#I’m not counting in English it doesn’t sound right

[roryradz]

love ⏾⋆.˚ lukas radzevičius

“it don't matter because it's enough, to be young and in love” ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

warnings : language, fluff, tiny age gap, mention of a silly tiktok trend, first time i’ve written since my glee fanfiction days

pairing : lukas radzevicius x female reader

summary : cozy little moment and some bickering about a stuffed animal but with a cutesy end that might just make your teeth rot from how sweet it is (sorry girlies i don’t know how to write summaries oops)

word count : around 850

“and who is this we are looking at now?”

you grin at the sound of lukas’s question, shaking your head as you lean into him.

his arm is slung lazily around your shoulder, fingers toying absentmindedly with your hair.

you’re both in pajamas, curled against the headboard of your bed — the kind of soft domestic moment that feels quieter than it should.

“that’s tate mcrae, baby,” you smile, trying not to laugh. “she’s a singer.”

lukas squints at the screen. “if she singer, why she just dancing?” his voice is calm, blunt, his lithuanian accent curling around the words like smoke.

you laugh. “you sound like someone’s dad.”

he raises an eyebrow, playful. “maybe because you’re baby.”

you roll your eyes, nudging his side. “i’m not that much younger than you.”

“three years.”

“two,” you say quickly.

“and three months.”

but he’s smiling — that small, crooked smile he gets when he knows he’s teasing you just right.

you’re used to it, the way he says it — not like it matters, not like it’s a bad thing. just like it’s funny watching you get all defensive.

“besides,” you mutter, scrolling through the videos, “you don’t get to act all high and mighty when you thought sabrina carpenter was one of the carpenters.”

he scoffs, something stubborn and vaguely offended muttered under his breath in lithuanian, but his arm shifts to pull you tighter against him.

“we go to next tiktok now”

you scroll. lukas occasionally snorts at whatever brainrot appears on your for you page while you save aesthetic movie edits into some folder you never open. there’s something quiet and slow about it — like the world’s on pause and it’s just you and him and the soft blue light of your phone screen.

after a while, a new video loads. just white text on a black background.

“why do men always hate their girlfriend’s teddies with a burning passion?”

“real,” you mutter, waiting. you glance over at lukas.

he frowns immediately. “pff. nesąmonė.”

you grin. “nah-uh.”

he stares at you like you’ve just insulted his ancestors.

“i am… very nice to your weird little… mutantas,” he mutters, abandoning your waist to fish around under the blankets.

you gasp, instantly dramatic. “you did not just call phillip a mutant.”

lukas grins — the exact grin of a guilty boyfriend trying to seem innocent.

“no, no. i did not say this. mutantas means…” he pauses, searching. “butterfly.”

you raise an eyebrow

“he’s a bear,” you say. “and i remember what it means. from that weird lithuanian sci-fi movie you made me watch.”

lukas shrugs, already holding your sad little grey stuffed bear upside down by the legs.

you glare. “put him down.”

lukas raises an eyebrow, then makes a lazy throwing motion toward the door.

“lukaaaaai,” you whine, diving to rescue phillip from his dramatic fate.

“atsiprašau, mažute,” he says, not sounding very sorry. “i’m sorry,” he repeats in english, dragging his palm down the exposed skin of your side and gently tugging you back toward him.

you allow it — begrudgingly.

“it’s just funny because you go all… mom bear whenever i grab him,” he murmurs, smile fading into something softer. realer.

“he’s my baby,” you say, quieter now. “i’ve had him since i was three.”

lukas nods. doesn’t laugh. his eyes flick down to the threadbare bear now perched on your stomach as you both lie side by side.

“makes sense,” he says simply.

you smile to yourself.

“and it’s first in, last out. so keep that in mind,” you add, voice teasing but with an undertone of truth.

lukas groans softly. “o dieve,” he murmurs. he runs a hand through your hair, letting it settle at the back of your neck.

“threats? really, širdelė?”

he turns his head so his nose nudges yours. a second later, his lips brush along your jaw — soft, familiar, not rushed.

you nod, feigning seriousness. “yes.”

lukas hums — a skeptical sound. he shifts, leaning in until your plushie is squashed between you, nothing but a sad pile of grey fluff trapped between two torsos.

“you’re crushing phillip,” you whisper.

he doesn’t move.

you’re smiling now. you try to hide it. fail completely.

lukas notices. his lips twitch.

“i don’t care, mieloji,” he murmurs.

his tone is sweet, even if the words aren’t. you’re too distracted by how close his face is to yours, how he’s looking at you — like this is all he wants in the world.

he leans in and kisses you.

you’ve been together for over six months now, and it still feels like this every time — grounding and dizzying all at once.

your hands rise to cup his face, your thumbs brushing against the skin of his cheeks.

lukas’s fingers graze the hem of your tank top. he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes — silent question, no pressure.

you nod. of course you do.

your hands tangle in his hair, and his slide beneath the fabric of your shirt, lifting it slowly — until something soft and stuffed thumps against his wrist.

he pauses. sighs.

“phillip, not now,” he mutters, peeling the bear off your stomach.

you stifle a laugh as he rears back to toss it.

then — catching himself — he hesitates. eyes flick toward you.

he lowers his arm again and gently places phillip a few inches away on the mattress.

lukas leans in again, mouth brushing yours. just before he can kiss you, you gently push your hand between you both, turning the bear to face down.

“he can’t watch,” you whisper with a small giggle. “way too young to see what’s about to go down here.”

lukas rolls his eyes — dramatically, of course.

“moments like this remind me you really are younger than me,” he says, half-grinning.

you shake your head, hair falling into the pillow.

“just kiss me, idiotas.”

[selunefae]

Like a vintage wine (+18) - Sylus x Reader (Love and Deepspace)

After weeks of trying to convince you to sit on his face, Sylus gets his way. And let's just say, you've never felt so thoroughly tasted

masterlist | rules

rating: +18, MDNI

word count: 1,281

tags: sylus (lads) x reader, smut, fem!reader, afab!reader

cw: PwP, shameless smut, fingering (female receiving), oral sex (female receiving), pet names (kitten, sweetheart), slight spanking, face-sitting, sylus is a professional muncher, he'd love for you to sit on his face

notes: This is my first time writing for Sylus with an idea I couldn't get out of my head. I wrote it in the span of a few hours, so I'm quite proud of myself. xD I'm not main Sylus, so I hope I captured his personality correctly. I won't be doing a second part for this exact same oneshot, but I'm open to requests. :) Hope you enjoy it! This is not proofread, no betareader and English is not my first language, sorry for any mistakes.

“Sylus… I’m not sure about this.”

Your voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, because how the fuck are you supposed to remain calm with his naked body just beneath you?

You're straddling his torso, palms splayed across the hard plane of his chest, and legs tense on either side. He’s sprawled out shirtless, his golden skin stretched tight over lean muscles, chest falling with each slow breath. He looks like one of those ancient statues, carefully sculpted. His white hair’s a mess against the velvet pillow, red eyes half-lidded, and mouth twisted in that same grin that invites you to surrender - arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly sexy. 

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart,” he says, voice low, lazy and far too fucking smug for your already shaky nerves. “Not sure about what?”

You hesitate, fingers twitching against his skin. He talks like he’s not the one who made you be in this situation in the first place.

You try to look down at him without losing what’s left of your dignity.

“I just…” You swallow. “What if I hurt you?”

That earns you a real laugh. The kind of laugh that makes your stomach twist into a thousand goddam butterflies. 

His warm hands slide up and settle on your hips, not helping your case. One of his thumbs strokes slow circles into your thigh, as if that’s going to calm you down instead of driving you even more insane.

“I’ve taken bullets round through my lungs and walked it off,” he states. “And you think your pretty little cunt sitting on my face is what’s gonna kill me?”

Your mouth opens and closes again. You look away.

“It’s just not that,” you mutter. Your face burns. “It’s… kind of embarrassing.”

He hums, tilting his head like he’s studying you. “Embarrassing is me begging you to sit on my face for the third time this week.” His grin widens.  “Which I’m not above doing again, by the way.”

Your cheeks now go nuclear. You try to get off him, but his grip changes before you even move. He grabs your thighs, fingers sinking in, and pulls you right back down, your nude core flush against his abs. He doesn’t let you squirm away.

“Hey,” he says, his voice is not mocking this time. “Look at me.”

You blink down at him, caught between mortified and melting.

“Sylus -”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“You think I’d ask you to do something I didn’t want?” He reassures you, drawing gentle circles across your skin. “I want this. You. On me. Letting go. Not worrying about how you look, or what you sound like, or what I can handle.”

He leans up just enough to press a kiss to your inner thigh. His hot breath against your flesh sends shivers up your spine. Your pulse skips. His gaze is locked on yours, and he seems genuine. "Ok..."

He settles back down against the pillow, eyes still tracking your every twitch, and that fucking smirk crawling back across his face as if he’s already won. 

Buzzing with nerves, you hunch forward until you’re hovering over his face. You ease your hands onto the headboard for support. Your thighs tremble with the effort to keep yourself lifted, because you’re still too afraid to let yourself go and actually sit on him, full weight and all. The last of your hesitation hangs heavy in the air, stretched between his mouth and your dripping cunt.

Sylus laughs.

A low, warm sound from deep in his chest - and gods, you feel it. The heat of it flares against your core, hot and direct. You're so close it’s almost contact, and the tease of it nearly makes you give in.

“Kitten,” he drawls, eyes dragging up from between your thighs back to your face, “you’re shaking like I’m about to bite.”

You might, you think.

Then one of his hands leaves your thigh, and you barely register it before the pad of his finger brushes up your folds. The contact rips a sound from your throat. A choked moan. Your hips jolt forward before you can stop yourself.

He hums low, brings the finger to his mouth, and sucks it clean without breaking eye contact.

“You’re already dripping,” he murmurs, voice gone darker and rougher. “And yet you’re still hovering?”

You try to protest, but no words come out, and Sylus doesn’t wait. He takes advantage of your reluctance, lifting his head to get closer. Both hands slide around and grip your ass, fingers sinking into the soft flesh with a rough, appreciative squeeze. Then, one hand moves around you. You jolt when he trails his fingers between your folds again. He does it once, twice, and the second time he tweaks your clit.

You jerk your body away from the sudden intensity.

He laughs again and yanks you down until your cunt is pressed directly to his mouth, his tongue already dragging through yout slit in a single, hungry stripe.

“Sylus!” You gasp in shock, trying to push back, but he tightens his grip and pulls you back into his mouth. He holds you in place as he flattens his tongue against your lips, before licking another stripe from your entrance to your clit. You tremble and finally give in. You let your weight fall onto him completely, finally sitting on his face. You feel him smile and he doesn’t wait another second to devour you.

His mouth opens wider, tongue working with more force, sipping you like a vintage wine. He groans into you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat up your spine. He grabs your rear harder, kneading handfuls of you and spreading you open for more access. You can’t help the moans that start spilling out of you. Your fingers find the headboard and clutch onto it like it’s the only thing holding you to earth. Your hips start to move on their own, rocking forward and back with desperation. Sylus groans again and spanks your ass. You cry out, more in surprise than pain, and grind down harder.

“That’s a good girl,” he growls, voice muffled by your thighs. The vibration makes your hips roll harder, chasing the pressure.

Sylus keeps licking, slurping, devouring you. One of his hands shifts, pushing into the tight space between his mouth and your dripping pussy, and without warning, he slides a finger inside you. It sinks so easily - a sloppy, slick glide from all the fluids already pouring out of you. He curls it just right, finding that spot that makes your vision blur and your spine arch. Your entire body convulses, thighs trembling violently around his head. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as your legs clamp down around him, trapping his head between them while you cream all over his face.

Your vision blurs. You clutch the headboard with white-knuckled desperation in an attempt to ground yourself as pleasure tears through you. When it finally crests and crashes, you collapse -

but Sylus isn’t done.

His tongue keeps moving in slow, messy licks through your soaked hole while his finger stays inside, coaxing out every last shudder from your overstimulated body. And when you’ve finally stopped shaking, he eases you off him. You sink beside him, spent and panting with a thin layer of sweat covering your body.

When you manage to lift your head to look at him, you find his lips are slick with your fluids, and a damn smirk craved across them.

“See? “ his voice is husky and sounds far too pleased with himself. “It wasn’t that bad.”

And gods, he’s right. You’ve never felt so thoroughly tasted.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Beneath the constellations

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Bucky x Scared of needles!Reader

Summary: You are a needle-phobic but somehow agree to get a small, meaningful friendship tattoo with your best friends Darcy and Jane.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Needle phobia; mild panic; anxiety; physical discomfort; descriptions of a tattoo needle; nervous rambling; comfort

Author’s Note: This again is a request from one of my sweetest mutuals! I adore you, my dear and I hope you like what I did with your interesting and so creative idea ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Your knee is bouncing. Your heart is racing. The design is folded up in your hands - a little tattoo that is so simple, tiny, meaningful - but your palms are sweaty and you can’t stop assaulting the inside of your cheek with your teeth.

The walls of the tattoo parlor are soft with shadows. Dark navy paint. There is low music humming along but it’s not soothing anything inside you. Sterilization hangs in the air and there’s also ink and something smoky - cedarwood or sage. It stays at the back of your throat like a ghost you swallowed by accident.

The waiting room is actually pretty aesthetically pleasant but you feel like choking on your own spit.

The cold vinyl bench beneath you vibrates with your leg rapidly moving up and down and up and down.

“I can’t do this,” you mutter lowly. “Oh my god. I’m gonna pass out.”

Darcy, sitting on your left, gives you a smile that doesn’t ease you at all. “You’re not getting open-heart surgery, babe. You’ve got to chill your beans.”

Jane, sitting on your right, grabs your leg to still its movement. She probably got annoyed at being shaken with the whole bench. “It’s so small, I’m sure you will barely feel it,” she tries to reassure you.

Darcy nudges you. “And it will stay on your body forever.”

“This is not helping at all, Darc,” you half whine, half grumble. “Can’t we just make this temporary, or something? Like, I don’t know, draw it on with a sharpie?”

“Hell nah,” Darcy complains. “This is for life,” she goes on, pointing wildly at all of you three. “We are going to seal the deal. Make it forever, officially.”

You want to laugh. Or scream. Or run. Or disappear.

A part of you thought this would be fine. That you could sit here like a normal adult with a normal nervous system and be needled with grace and honor. That the tattoo you promised you’d get with your best friends - the tiny one, the subtle one, the one you talked about under a summer sky, lying on your backs in a parking lot eating cold fries - would somehow feel like a small ceremony. Like something important.

Instead, your palms are damp and your stomach is a washing machine of dread and iced coffee. It turns round and round and round in circles, making you instinctively look for a nearby trash bin.

The door creaks open.

And then he walks in.

Bucky Barnes, according to the framed certifications on the wall. Also according to Darcy, who not-so-subtly whispered oh my god he’s hot when you walked in earlier and now leans in to your ear, to whisper “oh my god, he’s even hotter in person.”

He’s broad-shouldered and tall. Black tee, black jeans. Arms inked to the wrists in clean, complex lines. Geometric patterns like armor. You spot a white wolf curled around a blooming branch. A forget-me-not. The tattoo work is detailed. Almost luminous. An artwork of constellations on his skin, coiling like a secret he’s allowing the world to glimpse.

He looks at you.

You stop breathing.

“You ready?” he asks, voice a low rasp.

You make a sound that might be English. Might be a prayer. Might be a dying animal.

He blinks, then smiles. Just a little tug at the corner of his lip.

“Maybe one of you should go first,” you say to your friends quietly, voice barely hanging on.

“It’s not the gallows, babe,” Darcy muses, nudging you again.

“I know, but I-”

Jane cuts you a dry look, interrupting. “You made us matching Google Calenders for this.”

“I was drunk on sentiment and pinterest,” you argue but it’s useless.

“No stalling. You can’t back out now.“

“I’m not backing out,” you grumble. “I’m delegating the trauma.”

But they’re not moving. Not budging.

You indignantly get up. Slowly. Darcy leans over and smiles sharply, mischievously. “Hey, just ask if you can hold his hand during the act.”

You choke. On air. On dignity. On the sudden imagine of his fingers wrapped around yours. And you’re up, throwing her a last glare that lacks all the heat.

You turn to Bucky and he is full-on smirking now. Though his voice is not mocking.

“We can take our time,” he says gently, and gestures toward the door that will, as you can imagine, lead you to the torture chamber. Yes, that’s dramatic. Yes, you don’t care. Yes, you are spiraling.

After sending your friends a panicked look and them not that supportively giving you thumbs up in return while grinning brightly, you follow him as if you’re approaching your own funeral.

You walk like you’re made of wires and wet paper. Trailing behind him into the back room, your chest beating out the morse code for panic.

The chair is deceptively comfortable. Everything is clean and neat and doesn’t smell scary but your heart is beating so loud, you think it’s bruising your ribs.

He sits down on a stool, brings it closer to you with one hand, and adjusts his gloves. He moves slowly, most definitely for your sake.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “I’m being ridiculous.”

“You’re not,” he says, soft and even. “You’d be surprised how many people get nervous.”

You inhale. Exhale. Fail.

“I’m Bucky,” he says easily, glancing at you with eyes the color of melted steel and winter storms. You give him your name and he smiles. “What are we doing today?”

You fumble with the paper in your hands, clumsy movements lifting it to show him.

It’s stupid, honestly. Three tiny constellations in a delicate arc. Only a little bigger than a thumbnail. Barely enough to be called a tattoo.

He leans closer to look. His knee brushes yours and you hold your breath.

“I know it’s small. It’s dumb. I mean, not dumb, like-”

Bucky waits.

Silent. Patient. The corner of his mouth tilts up.

“It’s three constellations.” The words tumble out of you, messy and fast. As if trying to explain your favorite dream to a stranger who wasn’t there. “Mine, Jane’s, and Darcy’s. We got stranded once during a road trip, out in the middle of nowhere, and the car battery died. So we laid on the hood, freezing our asses off, and waited for a tow truck under this crazy clear sky. Jane started pointing out stars and we found our constellations. And we just talked. About everything. So we-”

You stop.

Because you’re talking too much. Because your face is hot. Because he’s watching you as if he’s listening.

And Bucky only smiles. Just this small, warm curve of his mouth that feels like praise.

You blink too hard. Look down at your hands.

“It’s silly.” You just can’t help explaining yourself. “I know it’s barely anything. And it’s not even a real design, really. I’m not even supposed to be here, I mean-”

You stop again. Press your lips together.

He’s still looking at you. Calm. Not judging. Not laughing.

“You were saying?” he asks, voice quiet.

You breathe in a shaky breath.

“I’m scared of needles,” you admit embarrassed. “Like. Deeply, irrationally scared. I had to get a flu shot once and almost took out the poor nurse with my bag.”

Bucky huffs out a short and amused laugh, but his eyes are genuine and sympathetic. He nods like that’s the most normal thing anyone’s ever said.

“It’s not dumb, sweetheart. Nor is it silly.” You’d be on the floor if you were standing up. “I like it,” he says earnestly. “Three stars. Three best friends. Kind of poetic.”

“Yeah, it’s-” you stammer. “It means a lot to us.”

“That’s nice to hear.” His eyes rake over you so intensely, so sincere. “Some of the best tattoos I've done were barely the size of a freckle.”

You don’t know if he’s saying this to make you feel better, but either way, you are not sure it helps.

You feel like your skin is trying to slip off your body.

He opens the packaging with quiet and sure movements that still seem to be a little slower than he would probably be normally.

“I tattoo six-foot-tall dudes who pass out cold,” he starts soothingly. “You’re sittin’ here, scared, and still doing it. That’s brave.” He says it so simply.

You stare at him. Try to believe it.

“May I?” he asks, looking up at you, and gesturing toward your arm.

You nod. Too fast.

He reaches out carefully like you’re glass and holy.

His fingers are warm. Gentle. He adjusts your wrist, turning it slightly toward the light. It feels like gravity has shifted. Like the earth tipped a little, just to watch this happen.

His thumb brushes against the inside of your forearm, where your pulse is having a complete existential crisis. His touch might be absentminded but it sparks something that goes way too deep. A tremor. A stormcloud. A sigh under your skin.

“Right here okay?” he asks, voice low.

You swallow. “Yeah. That’s good. That’s perfect.”

The needle glints in the light like a tiny sword ready to tear apart your skin.

“You sure?”

“No,” you say honestly, voice a little unstable. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

He chuckles under his breath and his smile changes, gets softer, younger.

You let out a breath. Try to remember the sky that night, the way the stars felt close enough to kiss. But there’s something else you’d rather kiss right no-

“I’ll go slow. And I’ll be gentle. Promise,” he says, almost under his breath. “Just breathe.”

You nod. Let him see the fear. Let him see you choose it away.

He turns on the machine. Your hand is shaking. The buzz rings in your ears.

He touches your arm again. Carefully. Steadying you. Taking in an exaggerated breath for you to follow.

“Tell me if you need a break,” he states softly, but there is something else in his tone. “Or, you know. If you want to hold my hand.”

You freeze. Not sure if you heard that right. Your brain is a flock of birds flapping around your skull.

“I- What?”

He smiles. Not teasing. Not smug. It’s soft. It’s kind.

“Some people do better with a distraction,” he says like it’s no big deal. So casual, but his undertone makes you promise yourself to punch Darcy Lewis later on.

You stare at him for a second too long, not sure if he is even serious. You feel like you’ve been thrown into a different body. One that’s nervous and melting and acutely aware of every square inch of air between you.

His palm lays open as an invitation. Looking so soft and callous at the same time.

“Can you even do this with one hand?” you ask cautiously.

He smirks. “You bet I can, darling.”

After a patient moment, you reach out, fingers finding his, and he shifts just enough to meet you halfway. His grip is loose and open, letting you decide how much to hold on.

And you do. Not tight. But not soft either.

It’s safe.

He starts.

