “I…” Victoria tried to say something, but she couldn’t. The look on Kate’s face had disarmed her. It wasn’t the same condescending sneer that she was used to from her peers. Nor was it even suspicious – something that Kate fully deserved the right to considering Victoria was indeed in her room and snooping about – but it was a look of composure and tolerance. Even with circumstances like this with a person like her, she was reserving any thoughts or judgments until after. With the situation still shrouded in mystery, Kate simply set both of her things down on the ottoman beside the couch. Then she approached, causing Victoria to back up until her waist hit the edge of the desk. Her breath stuck in her throat when Kate leaned forward and reached around her. Their eyes never left each other the whole time as Kate’s hand brushed against hers before whisking the note away. Kate glanced down to what she was holding and instantly, Victoria could feel the air in the room lighten up alongside her. “You know,” Kate said as she smoothed the note out and folded it back to how it was, “I’m not sure if it counts as snooping if it’s your own letter.” Kate offered her a smile as she walked past her to tuck the message into a small tray on the table. Victoria couldn’t see clearly, but she made out a variety of stationery and colors that she assumed were other boorish banalities from friends and family. “I’m surprised you kept it,” Victoria muttered. Kate continued beaming as she walked over to the dresser in her closet. She had pulled open the top drawer and her fingers were about to start rifling before they froze at the sound of Victoria talking. She looked up at her and Victoria checked to see if the smile she had on her face reached her eyes, and it did. “Of course I kept it. It’s not everyday you get a letter from Victoria Chase.”

CONTINUED ON AO3

[marblerose-rue]

hi all!! i made this announcement to twitter but i forgot to make it here: as june draws to an end with a bunch of pride unicorn requests left (and some flags i want to do that haven’t yet been requested) i likely will continue the series indefinitely :-) the month may be ending but celebrating who you are must remain