The needle meets your skin sharp and sudden, but it doesn’t feel unbearable. You’re too focused on the fact that you’re literally holding hands with the hottest guy you’ve seen in a long while. Maybe ever. His thumb has started tracing circles on the back of yours.

You’re not sure how much time passes. Minutes stretch and snap and vanish but then it’s over.

The buzz stops. The silence blooms around you.

You blink down at your wrist, skin warm and reddened and wrapped in something tiny and starborn. Three constellations, nestled close.

He wipes it gently, thumb brushing away excess ink with a kind of care that makes you want to cry.

“It’s beautiful,” he says. Quiet. Like it’s just for you.

You don’t even realize he’s still holding your hand until he gives it a squeeze and pulls away to grab a mirror.

You almost say wait.

He places the mirror in your hand.

Your breath is lost somewhere deep when you look down at your inked skin. It’s so small. So perfect. Exactly what you hoped for, only softer now. As if it’s always been there. Meant to stay forever.

You glance up at him.

His eyes are warm. Curious. “Took it like a champ,” he says.

You shrug, a little shyly. “I didn’t faint. So that’s a win.”

He lets out a low chuckle. The sound does things to you.

“I’ve seen people pass out from paper cuts. You’re fine,” he assures.

You don’t know what to do with that or the heat pooling at your neck, so you look down again. Tracing the constellations with your eyes like you’re learning to read a new kind of language.

“Thank you,” you offer, and it’s not just for the ink. It’s for the kindness. The patience. The hand-holding. The compassion. “I love it.”

“No need to thank me, darling.”

He takes a few more moments studying you before peeling off his gloves and standing up.

You stand too. Your legs wobble a little, traitorous and unsure, and his hand hovers near your back.

You don’t say anything.

But you feel it.

All of it.

The warmth.

The hush.

The stars, still burning softly beneath your skin.

[thedevillsmaid]

three rounds to ruin me - heeseung 희승

rock paper scissors but if we do the same attack we have to kiss passionately on the lips

━ ₊˚⊹♡ PAIRING: student heeseung x student fem reader (afab)

━ ⋆.˚ GENRE: college au, smut, enemies to lovers kinda??

━ ₊˚⊹♡ WORD COUNT: 2,7k

━ ⋆.˚ WARNINGS: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, kissing, teasing, both are very lustfull, sex in school & cursing (tell me if i missed something)

━ ⋆.˚ A/N: first time writing enemies to whatever this is lovers?? & first time writing a hee fic~ have not test read & english is not my first language! taglist

⋆˚࿔—minors dni | 18+ only | nsfw—⋆˚࿔ requests

You and Heeseung have hated each other since high school—rivals in everything from grades to sarcasm. Every class, every group project, every competition felt like a battle. The snarky comments, the passive-aggressive glares, the constant one-upping—it’s been a constant. Nothing has changed much since then.

Now, stuck in the same college club with one too many late-night meetings and way too much caffeine between the both of you, the tension has only gotten worse. Or… maybe it’s gotten different.

It started innocently enough. Or, at least, you convinced yourself it was innocent at first. You were both crammed into the corner of the conference room, staring at the endless stream of documents that didn’t seem to end. Your latest group project felt more like a punishment than an opportunity, especially with him sitting across from you—looking way too smug for someone who just barely passed the last exam.

“Wanna make this interesting?” Heeseung’s voice cuts through your thoughts, his lips curling into that annoyingly confident smirk that’s both infuriating and... kind of irresistible.

You raise an eyebrow, setting down the highlighter you’d been fiddling with. “What do you mean, ‘make this interesting?’”

“I’m thinking a game.” He leans back in his chair, the casual air around him somehow making you tense up even more. “Rock, paper, scissors. But here’s the twist. If we throw the same move, we kiss.”

A laugh bubbles from your throat—half scoff, half disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? That’s... ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m serious.” His eyes flicker to yours, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at you now—different from the usual antagonism—that makes the hairs on the back of your neck prickle.

“Fine,” you mutter, half annoyed, half intrigued. You’ll play along, because what’s the worst that can happen? It’s just a kiss. You’re definitely not going to lose to him.

The game is stupid. It's childish. It’s beneath you. And yet, as your fingers curl into your palm and you stare at him across the table, there’s this quiet buzz of anticipation building between you both. Heeseung’s eyes never leave yours as you start counting down.

One, two, three.

You throw your fist forward—rock. You can practically feel his eyes on you, waiting for him to make his move.

But then… he throws rock too.

It’s almost like the room stops. The tension between you both thickens, suffocating in its intensity. You stare at him for a second too long, waiting for him to break. He doesn’t.

His lips curve into that same smug smile. “Guess you lost.”

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him how ridiculous this whole thing is. But the challenge in his eyes stops you.

"Rules are rules, right?" he murmurs, leaning forward just slightly, his voice a little lower now. "No chickening out."

The sound of your heartbeat rings in your ears, drowning out the noise of everything else. You’ve hated him for years, and he’s been nothing but an irritating thorn in your side. So, why does your pulse quicken, and your breath hitch when he leans even closer? Why does your stomach tighten when he raises an eyebrow, waiting?

This is stupid. So stupid.

But... maybe you do want to see what happens when the rules get bent a little.

Your mouth moves on its own before your brain can catch up, a breathless whisper escaping. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before he’s pulling you towards him, his hand landing on your chin, his thumb gently grazing the skin there before his lips crash against yours. It’s not soft. It’s not delicate. It’s all hard edges and unspoken challenges. His lips are warm, insistent, and for a moment, it’s like time stands still. All the rivalry, all the years of built-up animosity, melting away into something too dangerous to name.

You could pull back. You could stop this. But something in you doesn’t want to. Something wants more.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless. Heeseung’s smirk hasn’t faded. But his eyes are different now—darker, as if he’s seeing you in a new light.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” His voice is low, teasing.

You want to slap that grin off his face. But you don’t. Not because you don’t want to, but because the silence that follows is thick with something else now. Something that wasn’t there before.

Something dangerous.

You blink, trying to clear the fog that's suddenly clouding your thoughts. What just happened? That kiss-so much more intense than it should have been.

Your lips tingle, a strange mix of lingering heat and confusion. Your heart is still racing, and you can't help but feel his eyes still on you, as though he's waiting for something.

For a second, you wonder if you've crossed some line that can't be uncrossed. But then, you remember who you're dealing with. It's Heeseung. The same guy who used to make your life miserable in high school with his cocky attitude and quick comebacks. The same guy who can't stand you, or so he says.

You clear your throat, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "That was—" you start, but you don't even know how to finish the sentence. The words don't come easily. You want to mock him, push him away with a snarky comment. But something in you hesitates.

Heeseung watches you with a look that makes your stomach flip, and you catch the faintest glimmer of something-something almost like amusement, but there's something else in his gaze now, too. It's not the same look of annoyance he usually has when he's trying to get under your skin. No, this is different. This is... something else. Something that makes the hairs on your neck stand up.

"Well," he says, voice still smooth, almost like he's toying with you, "I don't know about you, but I think I won that round."

Your jaw clenches. Of course he'd say that. Of course, he's acting like that kiss didn't just change everything. Like it was nothing.

"You're insufferable," you mutter, turning your head to avoid his gaze, but you can still feel the heat of his stare. You can feel it on your skin, like he's still too close.

He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed, but there's a new intensity about him that makes you uneasy. He's not the same cocky jerk he was before.

Not exactly. There's something new, something simmering beneath the surface. You're not sure if it's attraction or some new layer of tension between you, but either way, it's there, and it's impossible to ignore now.

"So, what now?" Heeseung asks, his voice low, like he's daring you to say something, to make the next move.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to hide the nervous energy thrumming through you. "What do you mean,

'what now?' You think we're just gonna keep playing this stupid game?"

He grins, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe... one more round?"

Your heart skips. The idea of another kiss-one that might be even more intense than the last-suddenly feels like a dangerous game. But you're not about to back down. You refuse to. Not to him. Not now.

"No way. I'm not kissing you again," you say, forcing your voice to sound more confident than you feel.

Heeseung chuckles, clearly amused. "Right. Of course. You're just scared."

"Scared?" 

you repeat, your eyebrows shooting up.

"I'm not scared of you."

"You sure? Because it looks like you're the one who's backing out."

There it is again. That damned challenge. That smugness in his voice. He knows exactly how to push your buttons, and for some reason, it's working.

But you don't back down. Instead, you cross your arms over your chest and give him a pointed look.

"Fine. One more round. But if I win, you stop with this stupid game, understand?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Deal. But if I win..."

He pauses, letting the silence stretch between you, like he's savoring the moment.

"If you win, what?" you ask, leaning forward just a little.

Heeseung's grin widens, a glint of something dark flickering behind his eyes. "Let's just say I'll think of something... fun."

The challenge hangs between you like an electric charge, the weight of his words lingering in the air.

You've never felt this drawn to him, this twisted pull between rivalry and something more.

The tension is unbearable.

"Fine," you say, voice almost breathless. "But don't expect me to go easy on you."

You both count down again, the room feeling smaller, tighter, as you lock eyes with him, waiting for the moment to come.

One... two... three.

This time, you throw paper, and you can't help but watch as Heeseung throws scissors, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He's won. Again.

But before you can even register what's happening, he's closing the distance between you. His fingers grip the back of your neck, pulling you toward him as his lips crash against yours. This kiss is different— deeper, more urgent, like he's been waiting for this moment. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, and for a second, all you can do is respond, too lost in the heat of it to think clearly.

When he pulls away, you're both breathing hard.

Heeseung's chest rises and falls, his pupils blown wide. He doesn't say anything at first, just looks at you like he's reading you-like he knows exactly what this is doing to you.

You almost hate the way your body betrays you, your heart hammering in your chest, your skin tingling with the aftermath of the kiss.

"You're a terrible influence," you mutter, though you're not sure if you're angry or... something else.

Heeseung smirks. "That's the fun part."

And you hate it. You hate how much you want to kiss him again, how every part of you is drawn to him despite everything that's happened.

But more than that, you hate how you know this game... it's far from over.

The conference room was silent after the second kiss, the air thick with unspoken possibilities. Heeseung’s smirk had faded into something darker, more dangerous—a predator sizing up his prey. You could feel it in the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his gaze lingered on your lips like he was waiting for permission to take them again. 

“Let’s go,” he said suddenly, standing so fast his chair screeched against the floor. His voice was low, almost a growl, and you didn’t need to be told twice. You followed him out of the room, your heels clicking against the polished floor as he led you through the labyrinth of the college building. 

You didn’t ask where he was taking you. You didn’t need to. The infirmary was on the third floor, a place you’d only ever visited for minor injuries or the occasional allergic reaction. It was quiet there, always. But tonight, it felt like a sanctuary. 

Heeseung pushed open the door, and the scent of antiseptic hit you immediately. The room was dimly lit, the fluorescent lights casting long shadows across the rows of beds. A few students lay in them, hunched over with bandages and IV drips, but you barely noticed them. Heeseung’s eyes were locked on you, his expression unreadable. 

“Why are we here?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. 

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled you toward the nearest bed, his grip firm on your wrist. You resisted at first, your pulse racing as he guided you to sit. But he was already undressing you before you could protest. 

“Strip,” he ordered, his tone sharp, almost possessive. 

You hesitated, your fingers brushing over the hem of your shirt. “What are you doing?” 

“Don’t question me,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “You wanted this. You kissed me back.” 

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, you wanted to lash out. But then he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, and you felt your resolve crumble. 

You unbuttoned your shirt, your hands shaking as you peeled it off. Heeseung’s eyes devoured you, his gaze lingering on your exposed collarbone, your trembling fingers, the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with something you couldn’t name. 

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You were already undressed, your bra discarded on the floor beside your shoes. Heeseung was already halfway out of his own clothes, his shirt pooled at his feet, his muscles taut beneath the moonlight filtering through the window. 

He pulled you onto the bed, his hands gripping your hips as he positioned you. You were on your back, your legs spread wide, your thighs trembling beneath him. Heeseung hovered over you, his chest brushing against yours, his breath hot against your skin. 

“Remember this position,” he said, his voice a command. “Mating press. I’m on top.” 

You blinked at him, your mind fogging with confusion. “What?” 

He didn’t give you time to respond. He shifted his weight, his hips pressing against yours as he guided you into the position. Your knees were on either side of his shoulders, your thighs splayed wide as he pushed you down into the mattress. The pressure of his body against yours was intoxicating, his erection brushing against your core as he hovered above you. 

“You’re not supposed to be on top,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. 

“Shut up,” he growled, his lips finding yours in a brutal kiss. His tongue forced its way into your mouth, demanding, insistent. You gasped, your hands gripping his back as he thrust upward, his cock sliding against your clit with each movement. 

He was relentless, his movements slow and deliberate, each thrust deepening the connection between you. You could feel him pressing against your entrance, his cock slick with sweat and desire as he worked you open. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure that sent shivers down your spine. 

“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his voice raw with need. 

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. All you could do was moan as he drove himself into you, his body trembling with each stroke. The infirmary was silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing and the soft creak of the bed. 

Heeseung’s hands gripped your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulled you closer. “You’re so tight,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of awe and lust. “I’ve never felt anything like this.” 

You wanted to tell him how wrong he was—that you’d never wanted this before. But the truth was, you had. Every time he kissed you, every time he challenged you, your body had been betraying you. And now, as he pounded into you with reckless abandon, you couldn’t stop him. 

He reached between your legs, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing it in slow circles. “You’re going to come for me,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re going to come so hard.” 

You did. The first wave of pleasure hit you like a tidal wave, your body arching off the bed as you screamed his name. He didn’t stop, his thrusts becoming faster, more desperate as he reached his own climax. His cock spasmed inside you, his seed spilling into you with a force that left you breathless. 

When he finally pulled out, he collapsed beside you, his chest rising and falling as he stared at you. You were still trembling, your body drenched in sweat and his warmth. 

“You’re not going to run away,” he said softly, his hand brushing over your cheek. 

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The game was over. The rules had been broken. And in that moment, you knew—this was only the beginning.

© thedevillsmaid

first time writing on tumblr eekk

[fandomfablesunleashed]

Rise and Shine 

Zayne x reader

Summary: You're not a morning person, and Zayne is the one who has to make sure you get up

Words: 650

Notes: This idea was requested:

Could you write something about Zayne x Reader/MC, where Zayne wakes up the reader to go to work every day? I'm not a morning person, but I'm supposed to start my shift at 7 AM, so I hope this can give me motivation to wake up early

I absolutely love it <3 I’m definitely not a morning person either, so I had a blast writing this.

Hope you like it, anon! 😊

English is not my first language

Masterlist

The alarm went off at 5:45 AM.

You didn’t even flinch. Didn’t register the way the bed suddenly had more space—and was more cold—as Zayne slipped out from under the covers with the practiced ease of someone who actually knew how to function in the morning. He never had trouble getting up, never lingered in bed like it was the last safe place on Earth.  No groaning, no dragging of feet. Just up and moving like it wasn’t an act of pure self-betrayal.

You envied that about him. Deeply.

It was the same ritual every morning.

A gentle knock. Followed by silence. Then a second, slightly louder knock.

“It's almost six,” Zayne’s voice murmured through the door.  “You’ve got a shift in an hour, remember?”

You groaned into your pillow, dragging the blanket tighter around you like it could shield you from time itself. The sun wasn’t even fully up. Why should you?

He didn’t wait for a response. The door creaked open, and you could hear the soft shuffle of his steps across the floor.

“You’re not dead, right?” he asked, mock-serious, as the edge of the bed dipped under his weight. “Because that would really ruin my day.”

You cracked one eye open, your voice a scratchy croak. “You say that like dragging me out of bed doesn’t ruin your day.”

He chuckled, his fingers brushing softly against your cheek. His touch was pleasant, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world just to coax you into consciousness.

“No. It’s my favorite part, actually.” 

There was something in the way he said it—simple, sure. As if watching you slowly blink your way back into the world was a sacred act, he wouldn’t trade for anything.

“Seriously?” you mumbled, already trying to burrow deeper into the warmth of your cocoon, as if sheer willpower could keep you safe from responsibility.

“Mm-hmm.” He leaned in, voice dropping into that familiar conspiratorial whisper that always made your heart betray you just a little. “You make these adorable little grumpy noises. Like an angry cat. It’s weirdly endearing.”

You released a soft, exasperated sigh in protest.

Then came the betrayal. Without warning, a steady hand reached out and swiftly tugged the blanket down from over your head, exposing you to the unpleasant chill of the morning air. 

“Come on, sleepyhead. Time to wake up.”

You groaned dramatically, clutching at the blankets like they were your last line of defense against the cruel, cruel world. “Five more minutes…” you mumbled into the sheets, already knowing it was a losing battle.

Zayne arched a brow, clearly not buying it. “You always say that,” he replied, his tone shifting—still gentle, but firmer now, more insistent. “You’re going to be late.”

You peeked up at him, utterly unrepentant.  “I don't care.”

Zayne let out a quiet laugh, the kind that said of course you’d say that. It was the sound of someone who’d long since accepted that this was just who you were in the morning: dramatic, half-feral, and completely impossible to reason with.

His fingers gave your cheek one last affectionate brush before he stood, the mattress bouncing slightly as his weight left it.

“I know, I know,” he said with the long-suffering patience of someone who’d lived through this exact exchange too many times to count. “But I made you coffee. And breakfast. Your favorite, even.”

You didn’t move, burying yourself deeper in the blankets, a defiant little rebel against the inevitable.

“You’ve got five minutes before I come back with cold hands.”

Your body went rigid beneath the covers.

He wouldn’t.

Zayne turned toward the door, calm as ever.

“Oh, I would.” His voice was low, almost teasing, as he paused in the doorway. He glanced over his shoulder, and that small, knowing smirk curved at the edge of his mouth.

And just like that, the clock started ticking.

[fear-is-truth]

❝ WITH THE LIGHTS OUT, IT’S LESS DANGEROUS ❞

warnings — murder mention. s2 spoilers. suggestive pairing — nam-gyu x f!reader word count — 745 a/n — english is not my first language sorry

THE DORMITORY IS UNNERVINGLY QUIET TONIGHT, just the occasional cough or the faint rustle of shifting blankets break the stillness, but even those small sounds seem out of place. the events of the night before hang like a disaster on a frayed piano string, threatening to snap at any second. bodies are still sore, bruised, and battered from the chaos that erupted when the lights went out—violence erupting in the pitch black, leaving a trail of terror in its wake. the air reeks faintly of sweat and fear, mingled with the metallic tang of blood that had dried into dark brown stains on the floor.

the thanos team is completely disbanded, not that you cared. you didn’t much like the rapper anyway, but his death felt like a strange relief—a violent severing of a bond you never wanted in the first place. se-mi, though. your chest tightens at the thought of her. se-mi didn’t deserve what happened to her. you don’t even know how she died—no one does.

now it’s just you, min-su, and that asshole nam-gyu.

min-su doesn’t say much these days. he sticks close but keeps his distance at the same time, like he’s not sure if you’re allies or just temporary survivors sharing the same sinking ship. nam-gyu, though, you don’t trust that prick.

you’ve learned to sleep lightly, one ear always tuned to the sounds of the room. and tonight, something feels… off. the faintest sound of movement makes you jolt awake, fingers instinctively curling around the shard of glass tucked in your sleeve.

“relax.” even without seeing him, you know it’s nam-gyu. the last person you want to deal with in the near darkness. “what are you doing?” you whisper harshly, fear twisting into irritation as his silhouette moves closer. he doesn’t answer, just shoves your legs aside like he has every right to be there. the audacity of this man.

“move.”

“get off,” you shove at his shoulder, but it’s like trying to push a wall. he wedges himself onto your narrow bunk, his body pressing flush against yours.

“someone needs to keep an eye on you.”

“you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“not after what you did last night,” his arm bumps into your ribs as he makes himself more comfortable. “you’re better at playing dirty than i thought.” you bristle at the words. from anyone else, it might sound like begrudging respect, but from nam-gyu, it feels like a thinly veiled insult. after all, you were just trying to make it out alive.

“then keep an eye on me from your own bed.”

“what bed?” he snaps. you realise belatedly that his mattress must’ve been stolen during the free-for-all. you open your mouth to argue further, but nam-gyu suddenly wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you down against the mattress with him.

“shut up,” he hisses, breath warm against your cheek. “you think i trust you after everything? you’re lucky i’m still on your side, or you’d already be dead.”

the shard of glass digs into your palm, and you loosen your grip, debating whether to stay still or stab him. the latter is very tempting. a chill runs through you, but it isn’t fear. not entirely. his grip on you is unyielding, almost desperate, as if holding onto you because he doesn’t know what else to do with thanos gone.

“this isn’t necessary.”

“stop moving,” he hisses. you shift again, uncomfortable because there’s something hard pressed against your lower back. “unless you want to wake everyone up. trust me, they’ll have a field day when they see us all cuddled up.”

“this isn’t cuddling. it’s you being a creep.”

“call it what you want, just quit squirming for god’s sake.” he grouses, “you’ll just make it worse.” nam-gyu moves again, adjusting himself discreetly.

“make what worse?” the words tumble out before you can stop them, but the second they do, you freeze.

then it dawns on you.

oh.

heat rushes to your face, mortified as the realisation settles in. you freeze, hyperaware of every inch of him against you—the solid weight of his chest, the curve of his thigh pressed to yours, and now… the unmistakable press of his hardened cock slotted firmly against your ass. nam-gyu clears his throat awkwardly.

“just go to sleep.” the edge in his tone is softened by exhaustion, one that mirrors your own. “we’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”

 fear-is-truth 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[wandascosmic]

so american

wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: in which you struggle with the aftermath of your relationship with natasha, but wanda never fails to help you through it all.

or, the one based off so american by olivia rodrigo.

word count: 11,499

tags: fluff, angst, natasha being a bitch in one scene, this was supposed to be completely fluffy but then i added angst and ended up loving it, they're mostly just two idiots in love, reader gets insecure a couple times, wanda's so in love, everyone say thank you to olivia rodrigo for fuelling all my fic ideas

part one: enough for you

“Why do Americans drive on the right side of the road,” Wanda grumbles as she sits behind the wheel, driving the two of you to your favorite road trip destination, your family’s cottage in Nevada. 

You laugh, kissing her cheek. “Baby, Sokovians do too.” 

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it,” Wanda mutters, cursing under her breath when another right-hand turn takes her by surprise. 

“I think that’s what you get for getting your license in the UK, Wanda,” you tease. “Now you’re all grumpy, and angry, and that milkshake we shared a couple of hours ago definitely didn’t help–”

Wanda gives you a look and you give a cheeky smile in return.

“For the record,” she replies, looking at the road once more. “I didn’t have a choice. I was on a recon mission with Steve, and he told me I couldn’t rely on my powers for transportation all the time.” 

“Well, I think your powers are hot, though.” 

Wanda laughs. “Thanks, detka.” 

“Jesus, I’m cold,” you mutter as goosebumps start to form on your skin. 

Wanda immediately turns down the AC in the car, and you reach into the back for the first piece of outerwear you can find. As you pull your hand back to your body, you realize it’s Wanda’s navy blue hoodie, your favorite piece of clothing of hers. Smiling, you pull it over your head, comforted by the scent of her that enraptures your senses. 

Sighing in satisfaction, you lean your head back into your chair, feeling so much more content than you did a year ago. 

Wanda notices you out of the corner of her eye, and softly says, “You look so pretty wearing my clothes.” 

You smile at her, and Wanda takes your hand in return, as she keeps her other on the wheel, intertwining your fingers together. 

“You’re so warm,” you whisper, feeling so so loved. 

Wanda squeezes your hand tighter. 

***

Wanda’s laugh is the most beautiful sound in the world, you realized the first day you met her. 

You had been sitting and talking the entire morning, Wanda’s smile awakening the constant butterflies in your stomach and setting your heart alive. 

“So,” Wanda rests her chin onto her hand and leans onto her elbow. “What profession are you in?” 

You smile, “I’m an oncologist, but I much prefer the research aspect of things. I find it thrilling.” 

Wanda scrunches her nose. “You find spending countless hours in front of your computer and in a lab thrilling?” 

You laugh. “Sure do. What about you? What profession are you in?” 

“I’m an Avenger, but I work part-time as an English professor at a local university,” Wanda replies, and before you can compliment her on her work as a superhero, she asks another question, still curious about your job. “Why oncology, though?” she asks with her shiny eyes ever so inquisitive. 

“My mom died of cancer when I was 8,” you look into your coffee cup, staring at the liquid as you pop the lid off. “You can probably figure out the rest,” you give a small smile. 

Wanda frowns. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be, it was a long time ago. I’ve made peace with it, honestly.” 

“That’s really amazing though,” Wanda says, struck by how beautiful you were on the outside and inside. 

You blush. “Thanks.” Feeling overwhelmed by everything Wanda was making you feel you decide to tell a joke. “Hey, what do you call an apology written in dots and dashes?”

Wanda tilts her head curiously. “What?” 

“Re-morse code,” you give a small smile. 

Wanda takes a second to process it, but once she does, a huge grin makes its way on her face and she’s laughing. 

She’s laughing, and you want to keep hearing it for the rest of your life. 

Once she’s done, she looks at you with a shake of her head. “That was awful.” 

You shrug. “Made you laugh, though.” 

“You did,” Wanda nods. “And something tells me you’ll keep making me laugh.” 

You blush, people had never really found you funny. Nat didn’t especially. 

But here Wanda was, with her comforting smile that made you feel like you were on fire, and her soft green eyes that made you feel safe, cared for, and loved already. 

Who made you feel like you were funny for the first time in your life. 

***

“Here we are,” Wanda says, stepping out of the car and slamming the door shut. 

You sigh contently, so incredibly happy compared to the dark place you were at two years ago. Sometimes, you still felt the weight of how unloved you had felt. Of how you never felt good enough, never felt worthy of someone caring for you. And every time you ran back into your thoughts, Wanda was there to pull you out of your head and reassure you that you deserved the world. Telling you that she would do her best to give it to you. 

It all felt surreal. Gently, you hear Wanda open the car door to the passenger side. The simple action made your heart flutter. “Ready, detka?” she says, smiling at you. 

Nodding, you exit the car, planting a kiss on her lips before she shuts the door. 

Putting her sunglasses on, she comments, “You know, you’re pretty American for having a cottage. With the beach, and everything.” 

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” you ask. 

“Yep, because you’re an adorable American,” she smiles, kissing you quickly. 

It wasn’t fair of her, to make you feel this much. 

***

Wanda’s on a mission in Russia, and you miss her desperately. You found yourself struggling whenever you were alone, still grappling with the feelings of whether you were enough from two years ago. Your rock was all the way on another continent, too far to reassure you of the constant echoes of awful thoughts that rang in your head. 

“Can I go with you?” you had asked as you sat on Wanda’s bed while she packed the night before with you. 

Wanda kisses your lips. “As much as I would love that, detka, I want you to be safe,” she rubs your arm. 

“I’m gonna miss you,” you say quietly. 

Wanda frowns. “I know, baby, I’m gonna miss you too. So much.” 

You nod, and as you sit quietly on her bed, Wanda can tell your head is somewhere else. 

Grabbing your hand softly, Wanda sits in front of you, staring into your eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you look away. 

Kissing your forehead gently, Wanda pulls back with encouraging and comforting eyes. “I love you,” she says softly. 

And it’s all you need, because it’s the most delicate, soft, unspoken gesture you’ve ever heard. One that screams that she cares, that she won’t leave you, that she won’t hurt you, and that she truly honestly loves you with all her heart and you can feel it radiating off of her. 

Wanda Maximoff made you feel like you were the most important person in the world to her. 

Little did you know, you truly were, and to confirm it Wanda had a ring in her back pocket which she bought a week after she started dating you with her at all times. 

“I love you too,” you reply, giving her a small smile. “I just want to be anywhere you are,” you confess as you start blushing timidly. 

“Oh? That’s cute,” Wanda teases. 

“Shut up,” you groan, hiding your face in the crook of her neck. 

Wanda laughs, kissing your temple. “I do too, detka.” 

“Really?” you pull your head away to meet her gaze. 

“Of course,” Wanda smiles. “Being with you is my favorite thing in the world. Why wouldn’t I want it all the time?” 

You blush furiously. “You know, if you keep this up–” 

“What?” she asks gently.

I might just marry you. You think, oblivious to the fact that Wanda’s already had the thought countless times. 

You shake your head with a smile. 

***

When Wanda’s on her mission, she buys a small chocolate chip cookie keychain that reminds her of you. They were your favorite food, and every Sunday, Wanda made sure to bake a fresh batch for the week so you never had to run out of one of your favorite things. 

And when she gets back, only seconds after she puts her bags down she feels her arms fill with you and her heart becomes so much bigger than it was before. She kisses you deeply, smiling to herself at the person she loves in her arms.

Whispering against your lips, she pulls the keychain out of her left back pocket, her right one carrying the ring she’s planning on proposing to you with. “I bought this for you,” she tells you, letting it dangle off of her index finger by the silver ring that she later finds out gets attached to the zipper of your favorite backpack. 

And God, Wanda would be a fool not to be eternally charmed by the way your eyes light up with joy once you see it, the happy tears in your eyes making her want to hug you so tightly and never ever let go. “I love it,” you reply, grabbing it softly as if it’s made of the most delicate china. “I love you,” you kiss her lips. 

Wanda shakes her head. “So American,” she teases, referring to your love for chocolate chip cookies.

“Yeah, but I’m your American,” you reply cheekily. 

Wanda nods, kissing you once more. “My beautiful, perfect, so American girlfriend.”  

Wanda feels her heart skip a beat when you blush all over. 

***

You’re crying. You’re crying because you saw Natasha for the first time since the two of you broke up, and her words don’t hurt any less than they did when the two of you were dating. Natasha had just seen you and Wanda, wrapped up in each other’s arms, admiring one another at Tony’s enormous birthday party. 

Once Wanda had left to go let Pietro in, who had run back all the way from Australia where he was taking a break from the superhero life, Natasha had come up to you. Ready to poison your world with her venomous tongue. 

“You know, she’ll get sick of you,” Natasha had snapped you out of your thoughts as you stared at the door where Wanda had just left. 

“What?” you reply as you turn to face her on the leather stool. Her calculating and judging eyes causing you to gulp. Even now, you still felt her hurtful words ring the bells of your insecurities back to life. 

“She’ll get sick of you,” Nat repeats. “I mean, why do you think we broke up? You’re boring, you’re rude, and you’re obsessive. All my friends told me about how you couldn’t shut up about me when we were together. I mean, clingy much?” 

“I didn’t mean–” you try. 

Nat scoffs. “Yeah, whatever.” She takes a sip of her drink.

You feel the need to apologize, for you never meant to make Nat feel suffocated that way, when suddenly a brunette witch is making her way over to you. And she looks like she’s about to rain down hellfire on Natasha. 

“Excuse me.” Wanda’s eyes narrow as she wraps an arm around your shoulder. “I believe she’s my girlfriend, Natasha.” 

“Just warning her.” Natasha shrugs. “And you.” 

You stare at the spot on your lap, deciding on whether or not to blink away the tears in your eyes or cry, because ever since you dated Natasha you had learned how to cry silently so you wouldn’t bother her. 

Wanda raises an eyebrow, and her accent comes out thicker than ever before, “And what would you be warning me about?” 

“Of her,” Natasha shrugs. 

Wanda’s eyes go red before she calms down, and her arm around you tightens in the most gentle way somehow. “I’ll give you five seconds to leave us alone.” 

“You’re gonna regret this, Wanda,” Natasha says. 

“The only person with regret is you, for never treating her the way she deserves to be treated,” Wanda replies sharply. 

Natasha scoffs, turning around. “As if she deserves anything.” 

Suddenly, Natasha’s glass explodes in her hands, ‘causing everyone in the party to look her way. You can tell it was Wanda based on the way you saw a spark of red flash in her hands briefly. 

Natasha turns and narrows her eyes venomously at Wanda, before stalking off to go clean the cut that’s very visible on her hand. 

You’re still staring at the same spot on your lap when Wanda turns to face you, cupping your cheeks in her hands as she looks at you. 

“Are you alright, milaya?” she asks, the heartbroken expression on your face making her heart drop to her stomach. You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve this at all. 

“Do you hate me?” you whisper brokenly, the tears finally escaping your eyes as you can no longer keep them at bay. 

“No, baby, no,” Wanda wipes the tears running down your cheeks with her thumbs. “I could never, ever, hate you.” 

“What did I do to make her hate me so much? What’s wrong with me?” you ask with a sob. 

“Nothing,” Wanda feels her own tears build up behind her eyes. “Nothing is wrong with you, baby, you’re the most amazing human being I know.” 

And Wanda’s heart breaks even more, as you cry more and more, silently. 

Somehow, it’s even more heartbreaking than if you were to ever make a sound. 

You cry even more as you replay tonight’s events in your head, still in the navy blue dress Wanda had picked for you for the party, telling you how pretty you looked once she saw you in it. You felt so wrong, like you didn’t deserve any of what Wanda was giving you, like she would get sick of you the same way Natasha did. Because maybe Natasha was right, maybe you didn’t deserve anything. Because if you did deserve anything, then why would Natasha treat you so awfully, why would your mom have left you as a child and why would your brother leave you too, so overridden with the pain of the lack of your mom that he couldn’t bear to watch you, leaving you with your abusive father who reeked of alcohol every night. 

The thoughts sicken you, because your mother never ever meant to have cancer. And it wasn’t your brother’s fault that he couldn’t handle a life without your beautiful, loving mother in it. And it wasn’t your father’s fault either that he had a drinking problem. 

Maybe it was all your fault. 

You hear the knock on your door, and you can tell by the pattern that it’s Wanda. “Detka, can I come in?” she says gently from the other side of the door. 

Quietly, you get up from your bed, turning the doorknob, and opening the door. The motions feel unnatural to you, like you’re some stranger who’s been playing the role of having a loving girlfriend, but your world was shattered earlier and you don’t know who you are anymore. You don’t know if you deserve anything anymore. 

“Oh, baby,” Wanda says heartbroken as she wraps you in a tight hug. 

This was your fault, seeing the sad look in her eyes you realize that you hurt Wanda. 

You hurt the one person in your life whom you never meant to hurt. 

It was all your fault. 

You hug her back, because maybe if you hug her back it would make her feel better and it would be less of your fault. 

Wanda tightens her grip on you, wanting to convey how much she loves you. Wanting to convey how much you didn’t deserve any of this. Wanting to wordlessly tell you that despite all the pain you’ve been through you handle it with so much grace, and you’re the most beautiful person Wanda’s ever met in her life. 

But Wanda can tell that you’re not okay, that your mind is somewhere else–

Then she hears you sob. And it’s the first sound of a cry that Wanda’s ever heard from you. 

And Wanda can feel the tears fall onto her shoulder and she holds you tighter, she holds you tighter and tighter until Natasha’s hurtful words are overrun by Wanda’s overwhelming love she feels for you. 

Wanda can only hope you understand what she’s saying. 

And once you’re done crying at 3 in the morning, she keeps hoping. 

***

Wanda’s worried about you, ever since Nat had spoken to you at the party you had been more quiet. More reserved. Like your mind was somewhere else.

“Baby?” she asks one morning when you’re both alone in the compound and Wanda wants to cook you breakfast. 

“Yeah?” you ask, staring absentmindedly at the sitcom running on the TV. 

You were ecstatic when the first day Wanda met you, you had both found out about your shared love for sitcoms. 

But Wanda watches you know, the complete lack of interest in Malcolm in the Middle worrying her because it was your favorite sitcom of them all and typically you would have a completely enraptured look in your eye. The same one Wanda was lucky enough to receive from you. 

Frowning, Wanda pauses in her cooking, turning the heat off the stove and coming over to meet you on the couch. 

You don’t register when Wanda sits down next to you, still lost in your thoughts as she gently grabs your hand.

“What’s going on?” she asks softly, running her thumb over the back of your hand. 

“Nothing,” you reply, sitting up slightly. 

“Detka, I know you’re not okay. And you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but just know that I care about you, ok?” Wanda kisses your forehead gently. “I’m always here if you need me.” 

You frown, feeling so guilty that you were making Wanda worried about you. You couldn’t pretend to be okay, and now you’ve hurt her even more. How long until she gets sick of you? How long until she gets sick of the feelings you give her?  

“How long–” your voice breaks. “How long until you get sick of me?” 

“What?” Wanda asks, dumbfounded. 

“I keep making you worry, keep making you need to constantly reassure me, and it must be so tiring for you, so,” you shut your eyes tightly. “How long until you don’t want me anymore?” 

Wanda’s heart breaks. “Never,” she breathes out. “I could never stop wanting you, even if I tried.” Wanda squeezes your hand tightly. “And I would never want to try.” 

“But I’m–” you bite your lip to stop a cry from coming out. “I’m so much to deal with, and I’m not even that interesting, and it would be so much easier for you to date someone who’s actually worthy of how amazing you are–” 

Wanda cuts you off with a kiss. Cupping your cheek, she states, “You are so worthy of love, Y/N.” 

You stay silent, staring back at her green eyes and feeling them pull you out of toxic puddle that was your thoughts like they always did. 

“Loving you is the greatest gift the world has ever given me,” Wanda says, rubbing her thumb against your cheek. “And I could never get sick of you. You are the most incredible thing to ever exist, and loving you, for me, is like breathing. It’s the easiest thing in the world, and it’s everywhere.” 

“I just feel like I’m putting you through a lot,” you say quietly. 

“You’re not,” Wanda shakes her head. “You’re actually making everything I go through easier than it’s ever been.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. 

“Sorry for what?” Wanda asks. “This is everything I love about you.” 

You laugh. “You like when I start crying and get insecure?” 

“I like every part of you. And if you need me to calm you down every single day, I’ll do it in a heartbeat,” Wanda replies, and you smile slightly at her. “But I do hate seeing you cry.” She frowns. 

You scoff. “I hate feeling like this,” you mutter. 

“And I hate Natasha for making you feel like this,” Wanda pulls you into her side and you tuck your head into her shoulder, closing your eyes. 

“I don’t think it was just her,” you say softly. “I think it was a buildup of everything, and Nat just amped it up more. I never really worked through how much that relationship affected me before jumping into one with you.” 

Wanda nods. “Do you want me to give you some space for you to figure it out?” 

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around her waist. “I never want–” you stop yourself, worrying she’ll find you too clingy as Nat’s words ring in your head again. Space from you. 

Wanda doesn’t mean to, but your thoughts echo so loudly in your head that she can’t help but hear them. And she wants to kill Natasha all over again. “What did Natasha say to you at the party?” she asks quietly. 

“Um,” you grapple with your feelings as you relive that night, when Nat made all of your feelings of inadequacy come alive once more. Wanda frowns, rubbing her palm against your side to calm you down. “She said, that–, that you would get sick of me eventually. That I’m boring. And rude. And,” you swallow past the lump in your throat. “Too clingy.” 

“What a bitch,” Wanda mutters. 

“Do you think she’s right?” you ask Wanda, squeezing her waist tighter as your fears that Wanda will get sick of you come alive, and these are your last few moments with the person who lit up your entire world. 

“No, baby, she’s so so wrong,” Wanda replies, her eyes turning red before she looks down at you and frowns as she sees your eyes squeezed tightly shut. 

“The clingy one hurts me the most,” you whisper. “All I wanted was to love her and for her to love me back. But maybe I’m too much.” 

You recall all the times you memorized her new coffee order every few months, the countless hours you had spent re-reading her self-help books, memorizing every fact, listening to all of her favorite songs from the information you had gathered about her. And the way you felt so proud to be Natasha’s girlfriend, the greatest assassin in the world and she chose you to be her partner. How could you have not talked about her? 

Maybe it was too much? 

“I think you’re the most amazing person in the world,” Wanda says, as her powers run amok once more and she sees all the lovely gestures you had done for Natasha. “I think Nat was an idiot for not seeing how kind and loving you are. And you are never too much.” 

You look up at Wanda as she looks down at you with a small smile. Kissing your forehead softly, she says, “You’re not boring. And you’re not rude. In fact, you’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met, as well as the kindest. And if someone is lucky enough to be loved by you, they should realize how rare it is to find someone as incredible as you.” 

You shake your head softly in disbelief. “How do you do it?” you ask. 

“Do what?” 

“Make me feel like I’m actually worthy of being loved.” 

Wanda kisses you deeply this time. 

“You are, I’m just the one who helps you see it.” 

Later that night, Wanda hears you on the phone with one of your oncology friends, and she hears you talk about her. How amazing she is, and how lucky you are to have her. And when she sees you flop back onto the bed through the crack of your door, an elated expression on your face, as you speak dreamily about the way Wanda dresses and the books she reads, Wanda thinks that you’re the greatest thing the world has ever created. And she knows it’s true. 

***

“Baby?” you say, turning to face Wanda in the dark in your bed. Wanda has her arm over your side, and she hums groggily as she was about to fall asleep. 

“What’s going on?” she asks, her voice still heavy with sleep.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, before slowly saying, “It’s just, I really, really, love you.” 

Wanda smiles. “You woke me up to say that?” 

“I didn’t know you were basically asleep,” you reply guiltily. “Guess the mission wore you out more than a night-shift wears me out. Sorry.” 

Wanda kisses you. “Don’t be, you’re adorable.” 

“Can I tell you something?” 

“Of course, milaya.” 

“It’s really hard to sleep when you’re next to me,” you confess.

Wanda grins into the dark. “Oh, yeah? Is it because I’m so attractive?” 

You laugh. “Yes,” you reply, and Wanda’s grin turns smug. “But it’s also because it’s so surreal that I’m with you, at all. And it’s even more surreal that you’re in my bed with me, cuddling me, and you’re so warm and soft and it just makes me want to–” 

Wanda cuts you off with a kiss. 

God, she was so in love with you. 

You grin sheepishly, “Sorry.” 

Wanda rolls her eyes. “Stop apologizing, detka.” 

“Okay,” you nod.  

“Feel better?” Wanda asks, and you understand her question. It’s been a month since Nat confronted you at the party, and moments like this were a big step for you in coming to terms with yourself overall. 

“Much,” you reply. “Especially because you’re here.” 

Wanda smiles. “I’m glad.” 

Wanda’s heart swells when she cuddles you once more, and you hold her hand that’s around your middle as tightly as you can. She feels an overwhelming love for you, and she thinks about the ring in her desk drawer back in her room. 

***

Wanda’s laughing at your joke on the couch. Wanda’s the only one who has ever laughed at your jokes, and it makes you feel so much lighter than ever before, while also making you fall deeper and deeper in love with the woman you’re lucky enough to call your girlfriend. 

“You know, you’re the only person who’s ever laughed at my jokes,” you say. 

Wanda smiles. “Well, then everyone else doesn’t have as sophisticated sense of humor as we do.” 

You give her an incredulous look. “The first day I met you, you laughed at a stupid pun I made.” 

“Exactly,” Wanda shrugs. “Sophisticated.” 

You shake your head with a smile, taking a sip of your tea as your heart feels bigger and more full than you ever thought possible.

And Wanda watches you, awestruck at your striking beauty that she struggles to believe is reality. 

***

Wanda’s sick. Wanda’s sick and you’re worried because your girlfriend is in pain and you don’t want her to be. 

When you came in this morning back from your shift in the hospital, excited to see her, your heart had dropped at seeing her pained expression in bed, her voice croaky and her brows furrowed as she battled the feeling of nausea that overcame her. Not to mention her shivers as her high fever caused her even more misery. 

You sat down on the edge of her bed, softly brushing away the strands of hair that stuck to her forehead due to her high temperature, ‘causing Wanda to stir eventually. 

Slowly opening her eyes, her eyes lit up as she greeted you with a soft smile. “Hi,” she whispered. 

Frowning, you put the back of your hand against her forehead. “Baby, you’re warm,” you told her, suddenly very worried. 

“I’m fine,” Wanda replied, trying to sit up but letting out a groan. “I’m not fine,” she joked, as you helped her lay back down.

“Stay here, I’ll go get you some medicine,” you said, kissing her forehead quickly before heading to the cabinets full of medicine in the bathroom.

“Don’t take too long, Dr. L/N,” Wanda said sleepily as she shut her eyes once more, trying her best to fight her exhaustion so she would still be awake when you came back. 

Shaking your head with a smile, you searched through the cabinets to find the proper medication to give her, already planning how you were going to take care of her the rest of the day and for as long as she needed you while she combatted her illness. Despite your worry, you were grateful that you were finally able to take care of your girlfriend, the same way she did to you every single day. 

Wanda’s condition had subsided slightly, particularly her fever which had gone down quite a bit, but she was still feeling most of the effects of the sickness. 

“Wands,” you say softly, putting the bowl of soup on her nightstand as you kneel down on her side to wake her up gently with a kiss on her cheek. 

Wanda wakes from her slumber with a groan, still slightly disoriented causing you to frown.  

“Is your fever back?” you ask, putting the back of your hand on her forehead like you had done previously this morning. It wasn’t as hot as before, calming your worry a bit. 

Wanda shakes her head before resting it on your shoulder, letting out a sigh. “You’re so good,” she says, turning her head to kiss your neck gently.

“Good at what?” you say with a laugh. 

“Just good,” she says contently, relaxing in your presence. 

“I made you some soup,” you tell her, kissing her temple as she hums. 

“I don’t want it,” she says, muffled by your shirt. 

“I’ll stay with you if you have a couple bites,” you offer. 

Wanda removes her head from your shoulder and raises a brow. “You were going to stay with me anyways,” she says matter-of-factly, trying her best to appear intimidating.  

You smile at her cute expression. Wanda could never be intimidating, especially now when her hair was slightly tousled from her pillow and she was wearing an old T-shirt of yours that was full of wrinkles from her time in bed. 

She was about as intimidating as a baby sea otter. 

“Not anymore,” you shrug, ‘causing Wanda to narrow her eyes slightly. 

“Well, you better,” she retorts, crossing her arms over her chest. “Otherwise I’m never getting over this fever.” 

You smile once more. 

“You know, you’re really cute when you’re sick.” 

“You’re insufferable when I’m sick.”  

You laugh, “Please, will you have some soup?” 

“Only if you cuddle with me when I’m better.”

“I’ll cuddle you right now if you eat a couple spoonfuls,” you say. “I’ll even feed you.”

“I don’t want to get you sick,” Wanda says before her eyes narrow at you once more. “Also, I’m not a child.” 

“I got my flu shot last month,” you tell her, reassuring her worries. “And you’re kinda acting like one,” you tease, before kissing her forehead. “But it’s really cute.” 

Finally, Wanda relents. “Fine, I’ll have some soup.” 

“Thank you, love.” 

You grab the soup from the nightstand and hand it to her, and as she eats you rest your head on her shoulder, one of Wanda’s top 3 favorite ways to be next to you.  

She eats about half before she’s full, and you tell her you’re proud of her before heading off to the kitchen to put the bowl away. 

However, as you get up from her bed, Wanda stops you by grabbing your wrist. 

“Where are you going?” she asks, sitting up slightly as she was already laying back down with the blankets tucked under her chin. 

“To put the bowl away,” you respond gently. “Keeping it in your room might make it start to smell like chicken noodle.” 

Wanda scrunches her nose, accepting your answer quickly making you laugh. 

But as you’re about to leave, you see Wanda watching you, staying sitting up and you can tell that it’s because she wants to wait for you to come back. 

Making your way back over, you gently tell her, “Go back to sleep,” you brush a strand of hair away from her eyes and tuck it behind her ear. “You’re nauseated again, I can tell.” 

“Will you be here when I wake up?” she asks. 

“Of course,” you kiss the tip of her nose. 

And when she lies back down, groggily croaking out the words, “so american,” most likely commenting on the chicken noodle soup, you smile, you smile because you know that’s Wanda’s way of saying she loves you. 

But to Wanda, it’s also her way of saying she wants to marry you. 

***

“This isn’t fair,” you pout as Wanda beats you in Mario Kart once again. 

She had been better for about a week, and she was back to herself which you were ecstatic  about. 

“Baby, how is this not fair,” she laughs.

“You’re way better than me! You had all those years where you played against Pietro, who’s unbeatable, and I only learned ‘cause Sam forced me to when no one else was available!” You cross your arms over your chest. 

Wanda smiles at the cute pout on your face before kissing you softly, and your expression eases up a bit. 

“We can play something else if you want,” she offers, pecking your lips once more. 

“Can I just cuddle you?” you ask, suddenly feeling very shy. 

“You don’t even have to ask,” Wanda says, opening her arms for you to lay down on her, as she leans back against the pillow of the couch, your head resting on her chest as you’re comforted by the sound of her heartbeat. 

You wrap your arms around her waist as she grabs the blanket from the other side of the couch, and pulls it over the two of you, making sure you’re completely covered from the neck down before she tightens her arms around you. 

“I love you,” you say softly, closing your eyes as you relax to the feeling of Wanda stroking your hair gently as you lay on her chest. 

“I love you too, detka. So much,” she says, watching as sleep starts to overcome you due to how exhausted you were from being on call for the past two weeks. 

“You know, it’s really not fair,” you mutter sleepily. 

“What, me winning over 10 times in a row on the Wii?” she laughs. 

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s not fair of you to make me feel this much.” 

Wanda responds by kissing your forehead gently, and you burrow deeper into her chest as you fall into a deep slumber. 

Wanda smiles, content and so so happy as she watches you, feeling the weight of the ring in her back pocket. 

***

It was your one year anniversary, and Wanda had planned a small weekend getaway for the two of you as you had been exhausted due to a bunch of new projects you were taking on. 

Wanda was so proud of you, but a lot of the time she felt worried because of how heavy of a workload you were taking on. 

You were planning on coming over later tonight, as you had to work extra hours in the hospital. 

So, to make you feel better and to let you know about your vacation Wanda made sure wouldn’t interfere with your schedule, she had spent all day cooking you a wonderful 3-course meal which consisted of all of your favorite foods. As well as a large batch of chocolate chip cookies that would last you a solid month so long as you put them in the freezer. 

She smiled at the thought of you as she rolled out the homemade pasta she was making you, how you had turned her world upside down as she navigated the unfamiliar territory of being the newest and youngest Avenger, just having you made her feel like she was so much better than before, and Wanda fell so so deeply in love with you and she never wanted to stop. 

She wanted to give you the world. 

She thought about how kind you were, how you cared so deeply for everyone, always stopping to help wherever and whenever you could. Wanda felt so special to be the partner of someone so undeniably incredible.

Suddenly, the oven beeps, snapping her out of her thoughts as she pulls out the chicken to go along with your pasta, the appetizer of calamari already prepared as it layed on a wire rack, as well as the chocolate chip cookies which she had prepared earlier in the day to make sure she had time to make enough.  

Once she finished up, she plated the table for the two of you as she had kicked everyone out for her special dinner with you, wanting you all to herself. She smiled as she lit the candles and set up the plates along with the knives and forks, laying the plate of calamari in the middle as she kept her entree and dessert a secret from you. 

Hearing her phone go off, she grins once she sees that you’ve texted that you’ve just arrived. 

Taking her apron off as quickly as possible, she rushes downstairs to open the door for you, exhilarated at the thought of seeing you. 

Swinging the door open, you smile softly at her while she grins, bursting forward to wrap you in a tight hug. 

“Hi,” you laugh, wrapping your arms around her. “Happy anniversary.”  

“Can you take a break from doctoring once in a while?” she mutters into your neck. 

“I wish,” you say, wrapping your arms tighter around her. 

Once she lets go, she grabs your hand to pull you upstairs, excited to surprise you. 

“Wanda, what’s the rush?” you ask as you make your way up the stairs. 

“I missed you too much, come on!” she says, making you laugh. 

Once you finally make it to the top floor, Wanda stops you from walking any further. “Close your eyes,” she says. 

You shoot her a look. 

“Trust me,” she says, pecking your lips quickly. 

Closing your eyes, you say, “What now?” 

“Okay, I’m gonna guide you,” she says excitedly as she stands behind you, starting to lead you to the dining room table. 

“This is not how I expected our anniversary to go.” 

“Just trust me,” Wanda says. 

Nodding, you continue to walk in the direction Wanda guides you before she stops you in place. 

“Okay, ready?” she says and you nod. “Three, two, one, open your eyes!” 

You open your eyes, and they widen in shock as you see the most beautiful candlelit dinner you’ve ever seen in your life. 

Wanda has swapped out the regular dining room table for a round one covered in a shiny white tablecloth, as well as swapped out the regular wooden chairs for more expensive looking ones that match the elegance of the table. The plates and utensils are arranged perfectly, along with the restaurant quality napkins that were beautifully folded so they were standing upright, absolutely nothing was out of place, and the calamari in the middle was cooked to perfection, the smell wafting towards you no doubt making you hungry. 

It looked like Wanda had taken the appearance of a michelin star restaurant and copied it to perfection right here in the Avengers compound.

But what was even more unbelievable was the string of lights she had arranged all throughout the room, from every nook and cranny, the lights brought a hope to the dinner that nearly brought tears to your eyes at how romantic and calm they made the room feel.  

And finally, to top it all off, right in the middle of the array of candles on the table was a large vase of your favorite flowers. 

Flowers you had only ever mentioned to her once when she asked you, and you had told her not to worry about it because you could only ever get them in New Zealand.  

“What do you think?” she asks, coming up behind you and wrapping an arm around your shoulder. 

You quickly turn to wrap her in a tight hug, squeezing so tightly you’re surprised she can even breathe. “I love you,” you breathe out. “So much.”  

Wanda laughs. “Does that mean you like it?” she says teasingly before continuing, “I love you too,” she kisses the crown of your head. 

Burrowing deeper into her, you mumble, “I can’t believe...I can’t believe I’m really here.” 

You remember how awful you felt 2 years ago, how hopeless you felt. How unworthy you felt. Now, standing here in Wanda’s arms, who you’re still convinced is much too good to be true, feeling so so loved, everything feels surreal. 

“I have the same thought about you,” Wanda says, her powers running amok as she accidentally reads your mind again and hears your thoughts about her. “You’re too good. Sometimes I can’t believe you exist.” 

“Stop,” you say as your cheeks turn red against her neck. 

“Happy anniversary,” she says softly. “I have another surprise for you.” 

That makes you look up. “What is it?” 

“Join me for dinner and I’ll tell you,” she says cheekily. 

“Why can’t you tell me now?” You pout. 

“Nice try, but I didn’t spend all day cooking this meal for nothing.” She runs her hands up and down your arms. “Besides, you deserve a nice relaxing dinner after all the work you’ve done the past few weeks.” 

You look up at her with a shimmering look in your eyes and a lovesick smile on your face. 

“What?” she laughs. 

“Just happy,” you reply, kissing her lips. 

“You deserve it,” Wanda says easily. “Now come on!”

She leads you over to the table by the hand, pulling out your chair for you as you sit down, planting a quick kiss on your lips before sitting down across from you. 

You share countless smiles and laughs as you have the best dinner of your life, zoning out a couple times as Wanda talks and you simply admire her for everything she is. 

And as you bite into your chocolate chip cookie after Wanda has revealed the enormous batch she made, she’s telling you what the surprise from earlier was. 

“So, I’ve checked your schedule,” she says excitedly. “And since you’re free this weekend I booked us a vacation in Palm Springs! The weather’s perfect, and you’ll finally get to relax after working so hard, plus, they have amazing grass tennis courts and I know you’ve been wanting to get back into playing since you don’t have much time for it anymore–” 

“Wanda,” you cut off softly, shaking your head. 

You can’t even begin to comprehend that tonight is real at all. 

“What?” she asks, looking at you with a smile.

“Every time I start to think you couldn’t get more perfect you just…” 

“I get the same feeling about you,” she says, making you blush. “But I’m not perfect.” She takes a hold of both of your hands and rubs her thumbs over the backs softly. “However, I do love you, so much, and I want to show it.” 

“Well, you’re perfect for me,” you reply, meeting her gaze and smiling softly as the two of you just stare at each other. But suddenly, it clicks in your head. “How did you know I used to play tennis?” 

Wanda blushes before she starts off shyly, “Um, before we started dating I went to your hospital to see if you were there, but you weren’t so I may have asked your oncology friends a couple things about you.” 

“So you stalked me?” you tease. 

“I couldn’t help it I had a crush on you!” she defends, letting go of your hands and putting her head into her arms. “I still have a crush on you.” 

“How embarrassing,” you comment with a chuckle. 

“It’s not embarrassing,” she defends as she lifts her head from her arms. “Have you seen how pretty you are?” 

You blush, ducking your head down so your hair covers your face slightly. Even after a year of dating Wanda always managed to fluster you to no end. 

“Wow, now who’s embarrassed,” Wanda teases back. 

“Shut up, I hate you,” you say, embarrassed. 

“Wow, that’s not very American of you,” she says with a chuckle. 

“Take that back,” you say, lifting your head and narrowing your eyes at her. 

“If you say yes to the Palm Springs trip.” 

“I thought I already said yes.” 

“Not verbally,” she emphasizes. 

“I’ll go anywhere you go,” you say easily. 

“Cute cop-out, but I need the word yes,” she says, sitting up and kissing your lips quickly before sitting back down. 

“Yes,” you relent with a smile. “I’ll go to Palm Springs with you.” 

“Good,” she smiles before a mischievous twinkle brings itself out in her eyes. “So I’ll get to watch you play tennis all weekend. I can already imagine how hot that’ll be…” 

“Why do you insist on teasing me?” 

“‘Cause you look so cute when you’re flustered.” 

You shake your head, taking a bite of your chocolate chip cookie to distract yourself from the way Wanda was making you feel. 

But instead she decides to mess with you even more, softly saying the words “so american” as she watches you. 

And Wanda telling you she loves you made you the most flustered of all. 

***

You had gotten Wanda a necklace for your anniversary, and she had gotten you a bracelet with both of your initials on them. 

Now, waking up in your hotel in Palm Springs, you smile once you see the bracelet on your wrist. You turn in bed to see if Wanda was there, but you frown once you see the empty spot next to you. 

Where was she? 

You wonder where she could be, because she would never leave to go to breakfast without you, nor would she head out without telling you where she was going after waking you up with a soft kiss. 

You don’t know where she could have gone. 

But soon, your question is answered as she enters the room, a large tray of your favorite breakfast foods in her hands as she greets you with a smile. 

You tilt your head in confusion. 

“Hi,” she says, setting down the tray and kissing you on the lips. “I made you breakfast.” 

Your heart flutters and your stomach fills with butterflies. “How did you manage to do this?” 

“Turns out that locked room isn’t a closet, but a tiny kitchen,” she explains, pointing to the aforementioned room. “I found out after I woke up early this morning by accident.” 

“I missed you,” you say, hugging her side. “Where’d you get the food from?” 

“Magic,” she replies easily.

“Oh, right, I forgot I’m dating a witch,” you chuckle, hugging her tighter. 

“I’m not a witch,” she says defiantly. “I was voted most powerful Avenger at Tony’s ceremony last year.” 

“They’re right,” you say, looking over to the breakfast tray and smiling once you see the gorgeous rose that lays on its side. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not a witch.” 

“I’m a not-witch who’s really in love with you.” 

“And I’m a not-doctor who’s really in love with you.” 

“Well, then we agree to disagree,” she says, putting the tray in front of you, silently telling you to start enjoying your meal. 

“Mhm,” you say, eating a forkful of the omelet she had prepared and moaning at the taste. “Where’d you learn to cook?” 

“My mother taught me, back in Sokovia,” she says quickly, heat flushing to her cheeks after she hears the sound you had made. Shifting from her position on the bed to move behind you, she gently shifts you forward slightly so she can sit behind you and outstretch her legs as she wraps her arms around your middle.  

You lean your head back to rest against her shoulder. “She taught you really well,” you say, closing your eyes. 

“Detka, are you gonna fall asleep while eating breakfast?” she laughs. 

“No, I’m just savoring this moment,” you reply, kissing her shoulder. “And I want to savor this breakfast too.” 

“Yeah? I’m that good?” she says with a chuckle. 

“You are,” you say, opening your eyes to look up at her. “In fact, I might marry you right now if you keep this up.” 

“I’d do it every day just for you,” she replies, kissing your lips. 

And when you smile at her, that beautiful smile that makes Wanda’s heart beat faster than she can comprehend, she seriously considers pulling out the ring from her pocket to propose to you right in your hotel room. 

***

“Baby? Wake up,” Wanda whispers, bright and early in the morning on September 8th. 

You groan, not wanting to get up. 

Wanda laughs. “Come on, it’s your birthday,” she says, kissing you on your forehead. 

“Doesn’t that mean I should get to sleep in,” you grumble, burying yourself deeper into the pillows. “Come cuddle with me,” you say, sleepily patting the spot next to you where Wanda had slept last night. 

“As much as I would love to, if I cuddle you right now you’re only gonna end up sleeping for another hour. And there’s a bunch of things prepared for your special day,” she says softly. 

“Another hour sounds great, thanks,” you mumble as you start to feel yourself drift off. 

“No, no, no, come on!” she laughs, gently pulling the blankets off your body. 

“It’s cold,” you groan as the air of the room starts to wash over your body.

“Because you and I sleep in negative degrees,” Wanda says teasingly before gently sitting down on your bed to hug you tightly. 

After a few minutes, you accept your fate as you sit up with a sigh against the headboard, Wanda letting go of you to grab the glass of water on your nightstand to hand to you. 

“Happy birthday,” she says softly as you take a sip of the water and she watches you with a smile. 

You kiss her gently. “Thanks.” 

“How’d you sleep?” she asks. 

“Really well.” You grin. “I got to cuddle with you all night.” 

“Last night must have helped too–” 

“I will throw this water in your face if you finish that sentence,” you cut her off, starting to blush. 

“I wouldn’t mind,” she says with a smirk. “You’re really hot when you’re angry.” 

“So, theoretically if I yelled at you, you’d just end up wanting to have sex?” 

“First,” she says. “You would never yell at me.” You give her a look, and she just smiles smugly because she knows she’s right. You were way too nice to ever yell at anyone. Even animals. “And second, yes, that’s usually how that works.” 

“You’re a middle school boy,” you say with a shake of your head. 

Wanda just smiles before kissing you deeply. “Can’t help it.” She brushes a strand of hair away from your face. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” 

“You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” you say back. 

Wanda grins. “Ready for your birthday?” she asks, standing up from the bed and holding out her hand for you to take. 

You nod, smiling as you take it and stand up, kissing her quickly before she starts to take you through the day she had planned. 

And when you’re back, cutting into your birthday cake to hand out to the team members (Natasha was on a mission in Africa) which Wanda had baked, you’re back after a sunrise picnic full of your favorite foods, a relaxing walk across the beach, lunch at your favorite diner, a tour of your favorite locations in New York City as well as somehow meeting your favorite tennis player on the Arthur Ashe stadium of the US Open (you have absolutely no clue how Wanda pulled that off), you turn to your incredible girlfriend, who’s already staring at you with an adoring gaze in her eyes. 

Softly, you say, “I’m so in love with you.” 

You never knew your heart could ever feel this full. 

“I’m so in love with you too,” she replies, kissing you in the most gentle way yet somehow still communicating the deepest sense of passion. “Happy 24th, detka.” 

You want to cry, you want to cry the happiest tears of your life because, god, you have no idea how you got so lucky to have this woman in your life. 

But instead, you kiss her on the lips, hoping it says everything you need to. 

And Wanda knows exactly what you’re saying. 

***

“Oh, my god, what if it’s too much!” you ramble to Yelena as you pace back and forth in your apartment back home. 

“You’ve been dating her for 4 years, you idiot,” Yelena replies, rolling her eyes. 

“Exactly! What if this is like a 5-year thing, or 7 years– Or, god, I don’t know!” 

“Y/N,” she says, grabbing your attention. “Listen, this is ridiculous. That girl is so disgustingly in love with you, you could tell her you’ve hated her all this time and she would still think you gave her the sun or something.” 

You frown. “I could never hate Wanda.” 

“God, you two are insufferable,” Yelena sighs. 

But Yelena’s secretly so happy to see that you’ve finally found someone who treats you the way you deserve to be treated. 

“Hey!” 

“For God’s sake, just go tell her you don’t like ravioli.” 

“It’s her favorite food! We eat it every Thursday just for her!” 

“It’s actually you who’s her favorite food.”

“What? Yelena, I swear–” 

Later that day, Wanda accepts your revelation with a smile on her face and a kiss on your cheek. 

***

“Wanda,” you say softly as you two walk hand-in-hand through the streets of New York. 

“Yeah?” she says, turning to face you with a small smile. 

“So, I don’t want to assume this,” you pause, fidgeting with your fingers nervously. “But, will you go out to dinner with me?” 

Wanda grins. “We’ve been dating for four years and you don’t want to assume that I’ll go to dinner with you?” 

“Well, you might be busy!” you defend. 

Wanda laughs. “I’m never too busy for you, milaya.” 

“You’re just saying that. What if there’s a criminal who shows up out of the blue and you’re needed for superhero business or something…” 

“Then we’ll reschedule,” Wanda says, shrugging. “And I’ll make sure I always have time for you.” 

You bite your lip anxiously. “What if…what if you don’t come back one day?” your voice trembles. 

“Oh, baby,” Wanda says, hugging you. “I’ll always come back to you.” 

“You can’t know that,” you mumble into her shirt. 

“But I do,” she says, holding you by your shoulders and pulling away slightly. “Because you’re worth every bit fighting for, and I’ll always make sure that I keep fighting until I see your face again.” 

Wanda frowns as she watches the tears roll down your cheeks. 

Wiping them away with her thumb, she says softly, “I love you. I’ll always come back to the person I love most in the world.” 

“I love you too,” you reply, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” she tells you. “I’m always happy to care for you.” 

“I’m really hopelessly in love with you,” you say quietly only for Wanda to hear. 

“The feeling’s mutual, detka.” 

***

Wanda was going to propose to you tonight. 

It was almost Christmas, which she had found out in your first year of dating was your favorite time of year (besides her birthday or your guys’ anniversary) because it made you feel like you belonged somewhere. 

Wanda smiled while she watched you from the couch, biting the nail of your thumb as you thought carefully of which ornament to put next on the Christmas tree. 

She was so in love with you, your work ethic, how much you cared for her, how loved you made her feel. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with you. 

“Wanda?” you ask, snapping her out of her thoughts. 

“Yeah, detka?” she replies, looking over at you. 

You point to the box of blue and silver ornaments by her feet. “Can you pass me the silver one shaped like a Christmas tree?” 

Nodding, she grabs the ornament from the box and makes her way over to you, hugging you from behind as you placed it carefully on the branch only a little bit taller than you. 

“How does it look?” you ask with a smile, turning your head slightly to kiss her on the cheek. 

“Even better than last year,” she replies, squeezing you tighter. 

If someone didn’t stop her soon, she was going to propose to you right then and there. 

In order to stop herself, she clears her throat and steps back from you a bit, letting go, hoping you don’t notice her actions. 

However, you know her too well, and you turn to look at her with a small furrow of your brows. 

Wanda gives an awkward smile. “Um, I’m gonna get started on the cookies,” she says, pointing towards the kitchen. 

“Okay,” you say slowly. 

Wanda nods, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek before leaving you to head towards the previously mentioned room. 

Once Wanda’s in the kitchen, she lets out a sigh, wondering how she was going to get through the day without breaking down due to her nerves. Wanda checked her back pocket, making sure the ring was still there, and felt a sense of relief once she felt it’s black box. 

She had it planned perfectly. After tonight’s holiday party with the team (which she had exclusively made sure Natasha could not make it), she was going to take you to the coffee shop where you two had first met, then she was going to take you to Shakespeare’s garden where you two had first admitted you loved each other, and she was going to officially propose to you at the firework show she had begged Tony to help her host. 

Everything had to be perfect. 

“Wanda?” you startled her out of her thoughts as you knocked on the doorway. Furrowing your brows, you ask, “are you alright?”

“What? Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine…” Wanda replies awkwardly, looking down at her feet and shifting awkwardly. 

You laugh slightly, “Baby, you haven’t even started on the cookies.” You walk over to her, seeing nothing but two eggs on the counter in front of her and nothing else. 

Wanda gulps slightly at your close proximity. How stupid that she had been dating you for 6 years yet you still made her feel like a teenager in high school. “I did…” she says weakly. 

“Oh yeah?” you tease. “How delicious if we left out two eggs with milk for Old St. Nick?” You pick up an egg between your fingers to show her. 

“It’ll give him something new to try,” Wanda shrugs. 

Sighing, you put the egg down, and cup your girlfriend’s cheeks in your hands, rubbing your thumbs over them. “What’s going on?” you say gently. 

“Just nervous,” Wanda admits. 

“Nervous for what?” you ask, brushing a tendril of hair away from her face. 

“You make me nervous,” Wanda says, relenting as she rests her forehead on your shoulder. “You’re so perfect,” she mumbles into your shirt.

Your heart feels like it might explode. “I don’t understand,” you say as you shake your head. “How are you the nervous one yet somehow you still make me feel like I’m gonna burst with happiness?” 

Wanda smiles against your shirt. “It’s ‘cause I love you.”

“And I love you,” you reply.  

“You know, we still have about 2 hours until Tony’s party…” she says suggestively, starting to kiss her way up your neck. 

“More than enough time for you to help me finish the tree,” you say lightheartedly. 

Wanda groans. “I hate you.” 

“Too late, you’re stuck with me already.” You grin as you grab her hand and lead her into the living room, the cookies unspokenly abandoned. 

Little did you know, Wanda wanted nothing more than to be stuck with you for the rest of her life. 

And tonight, she was going to make it official. 

***

“Why the fuck is it so cold,” Wanda muttered, rubbing her bare arms to warm herself up, before intertwining your hands once again. “It’s way colder than the temperature you and I sleep in.” 

“Because Pepper’s here,” you say easily. “And Tony turns the place into an ice box just for her.” 

“Can’t he just invite some sort of nano-machine that keeps it cold for her all the time? He’s got the money,” Wanda says bitterly. 

You chuckle. “Come on, grumpy,” you start to pull her onto the dance floor. “This ought to warm you up.” 

Wanda accepts as you wrap your arms around her shoulders and she wraps hers around your waist, the two of you becoming lost in your own little world as you admire one another in your respective dresses. 

“You look so pretty,” she tells you, awestruck at your beauty. 

“So do you,” you say, taking her in before resting your head on her shoulder, swaying as the two of you try to stay as close as you possibly can. 

Wanda closes her eyes as she rests her cheek on the crown of your head, feeling so content with you in her arms. 

“When did you first know?” you whisper next to her ear. 

“When you made that stupid pun,” Wanda says, and she giggles once she hears you groan in embarrassment. 

“That’s the worst one you could’ve said,” you say, lifting your head up from her shoulder to meet her gaze.

“Can’t help it,” she says, kissing you quickly. “It was so adorable.” 

“I still think it’s insane that you actually find me funny,” you shake your head. 

“I’ll laugh at all your jokes,” she replies easily. “It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you.”

“Are all Sokovians this romantic?” 

“Are all Americans this incredible?” 

You both grin stupidly at each other before the two of you can’t take it and kiss each other deeply, pouring every ounce of love you feel for one another.  

“Nope,” Wanda says as she pulls away. “Just my so American girlfriend.” 

You smile, kissing her again, and again, and again. 

And Wanda thinks it wasn’t fair of you either, to make her feel this much. 

***

“Wanda, where are we going?” you laugh as she pulls you through the streets of New York. 

“I need to show you something, come on!” she says, stopping once you realize where she’s brought the two of you. 

The coffee shop where you first met. 

“What are we doing here?” you ask, unable to stop the cheesy grin that makes its way onto your face. 

“It’s a surprise, come on,” she replies, opening the door for you and letting you in. Once she shuts the door behind her, you turn, and your eyes soften once you see the shiny look in her eyes. “I’m taking you on a tour,” she says, guiding you to the back table where you two had first spoken. 

“A tour of what?” you say, smiling as you follow her. 

“A tour of how much I love you.” 

And Wanda only falls deeper and deeper in love once she sees the happy tears in your eyes when she reveals your coffee cup from when the two of you had first met, which she had kept all this time. 

***

“No way,” you say with awe as your next stop comes into your line of sight, the coffee cup held safely in your hand at your side. 

“And I re-made the batch of cookies we shared that day,” Wanda said, pulling a tupperware of cookies from behind her back as you follow her onto the bridge of Shakespeare’s garden. 

“What made you do all this?” you ask, shaking your head in disbelief as you come up to her to wrap your arms around her shoulders. 

“It’s a surprise,” she replies, kissing you. “But for now, I want you to know how much you mean to me.” 

“I do,” you say easily. “Every day.” 

“Good,” Wanda grins. “And I’m gonna keep showing you.” 

***

Wanda might not even propose tonight. 

In fact, she doesn’t know if she’ll even remember as she’s lost in awe at how beautiful you look under the stars, holding the rail that separates you from the body of water in front of you while standing on top of a craggly rock, the booming fireworks causing your eyes to shine in a way that makes Wanda want to capture this moment forever.

But, she’s on a mission. 

And when it came to you, Wanda always put her best foot forward. 

“They’re so beautiful,” you say, completely in awe as you watch the colors explode in the sky. 

“Just like you,” Wanda says softly. 

“You know, I still really want to know why you did all this,” you say, turning to her and smiling once you see her already watching you. “I didn’t miss any special date, did I?” 

“Of course you didn’t, your google calendar is already filled to the brim,” she replies with a teasing roll of her eyes. 

“Well, if I didn’t have everything booked then you would forget all of your check-up appointments with your doctor,” you reply cheekily.

“You’re already a doctor.” 

“Not the right kind of doctor.” 

“You’re actually exactly my kind of doctor,” Wanda flirts, making you blush. 

“I hate you. That was awful,” you say as you turn away. 

And as you watch the fireworks in the sky once again, Wanda decides, now’s the time. 

Taking a deep breath and swallowing her nerves, she gets down on one knee. 

Then, almost robotically, she pulls out the ring, opening the box slowly, as if any sudden movement would cause the whole thing to shatter. 

She just needed you to turn her way. 

To turn your head slightly and see her message for you. 

I want to spend the rest of my life by your side. 

It feels as if time has stopped. 

All she feels is the beating of her heart through her chest, the blood pounding in her ears, and her nerves washing over her over and over again– and all she needs is for you to look.  

It feels like hours before you–

Then, you do. 

And it’s slow, and careful, and gentle, and so you.  

You gasp. 

And Wanda shakily breathes out, “Will you marry me, detka?” 

Both of your hands cover your mouth, and tears build in your eyes. 

And Wanda feels the happiest she has ever felt–

When you croak out a yes. 

Wanda wants to keep this moment forever. She wants to remember how full her heart feels when she slips the ring onto your finger. The feel of your lips on her own when you kiss her hard through both of your tears and your laughs of disbelief. 

It’s the happiest day of her life. 

And it’s the happiest day of yours, too. 

***

“I’m so, so, in love with you,” you say as the two of you walk back to your shared home, wrapped in each other’s arms. 

“I’m so in love with you too, detka,” Wanda replies, kissing your temple as she holds you close. 

“When you were a kid, did you ever think you were going to have an American girlfriend?” you chuckle. 

“I never did,” Wanda admits with a smile. “But I couldn’t be happier that I ended up with a beautiful, so American fiancée.” 

You blush at the new title, hiding your reddening face in your fiancée’s neck. “Tonight doesn’t even feel real,” you mumble after a moment. 

Wanda laughs slightly. “Yeah, I know the feeling.” 

Suddenly, out of curiosity, you ask, “When did you buy that ring?” 

“A week after we started dating,” Wanda says resolutely. 

“What?” Your head snaps up from her neck. 

“I just knew,” Wanda says, kissing the tip of your nose. “I knew you were going to be my wife.” 

“That’s…” you shake your head in disbelief. “Wow.” 

Wanda pulls you closer to her. “It was the easiest thing I’ve ever known. Wanna know why?” 

“Why?” you ask. 

“Because, from the first day I met you, I knew, you were everything to me. And you still are.” 

Your eyes start to water. “I’m everything to you?” 

“You are,” Wanda nods, kissing the crown of your head with so much tenderness it makes you want to cry. 

But, you don’t start to cry because of the kiss. 

And you don’t start to cry out of joy although you really, really want to. 

No. The tears finally escape your eyes as you realize that you finally have everything you’ve ever wanted. 

That you’re finally, finally everything to somebody else. 

“You’re everything to me too.” 

[narxcisse]

★ — Brother figure Jason Todd headcanons

Brother figure!Jason Todd x Child!Reader

CW: mention of bad parents(?, fluff, platonic relationship

English isn't my native language

Jason had been out on patrol on a particularly cold night in Crime Alley, his former home and one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Gotham. That night, the alleys seemed darker and more desolate than usual, but not enough for Jason to let his guard down. He was chasing a small group of drug dealers when he heard a sound distinct from the usual echoing gunshots and screams: a soft, almost muffled cry coming from a dumpster.

Following the sound, he found a kid, no older than 12, wrapped in rags and shivering from the cold. You were dirty, barefoot, and your eyes reflected the kind of fear Jason recognized all too well: the fear of someone who’s seen too much for their age.

Jason, who was normally gruff and serious, couldn’t help but soften at the sight of you. He pulled off his leather jacket and placed it over your shoulders, muttering a soft, “Come on, I can’t leave you here.” And though you didn’t trust him at first, the warmth of his jacket and his firm yet gentle tone convinced you to follow him.

Upon investigation, Jason discovered that you had been abandoned by your parents amidst the chaos of Gotham. Maybe they were addicts, or maybe they simply left you behind because they couldn’t care for you. Whatever the reason, Jason felt a silent rage. He knew what it was like to be a child forgotten by the system, and he vowed that no matter what, he wouldn’t let that happen to you.

Jason quickly became the overprotective, ride-or-die older brother. Anyone who messed with you? They were on his radar. He didn’t care if they were kids, teachers, or hardened criminals.

He gave you a nickname almost immediately. Something endearing but teasing, like “Squirt,” “Kiddo,” or “Runt.” Hearing him use it always made you feel safe.

Jason isn’t a fan of strict rules, so he doesn’t parent you like Bruce might. Instead, he gives advice like, “Don’t do anything too stupid” or “Call me if you need backup.”

He’s surprisingly soft-spoken when it comes to teaching you things. Whether it’s self-defense, cooking, or just how to punch someone correctly, he’s patient, making sure you get it right without frustration.

He’s not great at emotional vulnerability, but Jason has his moments. You’ll catch him giving you these long, thoughtful looks before ruffling your hair and muttering, “Proud of you, kid.”

Jason lets you decorate your shared space however you want. He thinks you’ll pick something tacky or childish, but seeing your effort makes him melt inside.

He cooks for you, even if it’s just scrambled eggs or spaghetti. “Don’t get used to this, I’m not a gourmet chef,” he says, even though he secretly loves taking care of you.

You have regular “family nights” where you binge movies, eat junk food, and throw popcorn at each other during arguments about which pirated movie is the best.

He introduces you to the classics he loves: literature like The Count of Monte Cristo, and music like Springsteen and Bowie. He’s thrilled when you pick up some of his tastes.

Whenever you feel insecure or inadequate, Jason is the first to shut that down. “You’re tougher than you think, Squirt. If anyone says otherwise, they can deal with me.”

Jason is constantly worried about your safety. If you so much as scrape your knee, he’s immediately there with disinfectant and a stern lecture about being careful.

If someone bullies you, he doesn’t hesitate to have a “talk” with them. You’ll never know what he said, but the bullies steer clear of you after that.

He teaches you how to fight, not just to defend yourself but to give you confidence. “A good jab to the nose, and they’ll think twice,” he says with a grin.

When he’s out as Red Hood, he checks in constantly. He’s the kind of older brother who texts, “You good?” every hour if he can’t be home.

If you ever get caught up in danger because of him, the guilt eats at him. He won’t rest until you’re safe, and he swears to never let it happen again.

Jason has a big soft spot for seeing you happy. If he notices you eyeing a toy, a book, or even a weird trinket, he’ll find a way to get it for you, no matter what.

When you have nightmares, he lets you crash in his room, pretending not to notice when you clutch his sleeve. “Go back to sleep, kid,” he says gruffly, but he’ll stay awake to make sure you feel safe.

He’s not great at outright compliments, but he’ll slip them into conversations. “Yeah, they’re smart like that. Must run in the family,” he’ll say with a smirk.

Sometimes, he leaves little notes for you if he’s out late, like: “Don’t stay up too late, Squirt. And don’t forget to eat something other than chips.”

Despite his tough exterior, Jason will never miss a chance to remind you that you matter to him. “You’re stuck with me, kid. Get used to it.”

Jason isn’t perfect—he has his temper, his flaws, and his regrets—but when it comes to you, he’ll do everything in his power to be the brother you deserve. To him, you’re not just someone he saved; you’re family.

Jason leaned against his motorcycle, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Alright, kid. Time to learn how to ride,” he said, tossing you a helmet. It was comically large on your head, wobbling slightly as you adjusted the straps.

“Wait, what?” you blurted, staring at him like he’d lost his mind. “But what if some authority sees us?”

Jason snorted, his grin widening. “But there's no one who's an authority here, right? Besides, I’m a fantastic teacher.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve literally crashed this thing before.”

“Details,” Jason said, brushing off your concern with a wave. “Now hop on. You’ve got to start somewhere, and who better to teach you than me?”

You hesitated, glancing at the sleek black motorcycle. It looked huge, intimidating even, but there was something about the way Jason spoke—so confident and reckless—that made you want to trust him. With a deep breath, you climbed on, settling in front of him on the seat.

“Alright,” he said, swinging his leg over to sit behind you. He reached around to grab your hands, placing them on the handlebars. “This is your throttle,” he explained, twisting the grip. “And this is your brake. Easy stuff.”

“Uh-huh,” you said nervously, your palms already clammy. “Easy for you.”

Jason chuckled, his voice warm and teasing. “Relax, Squirt. I’m right here. You’re not gonna crash.”

“You’re not even wearing a helmet!”

“Do as I say, not as I do,” he replied breezily.

With his hands guiding yours, he showed you how to start the engine. The motorcycle roared to life, vibrating beneath you. Your heart leapt into your throat, but Jason’s steady grip on your shoulders kept you grounded.

“Okay, now just twist the throttle—gently,” Jason instructed.

You did as he said, and the bike lurched forward a few feet. You yelped, clutching the handlebars tighter.

“See? You’re a natural!” Jason said, laughing. “Now let’s pick up the pace.”

“Are you insane?”

“Probably. Now go!”

With Jason egging you on, you twisted the throttle again, this time a little harder. The motorcycle surged forward, and you felt the wind whip against your face. Jason’s laughter rang in your ears as he kept a firm hold on your sides, steering from behind when necessary.

“You’re doing great!” he shouted over the noise.

“I’m going to die!” you yelled back, though there was a spark of exhilaration in your voice.

Jason guided you around an empty parking lot, letting you get a feel for the bike. With every loop, you grew a little more confident, and Jason’s pride was practically palpable.

“Alright, now let’s try stopping,” he said.

You hit the brake too hard, and the bike skidded to a halt, nearly throwing both of you off. Jason steadied it with his feet, laughing as he helped you regain your balance.

“Not bad,” he said, ruffling your hair. “Could use some finesse, though.”

You glared at him, your heart still racing. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

“Yeah, well, you survived, didn’t you?” Jason teased. He leaned back, crossing his arms. “Bet you’re glad I’m your big brother now.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t deny the rush of excitement coursing through you. “Next time, you’re wearing a helmet.”

Jason grinned, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Deal. But don't tell anyone about this."

“Deal,” you said, smirking.

And just like that, Jason proved, once again, that he was the most irresponsible yet strangely endearing brother you could ask for.

[godricgryffinsnore]

babes, i absolutely love your work so yk i had to request something!!!

george weasley x bsf!reader who’s forced to watch reader get asked to the yule ball by almost every guy in their year. she’s getting asked left and right by guys from all houses, and he doesn’t understand why she keeps denying them until he realizes she waiting for him to ask. (basically a little jealous george + best friends to lovers?)

Yule Be Mine ♡ : A George Weasley Fan Fiction.

pairing : George Weasley x fem!reader

summary : At the Yule Ball, two best friends discover that sometimes, all it takes is a little jealousy, a lot of dancing, and one perfect night to realize what’s been in front of them all along. 💫

warnings : Light language, excessive fluff, mutual pining, jealous behavior, one (1) extremely love-struck Weasley. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : Thank you so much for requesting, anon!!! I really enjoyed writing it, love!!! Glad to have you here <333

word count : 1.9k

main master list <3

banners : @anitalenia and @cafekitsune

George Weasley was not the type to be jealous. Really, he wasn’t. Except right now, watching a seventh Hufflepuff boy trip over his robes just to ask his best friend to the Yule Ball, George was absolutely the type to be jealous.

“Another one?” he muttered under his breath, watching from across the common room as (Y/N) politely turned down a tall Ravenclaw with a blinding smile and teeth too perfect to be trusted.

Fred leaned beside him, snorting into his hand. “You know, at this point, you might want to just hang a ‘Reserved for George’ sign on her or actually do something instead of glaring at everyone like a gremlin.”

“I am not glaring,” George hissed. “I’m observing.”

Fred tilted his head. “You’re observing like you want to set his robes on fire.”

George didn’t respond. He was too busy imagining exactly how long it would take to invent a hex that turned charming Ravenclaws into goats. Maybe five minutes. Ten tops if he wanted horns.

Another one. A Slytherin this time—smirking like he thought he stood a chance. George narrowed his eyes.

(Y/N) blinked, gave a kind smile, and shook her head.

DENIED.

That was the eleventh guy in two days.

“What is going on?” George muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “She could’ve said yes to any of them. That Slytherin even offered her enchanted roses. Did you see them? They were floating.”

“She doesn’t want roses, George. She wants you,” Fred said, like it was the most obvious thing in the bloody universe.

George blinked.

“I—what? Me?”

Fred stared at him, the way one might stare at a particularly dumb Flobberworm. “Yes, you, you daft—”

“George!” (Y/N)’s voice rang out, sweet and cheerful and completely unaware of the chaos she was wreaking in his chest.

She bounced up beside him, cheeks pink from the cold, smile radiant. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of people who asked me to the ball today. I swear it’s getting a bit mad.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” George muttered, barely resisting the urge to cross himself dramatically. “Thought I was going to have to start charging admission to watch you get asked.”

She laughed—god, that laugh—and bumped her shoulder into his. “I don’t get it though. Why all of a sudden?”

George opened his mouth to say, Because you’re perfect and you smell like peppermint and you laugh at my jokes even when they’re terrible and your eyes do this crinkly thing when you smile and I can’t stop thinking about you— —but instead, he shrugged and said, “Beats me. Maybe they all drank Amortentia.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m not saying yes to any of them.”

George’s heart did a full somersault.

“Yeah?” he said, trying to sound casual. “Saving yourself for Cedric Diggory, then?”

She gave him a look. “Cedric? Please. He’s already going with Cho.”

George perked up. “So…you’re not waiting for anyone in particular?”

Something flickered in her expression. A moment. A pause.

“I might be,” she said lightly.

And then she walked off.

George stared after her, dumbfounded.

“Merlin’s saggy knickers,” he mumbled. “She’s waiting for someone.”

Fred leaned in again. “How’s that observing going for you, Sherlock?”

“Shut it.”

── .✦

Over the next three days, George kept an unofficial (and definitely obsessive) log of every guy who dared approach (Y/N).

There was Oliver Wood (too muscly), Ernie Macmillan (too earnest), and Seamus Finnigan (too…explosive). Each one got the same response: a smile, a polite “no,” and a wave.

Each one made George want to throw something into the Black Lake.

“She’s not mine,” he grumbled, “but if one more bloke tries to hold her hand I will invent a spell that turns them inside out.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Lee Jordan said, watching George brew what he claimed was a calming draught but looked suspiciously like a spite potion.

“I’m in love,” George corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Lee raised a brow. “You told her yet?”

George blinked. “...Of course not.”

Fred groaned from the next table. “You are the dumbest genius I’ve ever met.”

── .✦

The day before the ball, George was losing hope.

(Y/N) hadn’t said yes to anyone. But she hadn’t asked anyone either. Which meant she was either going alone (which made George want to riot), or—

“George,” she said, flopping onto the couch beside him.

He inhaled sharply. She smelled like parchment and chocolate frogs.

“I’m giving up,” she declared, tossing her hands up. “No one else is going to ask, and honestly, I’m just tired of pretending I’m not disappointed.”

He blinked. “Wait—disappointed?”

“Well, yeah.” She leaned her chin on her palm, looking pensive. “I mean, I was kind of hoping someone specific would ask. But at this point... maybe I just go alone.”

George’s pulse skyrocketed.

Someone specific. Someone specific. Someone with red hair and bad timing and a heart currently trying to claw its way out of his chest.

“You know,” he said, voice cracking slightly, “maybe he’s just a bit slow.”

She gave him a look.

He cleared his throat. “Not stupid slow. Just… worried he’ll ruin the best friendship he’s ever had in his life by asking the most amazing girl to a dance.”

Silence.

She blinked. “Oh.”

George inhaled. “And maybe, just maybe, he’s so completely gone for her that the idea of her saying no makes his stomach feel like Peeves set off a dungbomb inside it.”

More silence.

Then—

“Well, you absolute idiot,” she said, standing up, “you could’ve just asked.”

George stood too, flustered and flushed. “So, uh—want to go to the ball with me?”

She rolled her eyes, grinning. “Finally.”

He laughed, stepping closer, and god, it felt right. Natural. As if this was always supposed to happen, and all it took was eleven rejections, two broody nights, and one very jealous Weasley twin to get there.

“I should’ve done this ages ago,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles against hers.

“You should have,” she teased, eyes gleaming. “But I forgive you.”

He grinned. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he kissed her—soft and sure and entirely theirs.

── .✦

At the Yule Ball, Fred raised his goblet dramatically and declared, “To the most oblivious couple in Hogwarts finally getting their act together!”

George threw a bread roll at his head. (Y/N) just laughed.

Jealousy had never looked so good.

── .✦

“If I faint, don’t let Fred draw on my face.” —George Weasley, 7:03 p.m., approximately two minutes after seeing you walk into the Great Hall.

── .✦

George Weasley had faced trolls. He had outrun Filch with a dungbomb in his pocket. He had once pranked Snape’s office and lived to tell the tale. But nothing—absolutely nothing—could’ve prepared him for the sight of you descending the staircase in your Yule Ball robes.

You were glowing. Not metaphorically. You literally shimmered. There was glitter. There was…sparkle. You looked like you’d been handcrafted by the gods of chaos and starlight and soft, sweet things, and George stood there like someone had punched him square in the soul.

“You’re drooling,” Fred muttered beside him.

George elbowed him without breaking eye contact.

You caught sight of him, and your face lit up—lit up, like you were relieved to see him.

George’s knees nearly gave out.

“Hi,” you said, voice softer than usual, lips glossed and curled into a shy smile. “You clean up nice.”

George stared. “You—you're—I mean, I clean up alright, but you—Merlin, you’re blinding.”

You laughed, biting your lip, and George’s brain promptly short-circuited.

── .✦

The Great Hall was unrecognizable—ceiling bewitched to resemble a starlit sky, frost-dusted trees in every corner, everything dripping in silver and enchanted snow. But to George, it all faded into the background the second your hand found his.

Your fingers curled around his like it was natural, like it was always meant to be this way, and he had the sudden, bone-deep realization that he was doomed.

He was so in love with you it wasn’t even funny anymore.

Fred gave him a look from across the dance floor. George gave him a rude gesture in return.

── .✦

“Okay,” George muttered, staring at the dance floor. “Here’s the thing. I can charm the knickers off a professor with a pun, but I cannot waltz.”

You grinned, tugging him toward the music. “That’s fine. I can, and I’ve got two feet that aren’t constantly trying to murder each other.”

“Are you saying I’m a hazard?”

“I’m saying you’re lucky you’re cute.”

George’s heart did a backflip. “You think I’m cute?”

“Shut up and follow my lead, Weasley.”

── .✦

You danced.

Well—you danced. George mostly shuffled around like an overgrown redhead who had suddenly forgotten how limbs worked, but you didn’t seem to mind.

You laughed when he spun the wrong way. You snorted when he tripped over your hem. You beamed when he finally got the steps right for half a chorus and whispered, “You’re doing it.”

George felt like someone had lit a firework in his chest.

“You know,” he said as he swayed with you, your head on his shoulder now, music slow and honey-sweet, “this might actually be the best night of my life.”

You looked up at him, eyes shining. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leaned closer, breath brushing your cheek. “Though I still might faint.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You look very…faint-worthy.”

You laughed and pulled back just enough to kiss his nose.

George stopped breathing entirely.

── .✦

Fred interrupted halfway through your third dance with a dramatic bow and a: “If you don’t let me steal the lady for one spin, I’m going to explode from secondhand tension.”

You laughed and agreed, twirling off with Fred who (to no one’s surprise) was suspiciously good at dancing.

George watched, arms crossed, glowering.

“She’s not yours, mate,” Lee Jordan said beside him.

“She is tonight.”

“Getting a bit possessive, aren’t you?”

“Don’t care. She smells like vanilla and joy, and I saw Malfoy eyeing her during the last song.”

Lee laughed. “You’re gone, Weasley.”

George didn’t deny it.

── .✦

When you returned, breathless from spinning with Fred, George pulled you right back into his arms with a firm, “Mine now.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Possessive, are we?”

“You have no idea.”

You both laughed—but neither of you let go.

── .✦

Later, after the band had packed up, after the enchanted snow had melted and the hall had emptied into whispers and giggles and clicking heels, you and George sat on the edge of the fountain in the courtyard.

You dipped your fingers into the water. George dipped his gaze to you.

The stars were reflected in your eyes. Or maybe you were just full of light like that.

“I had fun,” you said softly.

“Me too.” He hesitated. “You were waiting for me, weren’t you? When all those blokes asked.”

You smiled, eyes still on the water. “Took you long enough.”

“I didn’t think I had a shot.”

You turned to him, incredulous. “George Weasley, you’re my best friend. You’re funny and clever and good. Of course you had a shot.”

“Yeah?” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

George tilted his head. “Can I kiss you?”

You smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The kiss was soft, slow, a little messy, like two people who’d been on the verge for too long finally crossing the line—and finding out the other side was better than they’d ever dreamed.

When you pulled back, George was grinning like a lunatic.

“Told you,” you teased, brushing his fringe out of his eyes. “Lucky you’re cute.”

“Lucky I’ve got the girl who turned down half the school to wait for me,” he said, voice thick with wonder.

You kissed him again.

Somewhere in the background, Fred gagged audibly from behind a statue.

[amethystarachnid]

I know it's very classic. Tony Stark x F!Reader. Office romance. Tony likes her and the reader is unaware of it. Tony gets very angry at a man who tries to flirt with the reader in the office and makes her uncomfortable, then informs him of his mistake. He drags his assistant to his room and while arguing, he lets it slip that he is in love with her.

OFFICE ROMANCE

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, rom-com

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.1k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): little spicy scenes at the end, nothing too explicit

ᯓ★ Part 2

ᯓ★ yeah I know the title sucks I didnt know what to name it lol

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The elevator ride to Tony Stark’s office is uneventful—until the doors slide open, and you step right into chaos.

“Where is she? Where’s my assistant? Oh my God, I’m dying.”

Tony Stark is dramatically draped over his desk, one hand clutching his chest, the other extended toward the heavens like he’s in a Shakespearean tragedy. You barely have time to react before he twists his head toward the elevator, eyes locking onto yours with laser focus.

“There you are,” he groans. “Y/N, I think this is it. This is the end. You’re going to have to plan my funeral. Make it something classy, but also extravagant. Maybe fireworks? A Viking funeral? I don’t know, you decide.”

You sigh and step inside, the doors sliding shut behind you. “What is it this time, Mr. Stark?”

At the sound of his title, he frowns. “Really? We’re doing the ‘Mr. Stark’ thing today? Thought we were past that, sweetheart.”

You ignore him and set your bag down at your desk, flipping through the folders left for you overnight. Tony is still sprawled across his desk, his theatrics undeterred by your lack of concern.

“I’m serious,” he insists. “I might actually die this time.”

You finally look up at him, arms crossed. “Is it reactor-related, or are you just being dramatic?”

He gasps, placing a hand over his arc reactor. “I am never dramatic.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine, maybe I’m a little dramatic. But you were late this morning.”

You glance at the clock. “I was not late.”

“You were late to me,” he says, pointing accusingly. “Do you know what happens when you’re not here? Bad things. Boring things. Pepper makes me do paperwork, and Happy refuses to let me take the suit out for a spin at seven in the morning.”

Your lips twitch, but you suppress the smile. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark. I didn’t realize my presence was so vital to your survival.”

He lifts his head, expression serious. “Y/N, I don’t think you understand. You are the glue holding my fragile existence together.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Without you, I am but a billionaire genius playboy philanthropist adrift, lost at sea, doomed to perish in the harsh, unforgiving corporate world.”

“You are so full of it,” you mutter, grabbing your tablet to check his schedule.

Tony watches you, chin propped up in one hand. He does this a lot—just looks at you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the room, even when you’re doing something as mundane as scheduling meetings and reading emails. But you don’t notice.

You never notice.

And it’s driving him insane.

Tony Stark is in love with you.

Painfully, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you. And he’s not subtle about it, either. At least, he doesn’t think he is. He finds reasons to keep you around, finds excuses to talk to you, makes up the dumbest emergencies just to get your attention—and yet, somehow, you remain oblivious.

It’s almost impressive, really.

But also aggravating.

Tony sighs, rubbing his hands down his face before dramatically throwing himself back in his chair. “Okay, what’s on the agenda today, darling?”

You scroll through your tablet. “You have a meeting with Pepper at ten—”

“Cancel it.”

“You cannot cancel on Pepper.”

“Fine,” he grumbles. “What else?”

“You have a tech demonstration at two, a conference call with the board at four—”

“Cancel that too.”

You sigh. “Tony.”

“Oh, now it’s Tony?” He smirks. “See, I knew you liked me.”

“I tolerate you,” you correct, setting your tablet down. “And you are going to that board meeting, whether you like it or not.”

“Fine, but only if you’re there,” he says, pointing at you. “I refuse to suffer alone.”

You roll your eyes but nod. “I’ll be there.”

Tony grins, far too pleased with himself. He’s made you sit in on dozens of meetings that had nothing to do with your job, just because he likes having you there. He tells himself it’s because you keep him sane. That you make the long, boring hours more bearable.

But if he’s being honest, it’s just because he likes looking at you.

He likes the way your lips press together when you’re concentrating, the way your nose scrunches up when he says something stupid. He likes the way your eyes soften when you talk to him, even when you’re exasperated. He likes you. God, he likes you.

And yet, you remain completely, utterly unaware.

Tony watches as you type something into your tablet, your brows furrowed in concentration. He wonders what would happen if he just said it. If he just leaned across the desk, took your hands in his, and said—

“Mr. Stark?”

He snaps out of it. “Huh?”

“You okay? You spaced out.”

Tony clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. Fine. Totally fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

You squint at him, suspicious. “Are you sure? You look kind of—”

“Handsome? Dashing? Devastatingly attractive?”

“I was going to say pained, but sure.”

Tony groans and leans back in his chair. “This is agony,” he mutters.

You blink. “What is?”

You. You are agony. Being around you, loving you, wanting you, and you not even noticing—it’s torture.

But of course, he doesn’t say that.

“Nothing,” he sighs. “Just this board meeting. Ugh, corporate politics. You have to sit next to me, okay?”

“Okay,” you say, amused. “Anything else?”

“Yes. I need coffee. Desperately.”

You snort but stand up, grabbing your purse. “I’ll be back in ten.”

Tony watches you go, his head hitting the desk as soon as the doors shut behind you.

He is so screwed.

The days pass like they always do—fast, chaotic, and filled with Tony Stark’s unique brand of dramatics.

Between meetings, tech demos, Stark Industries board nonsense, and the occasional explosion in his lab (which he always swears is intentional), you’ve settled into an odd routine with him.

A routine that involves not just work, but him.

It starts small.

At first, it’s just casual conversation in between scheduling his appointments and making sure he actually attends them. A random question here and there.

“Morning, sweetheart. How do you feel about pineapple on pizza?”

“It’s fine, I guess.”

“Wrong answer. Completely unacceptable. I might have to fire you.”

Then, it becomes a daily thing.

He asks about your coffee order, remembers the way you take it without you telling him twice. He learns your favorite snacks, stocks the office kitchen with them. He finds out you love old Hollywood movies, and suddenly, his TV has a list of black-and-white classics queued up.

You don’t think much of it.

Tony Stark is friendly. He’s nosy. He likes to know things. It makes sense that he’d ask about your life outside of work.

But to him, it’s everything.

Because these little details—the things you like, the way you laugh, the way you light up when you talk about something you’re passionate about—are what keep him grounded.

Sometimes, he even talks about himself, which is rare.

You don’t realize what a big deal it is at first. You’ve worked for him long enough to know he talks a lot, but usually, it’s about his inventions or some wild new idea he has.

But with you?

He tells you about his mom’s love for classical music, how she used to play records while she cooked. How his dad was cold but brilliant, how he spent his childhood trying to impress a man who never really saw him. How he went to MIT at fifteen and spent half his time pranking professors and the other half building things he wasn’t supposed to.

He tells you about Afghanistan one night, when it’s just the two of you in his office, the city lights glowing behind him.

About the cave, about the first arc reactor, about Yinsen and what he’d meant to him.

You listen.

You don’t pity him, don’t give him some empty platitude about how it must’ve been hard. You just listen.

And Tony—who has spent most of his life drowning out his own thoughts with distractions—thinks maybe you are the best thing that has ever happened to him.

He also thinks you might never notice how much you mean to him.

Which is why he’s completely blindsided when it happens.

It’s a normal day.

You’re at your desk, typing away, while Tony lounges on the couch with a blueprint in one hand and a screwdriver in the other, pretending to work while actually watching you.

Then Happy walks in.

“There’s a guy here to see you,” he tells Tony, looking unimpressed.

Tony doesn’t even look up. “Tell him I’m busy.”

“He says it’s urgent.”

Tony sighs, pushing himself up. “Fine, fine. Send him in.”

Happy steps aside, and the guy walks in.

You glance up, offering a polite smile before going back to your work.

The man is tall, well-dressed, and carries himself like he’s important—which immediately annoys Tony. He hates people who walk into his space acting like they own the place.

“Mr. Stark,” the man says, offering his hand. “Nathan Ellis. Big fan.”

Tony shakes his hand but looks bored already. “Uh-huh. What do you want?”

Nathan chuckles, like Tony just made a joke. “I had a business proposition I wanted to discuss with you. Something that could be mutually beneficial.”

Tony gestures lazily to you. “Talk to her. She handles all the boring stuff.”

You roll your eyes but give Nathan a professional smile. “What’s the proposition?”

But Nathan isn’t looking at you like a businessman pitching an idea. He’s looking at you like a man sizing up a woman, and Tony immediately hates him.

Nathan smirks. “You’re much prettier than I expected.”

You stiffen just a little, but you keep your composure. “That’s not really relevant,” you say, your tone still polite but firm. “What’s relevant is what you’re proposing.”

Nathan leans against your desk like he belongs there. “Can’t I compliment a beautiful woman?”

Tony sits up straight, his eyes narrowing.

You force a tight smile. “I’d prefer if we kept this professional.”

Nathan laughs, but it’s the kind of laugh that says he doesn’t really take you seriously. “Oh, come on. No need to be so serious, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Tony sees red.

That’s his word.

His fingers tighten around the screwdriver in his hand, but he stays quiet—for now—watching you, waiting to see if you want him to step in.

You shift uncomfortably, clearly trying to remain professional, but it’s obvious you’re not enjoying this.

Tony doesn’t give a damn about professionalism.

He stands up, moving toward you in a few easy strides before leaning down and planting his hands on your desk, effectively caging you in while staring Nathan down.

“You know,” Tony says, voice deceptively light, “I really don’t like it when people make my assistant uncomfortable.”

Nathan blinks, clearly not expecting that.

You glance up at Tony, eyes wide.

Tony doesn’t look at you. His attention is solely on Nathan, his jaw tight, his expression calm but dangerous.

Nathan chuckles nervously. “I was just making conversation.”

“Yeah? Well, here’s the thing,” Tony says, tilting his head. “She doesn’t want to have a conversation with you.”

Nathan raises his hands. “Didn’t mean to step on any toes.”

Tony smiles, but it’s not friendly. “Oh, buddy, you stepped on mine, and I really don’t like that.”

Nathan shifts uncomfortably.

Tony straightens, taking a step back—but then he leans down again, close enough that only Nathan can hear when he says, “If you ever talk to her like that again, I will ruin your entire life before breakfast.”

Nathan swallows.

Tony claps him on the shoulder, grinning. “Now, I think we’re done here.”

Nathan nods quickly, then turns and practically flees the office.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Tony turns to you, concern flickering across his face. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just… guys like that make my skin crawl.”

Tony watches you for a moment, then surprises you by gently brushing his fingers over yours.

You glance down at your hands, startled.

It’s not much. Just the lightest touch. But it makes your heart stutter.

“Next time, just say the word,” Tony says softly. “I’ll handle it.”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is.

“I—uh—thank you,” you murmur.

Tony smirks, his fingers curling around yours for just a second before he lets go.

Then, just like that, he’s back to normal, plopping onto the couch and stretching like nothing happened.

But something did.

And for the first time, you wonder if you’ve been missing something this whole time.

In the days after the Nathan incident, something shifts.

You don’t know what it is exactly, but you feel it.

Maybe it’s the way Tony watches you a little too closely when he thinks you aren’t looking. Or the way you replay that moment in your head—his fingers brushing yours, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

Or maybe it’s the way you feel when you look at him now.

You’ve worked for Tony long enough to know he’s magnetic. People gravitate toward him, caught in his orbit like planets around the sun. You’ve always thought he was charming in an annoying way, a flirt by nature, someone who could talk his way into—or out of—anything.

But now, for the first time, you find yourself looking at him differently.

You start noticing things you never did before.

The way his eyes soften when he looks at you. The way he always saves the last bite of his favorite snacks for you. The way he makes excuses to keep you in his office longer, even when the work is done.

And it’s terrifying.

Because if this was anyone else—anyone—maybe you’d let yourself admit it. Maybe you’d let yourself fall.

But this is Tony Stark. Your boss.

And that means it’s impossible.

So, you bury it. You convince yourself you’re imagining things, that Tony is just Tony, and you’re reading into it too much.

Then Nathan Ellis comes back.

You’re at your desk, sorting through a ridiculous amount of emails when Happy walks in, looking unimpressed as always.

“Great,” he mutters. “He’s back.”

You look up, confused. “Who’s back?”

As if on cue, Nathan Ellis strolls in, his smarmy grin already making your stomach twist.

Tony is in the corner of the room, tinkering with something, but at the sound of Nathan’s voice, his hands still.

Nathan leans against your desk. “Miss Y/N,” he says smoothly. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot last time.”

You keep your expression polite but distant. “Did we?”

He laughs. “Look, I’m not here to talk business today.”

Tony doesn’t like that.

His fingers tighten around his wrench, his jaw clenching as he subtly shifts closer to listen.

Nathan continues, oblivious. “I was hoping to make it up to you. Dinner, maybe? There’s a great place downtown. My treat.”

You blink, caught off guard.

Your first instinct is to say no. You don’t like Nathan. He made you uncomfortable, and you have no interest in him.

But then—Tony.

You don’t look at him, but you feel his presence. You feel the weight of everything unspoken between you, the things you refuse to acknowledge.

So before you can think it through, you hear yourself say, “Sure.”

It’s a knee-jerk reaction, a way to prove—to yourself, to Tony, to whatever this thing is between you—that you can still be rational. That you don’t have feelings for Tony. That you can move on, be professional, keep your life normal.

But as soon as the word leaves your mouth, you regret it.

Nathan grins, clearly pleased. “Great. I’ll pick you up Friday at seven.”

You nod stiffly, and he finally leaves.

Silence lingers in the room.

You risk a glance at Tony.

He’s looking at his workbench, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t say a word.

And that, somehow, makes you feel worse.

—

Friday rolls around faster than you expect.

You dread it.

The moment you wake up, you regret saying yes.

You don’t want to go out with Nathan.

But backing out now would make you look ridiculous, and you refuse to admit—to yourself or to anyone else—why you really don’t want to go.

So, you tell yourself you’ll go. One date. It’s not a big deal.

Then Tony ruins it.

The day is insane.

More meetings than usual, a sudden crisis with one of Stark Industries’ overseas contracts, a last-minute tech demo that Tony insists he needs you to be there for.

By the time you finally look at the clock, it’s almost nine.

Your stomach drops.

You completely forgot about the date.

You grab your phone, wincing when you see multiple missed calls and texts from Nathan, all of them getting progressively more annoyed.

Shit.

You stand abruptly, grabbing your bag.

Tony—who is lounging on the couch, looking suspiciously satisfied—raises an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”

You glare at him. “Did you do this on purpose?”

He blinks, all mock innocence. “Do what?”

“This.” You gesture wildly at the stack of paperwork still on your desk, the mess of your day, the way you were so busy you lost track of time. “You knew I had plans tonight.”

Tony shrugs. “Did you?”

You want to scream.

“Tony.”

Something flickers in his expression when you say his name like that—low, almost dangerous.

You step closer, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You did do this on purpose.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but the smug look on his face tells you everything.

He did this.

He made sure you were too busy to leave, too busy to go on the date.

And for some reason, that makes your heart pound in a way you don’t want to analyze.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter.

Tony leans back, tilting his head at you. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a date.”

You gape at him. “That’s not the point!”

“Then what is the point?”

“The point is you manipulated me into missing it!”

He stands, stepping into your space, close enough that you have to crane your neck to keep looking at him.

And suddenly, the room feels too small.

“I didn’t manipulate anything,” he says, voice low. “I just gave you work. You’re the one who got so caught up in it you forgot about him.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s right.

You were the one who didn’t check the time. The one who let yourself get wrapped up in Tony’s world.

And maybe—just maybe—it was because deep down, you didn’t want to go.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he wanted this. That he made sure it happened.

You shake your head, stepping back. “You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Mess with my life like this. You don’t get to control who I see, Tony.”

He flinches.

For a second, you think he’s going to argue, make another joke, deflect like he always does.

But instead, he just watches you, something raw and unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Then, he sighs. Runs a hand through his hair.

“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t.”

The honesty in his voice catches you off guard.

It almost—almost—makes you soften.

But you’re still angry.

So without another word, you turn on your heel and leave.

Tony doesn’t stop you.

And the worst part?

A small, traitorous part of you wishes he had.

You don’t make it far.

You storm out of the office, heart pounding, anger bubbling in your chest so violently you can taste it. You don’t even know where you’re going—just away.

Away from Tony and his smug little I didn’t manipulate anything face. Away from the way he looked at you, like he wasn’t the least bit sorry. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Like he had every right to do it.

You make it to the elevator before you hear him behind you.

“Y/N.”

You don’t turn around.

“Y/N,” Tony repeats, voice sharp now, edged with something you don’t recognize.

You stab the elevator button. “Go away, Tony.”

“Yeah, see, that’s not gonna happen.”

You spin on your heel, glaring at him. “Oh, what now? You gonna kidnap me? Make sure I never leave this damn building?”

Tony sighs like you’re the one being difficult. “I just want to talk.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” You laugh, crossing your arms. “Because when I was trying to talk about how you sabotaged my night, you had nothing to say.”

Tony clenches his jaw. “It wasn’t sabotage.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “So it was just a coincidence that today of all days you gave me twice as much work as usual? That you suddenly needed me in meetings I normally don’t have to be in? That you—”

“I didn’t want you to go.”

The words come out quiet, almost too quiet to hear.

But you hear them.

And you freeze.

Tony exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. His gaze flickers away for a second, like he’s regretting saying it.

But then he looks back at you, and there’s something in his eyes—something real.

Something that makes your stomach flip.

You swallow hard. “Tony…”

He shakes his head. “Just—come back to the office. Please.”

You should say no. You should walk away.

But you don’t.

Because even though you’re furious, even though every rational part of your brain is screaming at you to be professional—to keep things normal—there’s a deeper, quieter part of you that wants to hear what he has to say.

So, you turn. Walk back.

And Tony follows.

—

The office feels different when you get back.

Quieter. Tense.

You lean against your desk, arms crossed, watching as Tony paces the room.

“Well?” you say finally.

Tony stops. Looks at you.

And for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks… nervous.

Not the fake, exaggerated kind he puts on for show, but real nervous.

He exhales. “I don’t want you dating him.”

You scoff. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“I don’t want you dating anyone.”

Your breath catches.

Tony swallows hard. “Because I—” He hesitates, like he’s physically fighting the words. Then, finally, he just says it.

“Because I love you.”

Everything stops.

The air in the room shifts, like the world itself is holding its breath.

You stare at him, your brain struggling to process what just happened.

Tony looks like he wants to take it back, like he wants to shove the words back into his mouth and pretend they never happened.

But they did.

And suddenly, everything makes sense.

The way he looks at you. The way he knows you—your coffee order, your favorite movies, the way you feel about things before you even say them.

The way he brushed his fingers over yours that day, like it meant something.

The way he sabotaged your date—not because he was being petty, but because the thought of you with someone else made him want to burn the world down.

And, God—maybe you do love him.

Maybe you have for longer than you realized.

You exhale sharply, your heart slamming against your ribs.

“Say something,” Tony mutters.

You don’t.

You move.

Before you can second-guess yourself, before you can let all the rules and expectations stop you, you grab him by the collar of his stupidly expensive shirt and kiss him.

Tony freezes for half a second.

Then he melts.

His hands come up, one gripping your waist, the other tangling in your hair. He kisses you like he’s starving for it, like he’s been waiting for this—for you.

And maybe he has.

Maybe you both have.

When you finally pull back, you’re breathless.

Tony stares at you, lips parted, looking so completely wrecked that you almost laugh.

Almost.

Instead, you press your forehead against his, inhaling deeply.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

Tony chuckles, breath warm against your skin. “No, you don’t.”

You sigh, closing your eyes. “You could’ve just told me.”

“Yeah,” Tony murmurs. “But where’s the fun in that?”

You do laugh this time.

Because of course he’d say that.

Because of course it was always going to be this—messy, chaotic, inevitable.

And as Tony kisses you again—slow this time, like he never wants to stop—you know one thing for certain.

You’re never making it to another date with anyone ever again.

Tony kisses you like he’s making up for lost time. Like he’s wanted this for so long he doesn’t know how to hold back anymore. His hands grip your waist, fingers pressing into your skin through the fabric of your blouse as he pulls you closer, eliminating the last bit of space between you. You feel the edge of the desk dig into the small of your back, but you don’t care. Not when Tony’s mouth is on yours, not when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, not when his hand slides up your back, warm and firm and impossible to ignore.

You gasp against his lips, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt, and he groans in response. The sound sends a shiver down your spine, and suddenly you’re not thinking about where you are or what this means or how this is completely unprofessional. You’re only thinking about how much you want him. How much you’ve always wanted him, even when you didn’t want to admit it.

Tony shifts, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, and before you can process what’s happening, he lifts you onto the desk. You barely manage to let out a startled breath before he’s between your legs, pressing into you, his lips trailing from your mouth to your jaw to the sensitive spot just below your ear.

You tilt your head back, your hands moving on their own, pushing his jacket off his shoulders, sliding over the hard planes of his chest. Tony lets out a low curse, his breath hot against your skin, and you know this is getting out of control. You know you should stop. But then his fingers graze the hem of your skirt, and your heart is pounding, and—

A knock on the door makes you both freeze.

Your eyes snap open, and Tony’s lips still against your throat. For a second, neither of you moves. Your breath is ragged, and Tony’s grip on your waist tightens like he’s physically stopping himself from ignoring the interruption.

“Tony?”

Happy’s voice is muffled through the door, but it’s enough to jolt you back to reality.

You push at Tony’s chest, and he steps back with obvious reluctance. His eyes are dark, his hair is a mess from your hands, and his lips are swollen. The sight of him like this, completely wrecked, makes something deep in your stomach tighten.

You shake yourself out of it, sliding off the desk as you smooth down your clothes. Tony watches you, chest rising and falling like he’s trying to get himself under control.

“Yeah, yeah,” he calls out, voice rough. “Give me a second.”

There’s a pause, then the sound of footsteps retreating.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“That was—”

Tony smirks. “Hot?”

You glare at him, but it lacks heat. “Unprofessional.”

Tony sighs dramatically. “Yeah, that too.”

You shake your head, trying to ignore the way your entire body is still buzzing. “We can’t do that at work.”

Tony’s smirk widens, and you realize what you just said a second too late.

“So you’re saying we can do it outside of work?”

You groan. “Not what I meant.”

Tony grins, stepping closer again. His fingers brush your wrist, light and teasing. “Come over after your shift.”

You bite your lip, considering.

Tony dips his head, voice dropping. “I’ll behave.”

You snort. “No, you won’t.”

Tony shrugs, completely unapologetic. “Yeah, okay, I won’t.”

You roll your eyes but don’t say no.

Tony notices.

—

You don’t talk about what this means. You don’t sit down and define your relationship, don’t have some long, serious conversation about what you are to each other now.

But you don’t need to.

Because it’s obvious in the way Tony kisses you when you show up at his penthouse after work. In the way he pulls you onto the couch, his hands sliding under your shirt, his mouth never leaving yours. In the way you spend the night tangled in his sheets, waking up to his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

It’s obvious in the way he looks at you at work, in the way he always finds an excuse to touch you. A hand at the small of your back when he passes by, a brush of his fingers against yours when he hands you something, a teasing whisper against your ear that makes you shiver.

You try to be subtle.

You don’t want anyone thinking you’re only with him to climb the corporate ladder, and Tony—surprisingly—understands. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t announce it to the world, doesn’t make some grand declaration in the middle of a meeting.

But he also doesn’t hide it.

Not really.

Because the way he looks at you isn’t subtle. The way he finds any excuse to keep you in his office longer than necessary isn’t subtle. The way he calls you sweetheart in private and Miss Y/L/N in front of others with a smirk that says he knows exactly what he’s doing definitely isn’t subtle.

And then there are the stolen kisses.

The ones in the elevator when no one else is around. The ones in the hallway when he tugs you into a supply closet with a grin and a just real quick, I missed you. The ones at his penthouse when you show up after a long day and he greets you at the door with his hands already on your hips, pulling you inside like he’s been waiting for you all day.

Because he has.

You find yourself spending more nights at his place than your own. It starts slowly—one night, then two, then three. Then, before you know it, most of your stuff is at his penthouse, and you don’t even think about going home after work anymore.

Tony never says anything about it. He never asks you to stay.

But he doesn’t have to.

Because the way he holds you when you fall asleep says everything.

Because the way he presses a lazy kiss to your temple in the morning when he thinks you’re still asleep says everything.

Because the way he looks at you—like you’re the most important thing in the world—says everything.

Tony kisses you like he’s savoring every second. His hands rest on your waist, fingers pressing just enough to make you shiver. You’re sitting on his desk, legs wrapped loosely around his hips, completely lost in the moment. It’s a rare quiet afternoon in the office, just the two of you, and Tony has taken full advantage of it.

You hum against his lips as he trails his mouth down your jaw, then lower to your neck. His stubble grazes your skin, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. His lips are warm, soft, teasing as he lingers just beneath your ear. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Tony chuckles when he feels your breath hitch. You can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

You grab a fistful of his shirt. Tony responds with a slow, deliberate kiss to the side of your neck. His tongue flicks against your skin, followed by a light nip that makes you gasp. His mouth lingers there, sucking just hard enough to leave his mark.

A sharp knock on the door shatters the moment.

You both freeze. Tony exhales against your skin, shoulders tensing.

Another knock, this one louder.

Tony groans. "They have the worst timing, I swear—"

Then the door swings open, and your stomach drops.

Nathan Ellis stands in the doorway, his expression dark and furious.

The sight of him immediately kills any lingering warmth from your moment with Tony. He looks different from the smooth, arrogant man who asked you out—his jaw is clenched, his eyes cold, his posture rigid with anger.

You stiffen, already knowing this won’t be good.

Nathan steps inside without waiting for permission, eyes locked onto you. "You stood me up."

Tony straightens, immediately stepping in front of you in a way that makes it clear he has no intention of letting Nathan get any closer. "Big deal," he says flatly. "She didn’t want to go. Move on."

Nathan ignores him, eyes still burning into you. "You didn’t even have the decency to text me? Let me know instead of wasting my time?"

Your throat tightens. You don’t want to deal with this. "I got caught up at work. It wasn’t intentional."

Nathan scoffs. "Bullshit. You’re just another woman who likes to play games. You say yes to a date and then don’t even bother showing up? You think that makes you look good?"

Something shifts in Tony. His entire body goes tense, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "Watch how you talk to her."

Nathan finally looks at Tony, his upper lip curling in disgust. "Oh, I get it now. This is why you didn’t show up, huh?" His gaze flickers back to you, sharp and accusing. Then his eyes catch something on your neck, and his entire expression twists into something uglier.

Your stomach sinks.

You don’t even need to look in a mirror to know what he’s staring at. You feel the lingering warmth where Tony’s mouth was just moments ago.

Nathan lets out a short, bitter laugh. "Wow. That’s just perfect." He turns back to Tony. "Guess I should’ve figured. Why go out with someone like me when you can just screw your boss instead?"

Your eyes widen in shock.

Tony moves before you can react.

His fist collides with Nathan’s jaw, the impact loud in the silence of the office. Nathan stumbles back, his hand flying up to his face, a stunned expression flashing across his features before fury takes over.

"Tony!" You grab his arm before he can swing again, your heart pounding.

Nathan straightens, eyes blazing with pure hatred. "You’re insane."

Tony glares at him. "Get out."

Nathan sneers, wiping his mouth. "Oh, trust me, I’m leaving. But you’re gonna regret this. Both of you."

Tony doesn’t even let him turn fully before pulling out his phone and pressing a button. "Happy. Come get this asshole out of my office."

Nathan’s jaw tightens, but before he can say anything else, heavy footsteps echo down the hall. Happy Hogan appears in the doorway, expression unreadable but posture firm.

"Let’s go," Happy says.

Nathan glares at you one last time, then at Tony, before reluctantly stepping back. Happy follows him out, and just like that, he’s gone.

The office is silent again, but the tension lingers.

Your pulse is still racing. You take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm down. Then you look at Tony.

He’s standing there, still tense, his hand flexing like he’s barely holding himself back from going after Nathan again.

"You punched him," you say, still a little in shock.

Tony shrugs. "He deserved it."

You let out a breath, rubbing your hands over your face. "I can’t believe this happened."

Tony frowns. "You okay?"

You hesitate. "I just—" You groan. "Tony, you gave me a hickey."

Tony blinks, then smirks. "Just now realizing that?"

You glare at him. "I have to work in this office. People are gonna see."

Tony tilts his head, completely unbothered. "So? Let ‘em see."

You stare at him. "I don’t want them to see."

He sighs dramatically. "Alright, alright. I guess I can be more strategic about my placement next time."

You groan again, turning toward your desk. "I need concealer."

Tony snickers. "You could just wear a scarf. It’d be very elegant. Very old-Hollywood."

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. "You think this is funny."

Tony steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His chin rests on your shoulder as he murmurs against your ear, "I know this is funny."

You shove at him, but you’re smiling despite yourself. "You’re the worst."

"Yeah, yeah," Tony murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to your jaw before finally letting you go. "Now hurry up and cover it. I have a meeting in ten minutes, and I need my very professional assistant to not look like she just had a makeout session with her boss."

You roll your eyes, reaching into your bag for your concealer. Tony watches you with a stupidly smug expression.

You shake your head, but your heart is still racing for a completely different reason now.

Because even after everything, even after the chaos Nathan caused, one thing is crystal clear.

You and Tony? You’re solid. And no one—not Nathan, not anyone—can change that.

[misty-petals]

The limit

|Baekjin x Fem!Reader

|Obscenity, Smut, Sexual tension, unprotected sex

English is not my first language

Summary: You played too hard with Baek Jin's self-control—and you finally got what you wanted.

You always knew you were poking at something dangerous. Baek Jin wasn’t the type to fall easily for provocations. He looked over his shoulder, pretended you didn’t exist—but his eyes… His eyes always betrayed him. Always too dark, lingering too long, sliding over your body when he thought you weren’t looking.

But you noticed.

You counted the seconds.

—“How long are you planning to keep ignoring me?” —you ask on a random afternoon, leaning against his desk with a crooked smile.

He doesn’t even look up.

—“Until you grow up.”

You laugh. His audacity turns you on.

—“Lucky you, then. I grew up exactly where it matters.”

It’s subtle. Almost imperceptible. But his pen stalls for half a second over the notebook. And that’s when you know: you won. Not now. But soon.

ᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗ⁠ᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗ⁠ᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗ⁠ᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗᴗ⁠ᴗ

Soon comes earlier than expected. Rain crashes outside when he slams you against the bedroom wall, his large hands pinning your wrists above your head. His gaze is incandescent, and the silence is so dense that the sound of thunder feels far away.

—“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” —he growls low, his face so close to yours that you feel the heat of his breath. — “Keep pushing me, provoking me... thinking there won’t be consequences.”

You lick your lips, taunting.

—“Are there?”

His grip on your wrists tightens for a moment. He licks his own lips, jaw tense, chest heaving like he ran all the way here.

—“You think this is a game?”

—“It was never a game with you.”

The words come out softer than planned, and he hesitates for a second. But only a second. Because in the next, his lips are on yours—hot, furious, desperate. Baek Jin kisses you like he’s punishing and devouring you at once, like every day of provocation built up in each bite and each thrust of his tongue.

When he releases your wrists, his hands trail down your body with urgency, grabbing your waist, yanking your shirt off impatiently. The fabric hits the floor. The bra follows. He pauses for a second, just to look.

—“Fuck…” —he murmurs, voice low, hoarse, almost a confession.—“You’re way too hot for someone so damn annoying.”

—“And you’re way too grumpy to be this hot,” —you shoot back with a smug grin, yanking him by the collar of his shirt.

He groans, a deep sound from the back of his throat, and pulls you to the bed, laying you down firmly, his body settling between your legs as he works on your pants. You help him, hurriedly stripping the rest of your clothes, and he follows suit. The sight of Baek Jin taking off his shirt is enough to make you gasp: toned abs, predator gaze, and that simmering rage under his skin.

He doesn’t say anything when he kneels between your open legs, just pulls down his briefs with clenched teeth, eyes locked on yours. His cock is hard, thick, pulsing. And when he looks at you, it’s like he’s giving you one last chance to run.

But you won’t run.

You spread your legs wider.

—“I’m right here, Baek Jin.”

He leans over you, the tip of his cock brushing your wet entrance, and the groan that escapes his throat sounds almost like a stifled scream.

—“This is what you wanted, huh?” —he murmurs, voice dragging, tone heavy with tension. —“Wanted to see how far I could take it…”

—“Didn’t think you’d last this long.”

The smile that curves his lips is dangerous. And when he finally pushes in, slow and overwhelming, the air leaves your lungs. It’s hot. It’s full. It’s him. And every inch filled makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, panting.

—“Fuck… you’re… squeezing me so tight…”

—“That’s the least I could do after all this time, right?” —Baek Jin moves. And when he starts, he doesn’t stop.

The rhythm is firm, steady, almost cruel. He holds your waist with one hand and pins your thigh with the other, his hips slapping against yours with every wet thrust. The creaking bed mixes with your moans and his—low, raspy, like he’s fighting himself.

—“You’re a walking temptation,” —he growls against your mouth, face pressed close to yours. —“Wearing those short shorts, bending over just so I’d look…”

—“And you look.”

He smirks. A crooked, dangerous smirk.

—“I always look.”

The thrusts get rougher, more erratic. You feel the orgasm building, tearing through your belly like lightning ready to strike. He notices.

—“You’re gonna cum, aren’t you?”

You can only nod, eyes closing, body trembling.

—“Then cum with me,” —he whispers in your ear. —“I wanna feel it.”

And you cum. You cum screaming his name, nails digging into his back, body writhing under his. And when your walls tighten hard around him, Baek Jin finally loses control.

He thrusts once, twice more before burying himself completely, letting out a deep, almost animalistic groan as he cums inside you. His muscles tense, breath stutters, and he collapses on top of you, sweaty, panting, spent.

The silence that follows is filled only with breaths. And when he rolls to the side, still pulling you with him, hugging you against his chest, you feel his heart pounding erratically.

—“If you do that again…” —he starts, voice still rough.— “While I’m trying to study… I’ll take you right there, on the floor.”

You chuckle softly, biting his shoulder.

—“Then it’ll be hard to hold back.”

He runs a hand slowly down your back.

—“At this rate, I’m gonna break every rule because of you.”

You look at him, surprised by the moment of vulnerability. But he doesn’t look back. He stares at the ceiling, arm still around you, like he’s already accepted it.

—“Is that a threat or a promise?” —you ask.

This time, he looks.

And smiles.

—“Both.”

Hello! This is my first story in this style. Before, I had already written something with a more suggestive theme, but nothing as intense as this one. Anyway, I hope you like it and thank you very much for reading.

[fnzktn]

your universe

nonidol!danielle x bandgirl!reader

synopsis: danielle transfers to a new high school and quickly befriends the ever-reliable student council president, minji. everything seems fine—until she starts catching glimpses of minji in places she shouldn't be.

includes: SLOWBURN YAY!!! mistaken identity, strangers to lovers, cheesy lyrics, NO ANGST, aespa as your bandmates

word count: 16.5k🤭

the morning air is crisp and quieter than she’s used to.

not silent — not empty — but hushed in a way that makes danielle feel like she’s arrived too early for something. maybe it’s the new city. maybe it’s the jet lag still tugging at the edge of her thoughts. maybe it’s just nerves.

her shoes sound too loud on the pavement as she walks up to the school gates, her bag tugging at one shoulder, her fingers fidgeting with the zipper even though there’s nothing left to check. everything about this morning feels neatly arranged. uniform ironed, hair tucked behind her ears, schedule folded into her pocket like a safety net. and still, it doesn’t feel quite real yet.

until she hears her name.

“danielle marsh?”

she glances up and spots a girl standing by the gate, posture perfect, blazer buttoned, the rising sun catching faint gold strands in her neatly combed hair.

that must be the president, she thinks, she looks exactly like how a student council president should look — calm, composed, and like she never forgets her homework. her presence is the kind that gently fills a space rather than demands it.

“that’s me!” danielle says brightly, breaking into a wide smile and lifting one hand in a wave. “and you must be the president?”

she nods with a small smile.

“kim minji. i’m here to walk you in. hope that’s alright.”

“it’s more than alright. honestly, i was kind of preparing to be immediately abandoned at the front steps,” danielle jokes as she falls into step beside her. “you know, the classic transfer student rite of passage.”

“you’re spared, for now.”

they walk at a comfortable pace, but danielle finds herself sneaking glances at the buildings around them. they pass a group of second years gathered near a stairwell, someone playing a melody on a harmonica through an open classroom window, the faint scent of cafeteria bread floating in the air. it’s a lot, but not overwhelming — just new. like every corner holds a different kind of unfamiliar quiet.

“so… what electives did you sign up for?” minji asks as they climb the staircase.

“music, i think. or, well—whatever you call it here. i just ticked the box that sounded closest. is that okay?”

“it’s perfect,” minji assures her. “we’ve got a good music program. some of our students even play in bands.”

danielle perks up, grin immediate.

“really? what kind of bands?”

minji’s smile turns a little softer, more private.

“you’ll see.”

they reach the classroom at the end of the hall, where light spills through the tall windows in streaks across the floor, catching the dust in the air like static. the hallway is quieter here, the kind of hush that exists just before a bell rings. minji steps forward with an ease danielle can't help but envy, knocking once before sliding the door open. she exchanges a few words with the teacher — measured, polite, almost effortless — and then gestures toward her.

danielle breathes in, smooths down her skirt with both palms, and takes two steps forward with the same confidence she always carries, even if it wavers faintly at the edges.

“hi! i’m danielle,” she says, voice light and bright as it fills the room. a few students glance up from their desks. “i moved from australia a few days ago. i’m not scary, i swear, and if you ever need help with english homework, i’m probably your girl.”

someone lets out a low snort in the back. danielle flashes a grin in that direction without looking, then bows half-formally, half-playfully, before straightening again. the teacher nods approvingly and gestures toward the empty desk near the window.

right beside minji, who’s already sitting with her hands folded neatly on the desk and her pens arranged like a little color-coded fence. danielle makes her way over, the floorboards soft under her shoes, and slides into the seat with a small exhale — not nervous, exactly. just… aware. aware of how new the chair feels. how the classroom buzzes differently than the ones she’s used to.

she begins pulling out her notebook when minji leans slightly toward her.

“you’re very good at that,” she says, quiet enough that no one else will hear. her voice doesn’t carry like danielle’s — it sits closer to the chest, measured but warm.

danielle looks up. “at what? embarrassing myself? yes. years of practice,” she replies, tone dry but smiling as she unscrews the cap of her pen.

minji shakes her head, a small huff of a laugh under her breath. “no. talking to people.”

danielle pauses for a second. not because she doesn’t know what to say, but because that catches her off guard a little — not in a bad way. she turns to face minji more directly, her voice still soft but sincere. “i mean… it’s easier when everyone’s nice. and you’ve been really kind. not gonna lie, i was expecting, like… cold shoulder, mysterious elite-type vibes.”

minji lifts an eyebrow without turning. “that’s haerin,” she replies flatly, almost deadpan. “you’ll meet her later.”

there’s a beat of silence.

then danielle laughs — loud and sudden, tipping her head slightly back with the force of it before covering her mouth with her hand. the kind of laugh that fills space and draws a few subtle stares, though none she really minds. minji doesn’t laugh along, but her lips tug upward, pleased.

by the time the lunch bell rings, the classroom empties in waves. chairs scrape back in staggered bursts, footsteps shuffle past open windows, and voices rise as students spill into the hallway in clusters — some chatting, others already halfway through their bentos, phones in hand. danielle doesn’t rush. she takes her time slipping her notebook back into her bag, glancing once at the schedule tucked into the front sleeve like she still doesn’t quite trust she remembers where to go next.

minji waits near the door, arms lightly crossed, not impatient but stillness folded into her posture. she doesn’t speak until danielle’s beside her again, like she’s used to letting the moment stretch until it fits comfortably.

they walk in silence for a bit, weaving through a patch of sunlight bleeding in through the hallway windows. danielle notices how minji greets almost everyone they pass — a nod, a small smile, sometimes a quiet “hi” — but nothing loud. there’s no need for volume. people just… part for her. fall into place like water around a stone.

outside, the courtyard is already alive with the chaos of lunchtime. students occupy every surface — benches, planters, low walls, the shaded edge of the gym steps. the air smells like cafeteria steam and cheap snacks and the faintest hint of grass. the sun filters through the trees unevenly, dappling the stone with flickering shapes. someone’s bluetooth speaker is playing a pop song from somewhere in the middle distance.

minji leads them toward a bench under a tree — half-sunny, half-shadowed — where three girls are already seated.

danielle recognizes one of them immediately from the energy alone.

the girl with the wide grin and bouncing leg looks up first. she’s animated even before she speaks, like she’s mid-sentence in a conversation she’s been having with herself all morning.

“danielle,” minji says simply, turning toward her. “this is hanni, haerin, and hyein.”

danielle straightens a little, the curve of her smile bright and immediate.

“hi!” she says, just slightly breathless from the sun. “it’s really nice to meet you guys.”

hanni leans forward so fast it’s like she’s been waiting for this moment all day.

“australian?” she asks, squinting. “i knew you weren’t from around here. the accent. you have one. it’s cute.”

danielle laughs, shoulders relaxing, and sets her bag down beside the bench.

“thank you. i’ve been trying to tone it down. i said ‘thong’ earlier and someone looked at me like i was having a stroke.”

hanni snorts and claps her hands once in delight.

“no, keep it. be confusing. keep us on our toes.”

haerin, who’s seated slightly off to the side with earbuds tucked into her collar, looks at danielle for a long second. not unfriendly. just… observant. quiet. like she’s watching a movie she isn’t sure how to rate yet. she doesn’t say anything at first — just reaches into her jacket pocket and slides a juice box across the table with one finger.

“try this,” she says eventually, her voice low and even. “it’s the least bad one in the vending machine.”

danielle blinks, then grins again as she accepts it.

“thank you. that’s a very comforting review.”

“it’s a gamble,” haerin replies with a small shrug.

danielle cracks it open anyway and sips. it’s exactly average. and cold. and somehow perfect.

hyein swings into the scene like she’s late on purpose, balancing her tray with a cup of soup teetering on the edge and a half-folded paperback novel wedged under her arm.

“you’re already my favorite,” she says by way of greeting, not even sitting down yet. “i hope you survive your first week.”

danielle looks up at her with amused confusion.

“what happens if i don’t?”

hyein slides into her seat like she’s settling onto a throne.

“we hold a funeral. haerin plays sad songs. hanni gives a dramatic speech.”

“i would be so good at that,” hanni jumps in, eyes wide. “danielle was a light in this dim world—”

“she’s not dead yet,” minji says calmly, sipping from her drink without looking up.

it’s a simple moment. but something in the ease of it — the way they all speak over and around each other like it’s second nature, the way no one seems to be performing — makes danielle’s chest feel oddly warm. not quite settled. but close. she lets herself laugh — the kind that tilts her head and makes her close her eyes for just a second — and tucks her knees slightly in under the bench, spine loosening, muscles starting to forget they were tense.

they keep talking, the conversation jumping between unrelated things: a math quiz that ruined haerin’s morning, a weird bird hyein saw on the roof, the way hanni insists that banana ketchup is better than tomato. danielle follows every thread, half-listening, half-floating.

and then she sees it.

across the courtyard, beyond the rows of scattered tables and benches, someone walks by.

the motion catches her eye first. slow, steady. a figure with short, dark hair, head down, a black guitar case slung over one shoulder. their blazer’s unbuttoned, tie loose, boots scuffing quietly against the concrete with each step.

the sun hits the metal zipper of the case and flashes once. bright, then gone.

the girl doesn’t pause. doesn’t look around. doesn’t acknowledge anyone. just passes behind a hedge and disappears around the far building like she’s walking a path no one else sees.

danielle straightens a little without realizing it, her brows lifting.

“hey—who’s that?” she asks, nodding toward the space the girl just vanished into.

minji doesn’t even glance. just presses a thumb into the condensation building on the side of her drink.

“someone from the music room, probably,” she says.

it’s said gently. casually. like it doesn’t matter.

and maybe it doesn’t.

but danielle keeps looking at that empty space for a few seconds longer.

not because she’s curious. not exactly.

just because something in the way the girl walked reminded her of gravity. and danielle — for all her brightness, for all her charm — has always been the kind of person who notices when someone carries weight like it belongs to them.

even in passing. even from a distance.

the music room is warmer than it has any right to be. not suffocating, but full in a strange, sleepy way. like it’s been holding sound and sunlight too long and doesn’t quite know how to let go. dust drifts lazily through the slats of the blinds. there’s a faint buzz from one of the overhead lights that no one else seems to notice.

danielle steps inside slowly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fingers gripping her notebook a little tighter than usual. her first class here. first time sitting in a room full of strangers who aren’t reading from math books or squinting at history notes. she should be nervous. but instead, her brain snags on something else entirely.

sitting at the back of the room, resting one boot on the rung of a metal stool, is minji.

or at least — it looks like her.

same face. same nose. same sharp jawline. same eyes, almost. but the rest? the rest feels off, like she’s been painted in the wrong colors. this girl is slouched slightly, fingers lazily plucking at the strings of a guitar balanced across her lap. her tie is missing, her sleeves rolled, and her blazer hangs loose like she didn’t bother checking the mirror before leaving the house. she looks like she knows she’s late but doesn’t care.

danielle stands still for a moment, her shoes paused mid-step, eyebrows pinched.

did something happen?

because yesterday — and she remembers this clearly — minji was perfect. not intimidatingly so, but quiet and clean and composed in that way that made her seem carved out of habit. every line of her uniform was sharp. every sentence she said had edges smoothed down with intention. and now?

danielle’s eyes track the lazy way minji’s fingers move over the strings. she hasn’t even looked up. hasn’t acknowledged her. hasn’t said anything.

is this a phase?did she just… snap?

danielle finally moves toward an empty seat near the front but keeps glancing over her shoulder every few minutes, unable to help herself. it’s not like she’s trying to stare. it’s just—she doesn’t understand. and when danielle doesn’t understand something, her brain starts making theories at lightspeed.

was it stress? did the president thing finally crack her open like a soda can under pressure? because this? the loose tie, the boots, the unbothered energy? this is very not the minji who walked her to class yesterday and arranged her pens by color.

still — she says nothing the entire period. neither of them do. the class moves along slowly, the teacher introducing the semester’s structure and guiding them through a simple warm-up activity. danielle’s hands hover over her notes, but she doesn’t write anything down. she’s too focused on what minji is doing behind her. not much — just leaning back, half-tuned guitar in her lap, strumming something low and off-tempo. nothing polished, but rhythmic. confident in a way that doesn’t need to be loud.

when the bell rings, danielle hesitates.

she really should let it go. walk out, ask minji about it later, maybe bring it up gently over lunch in that “haha i saw you in music class and you looked like you fought god in the hallway” kind of way. but she doesn’t.

instead, she marches straight to the back of the room the moment the teacher says they’re dismissed.

the girl is packing up, slipping the guitar into its case with casual efficiency. and danielle — still convinced this is minji mid-spiral — opens her mouth before she can think better of it.

“hey—uh, hi,” she blurts out. “sorry, can i ask something kind of weird?”

the girl lifts her head.

it’s minji. it has to be. but her stare is flatter than usual, like she’s trying to decide if danielle’s real or a hallucination. her expression doesn’t change. doesn’t even twitch.

still, danielle smiles through it.

“did you, like, have a breakdown last night or something?” she asks, half-laughing but fully sincere. “like, a ‘throw out all your sweaters and join a band’ kind of thing?”

no response. not even a blink.

“not judging,” she adds quickly, rushing to fill the silence. “i mean, if being student council president finally broke you, honestly? power move. this whole vibe? ten out of ten. kind of a hot mess in the best way.”

the girl just stares at her. not blank. not angry. just… quiet.

danielle scratches the back of her neck, suddenly aware of how loud her voice sounds in the almost-empty room. “like, i get it,” she continues anyway. “pressure builds, and next thing you know you’re skipping meetings to write breakup songs and starting your villain arc—”

“what.”

a voice interrupts. not minji’s. someone else’s.

danielle turns and finds four girls approaching — casually, confidently, with the kind of loose coordination that only best friends or bandmates have. one of them — pale, blue-streaked hair, eyes like ice cubes — raises an eyebrow.

“what is this,” winter asks, glancing between danielle and the girl with the guitar.

“who’s she?” yizhuo says, genuinely curious.

“i have no idea,” aeri murmurs, but she’s already grinning.

karina nudges the girl — minji — on the arm. “new fan?”

none of them look shocked to see her. none of them seem to think anything’s out of place. and that’s what makes it worse — because these girls, these effortlessly cool people, clearly know this version of minji like it’s the only one they’ve ever seen.

danielle’s thoughts start spinning.

wait. are they her friends? but— she said she was close with hanni, haerin, and hyein— where are they? what is happening?

the girl — still staring at her — finally speaks.

“…what are you talking about?” she asks, voice deeper than she remembers. rougher. more grounded.

danielle opens her mouth. then closes it again.

the girls laugh. one by one, they file past her, bumping shoulders and tugging at guitar straps and tossing quiet jokes over each other’s heads. karina throws a backward glance and smirks. “we’ll leave you to it.”

“have fun,” winter adds, deadpan.

and then they’re gone.

the girl walks past danielle last, boots heavy against the linoleum floor, guitar case slung over her shoulder. she doesn’t say anything else. doesn’t explain. doesn’t confirm or deny anything.

she just leaves danielle standing there, mouth still half-open, heart racing in the most confusing way possible.

danielle blinks.

okay.

what. just. happened.

danielle pokes at her food with a plastic spoon, eyebrows furrowed as her mind replays the morning on a loop — a disjointed montage of mismatched details she can’t quite make sense of. a familiar face in unfamiliar clothes. a guitar. a stare that felt nothing like the minji she knows.

across from her, hanni is perched sideways on the bench, knees up, chin resting lazily in her palm. her juice box is still mostly full, the straw untouched. beside her, haerin flips through a paperback novel, eyes flicking across the page in slow, deliberate motion, like she’s not really reading but wants to look like she is. hyein has one earbud in and is balancing a half-eaten sandwich on her knee, her other hand scrolling through her phone with mechanical indifference.

danielle glances between them, suspicious.

there’s something off about the way they’re all acting. too casual. too conveniently uninterested.

“so,” she says, carefully. “i think minji might be having… a moment.”

hanni doesn’t move.

haerin doesn’t blink.

only hyein reacts — sort of. she raises an eyebrow, like she’s hearing danielle from underwater.

danielle sits forward slightly, bracing her arms against the table. “like a breakdown. but a quiet one. you know the type.”

still nothing.

“she showed up in my music class today,” danielle goes on, voice dropping, “with a guitar, loose blazer, combat boots, and the energy of someone who hasn’t smiled in seven years.”

that gets a small reaction: hanni’s mouth twitches. barely.

danielle doesn’t notice. she’s too deep in it now.

“i swear it was her,” she says, more to herself than anyone. “same face. same eyes. but she didn’t say a single word. just stared at me like i insulted her ancestors and her lunch in one breath.”

“hmm,” haerin murmurs, closing her book gently. “are you sure it was minji?”

danielle looks up. “who else would it be? she looked exactly like her.”

hanni finally shifts, trading her juice box for a breadstick. “you sure you didn’t just… dream it?”

“no, because karina, winter, yizhuo, and aeri were with her,” danielle insists. “like, casually. like they always hang out. and no offense, but i thought minji’s people were—” she gestures around them, “—you guys.”

there’s a tiny pause. fractional. enough to catch if you’re paying attention — which danielle is.

but none of them break.

“that’s… interesting,” hanni says slowly, tapping her chin with the end of the breadstick. “minji never mentioned she plays guitar.”

“exactly!” danielle exclaims, snapping her fingers. “and she didn’t say anything in class either! not even when i talked to her. just—blank. cold. like, ‘i only speak in riffs now’ energy.”

hyein crosses her legs under the table, still looking down at her phone. “are you sure she wasn’t just… tired?”

danielle stares. “guys. she had a guitar case. she was sitting with a band. she left with a band. it wasn’t a vibe. it was a rebrand.”

hanni blinks slowly, like she’s buffering.

“maybe she has a secret life,” haerin offers, voice unreadable.

danielle frowns. “secret life? as a guitar-playing ghost version of herself? like hannah montana?”

“stranger things have happened,” hyein says with a shrug. “there was that one senior last year who faked his transfer to another school just to avoid physics.”

“that’s not the same!”

hanni, haerin, and hyein all exchange the tiniest glances — barely perceptible, but heavy with unspoken amusement.

danielle sits back, lips pursed, spoon abandoned.

“…you guys are being weird.”

“us?” hanni blinks innocently. “how?”

“you’re all way too calm about this. i just told you your friend might be living a double life and no one’s even remotely surprised.”

“we trust her,” haerin says, placid as ever.

danielle narrows her eyes. “this feels like a prank.”

hyein snorts. “if it were a prank, you’d be in on it. you’re too expressive to be left out.”

danielle sighs, rubbing her face with both hands. “ugh. maybe i hallucinated. maybe the lunch meat is haunted.”

“or,” hanni says slowly, carefully, “maybe there’s a logical explanation, and you just… haven’t figured it out yet.”

danielle groans and lets her forehead hit the table with a dull thud.

none of them comfort her.

instead, they sip their drinks, hide their smiles, and carry on — like they’re not all waiting for the moment danielle finally says the words: minji, i think i met your evil twin.

because they know. they’ve always known. and watching danielle spiral is just too entertaining to ruin with the truth.

the next day, she waits until the last bell rings before she corners minji.

the hallway is still thick with students, but danielle weaves through them with practiced ease, sidestepping backpacks and slamming lockers until she spots minji at her cubby, adjusting the strap of her bag like she’s about to vanish.

“hey—wait! don’t leave yet,” danielle calls, catching up.

minji turns with the kind of calm that makes her hard to read — not surprised, not annoyed, just quietly curious.

danielle pulls up short, trying to catch her breath. “i need to ask you something, and it’s gonna sound weird, but i swear i’m not messing with you.”

minji raises one brow. “okay…”

danielle takes a steadying breath. “are you in a band?”

minji blinks. “what?”

“like, a real one. with instruments. and bandmates. and — and boots.”

minji’s lips twitch, but she doesn’t speak.

danielle continues. “because i think i saw you in music class yesterday? except not you you. you weren’t acting like yourself. you didn’t talk. you had a guitar. you walked away with, like, four other girls who all looked like they were about to headline a festival.”

minji tilts her head. “you’re saying you saw someone who looked like me?”

“not just looked — i mean, i was convinced. she didn’t correct me! i went up to her and started talking and she just stared at me like i was part of the ceiling.”

there’s a pause.

minji’s eyes soften slightly. her mouth quirks. “what did you say to her?”

“so many things,” danielle groans. “i thought you were going through a crisis. i told you to embrace it. i told you your new vibe was hot. i told you—oh god, i called it your villain arc.”

minji presses her lips together tightly, but her shoulders are starting to shake.

“you’re laughing,” danielle accuses.

minji nods slowly. “a little.”

“why are you laughing?”

“because,” minji says — and there’s something warm behind her voice now, like sunlight filtering through a window, “i think you met my sister.”

danielle goes still.

“…your what?”

“my twin.”

danielle’s jaw drops. “you have a twin?”

minji just nods, serene.

“that’s not fair,” danielle whispers. “you just — you — that’s — you can’t just have a twin and not say anything. i’ve been spiraling for hours. i thought i hallucinated a whole rebellion.”

“you didn’t ask,” minji says gently.

danielle turns in a slow circle, throwing her hands up. “oh my god. everyone knew, didn’t they?”

minji lifts a shoulder. “well…”

somewhere, faintly, she can hear hanni laughing two hallways down.

danielle groans into her hands.

minji pats her shoulder, trying — and failing — not to smile.

“don’t worry,” she says. “she does that to everyone.”

you catch the tail end of the conversation just as you round the corner.

it’s not like you meant to eavesdrop — the hallway’s narrow, and your footsteps are soft, and you’re holding the canned drink minji likes, still cold from the vending machine down the hall. you thought she’d be alone. thought you’d find her closing her locker, halfway through putting on her cardigan like she always does before the walk home. instead, you hear a voice that doesn’t belong to her. high, warm, frantic in that now-familiar way.

danielle.

you slow your pace, pausing just before the hallway widens. you can see the both of them now — minji with her bag half-zipped, danielle flailing her hands mid-explanation, eyes wide with disbelief. you can’t hear every word, but it’s not hard to put it together. you catch bits and pieces. “you have a twin?” followed by danielle’s groan of betrayal.

minji’s head turns just a fraction when she notices you. only a flicker. the barest shift in her posture. like an animal who’s learned to spot you even before you make a sound.

you raise the drink and nod.

she lifts a hand in return — small, barely more than a twitch of her fingers — before glancing back at danielle, who’s still processing the depth of her humiliation.

you wait a beat longer. then you step fully into view.

“your favorite,” you say, handing her the drink.

minji takes it like it’s muscle memory. “thanks.”

“ready to go home?”

her nod is small. steady. “yeah.”

you don’t say anything else. you don’t look at danielle, whose eyes are now bouncing between the two of you like she’s watching ghosts play out a scene she’s not prepared to understand.

instead, you turn. start walking. minji falls into step beside you like she always does.

neither of you explain.

and for a moment — just a moment — you feel the silence stretch long and comfortable between you. you don’t look back.

but you know she’s still standing there.

and that she won’t forget this.

she’s early to music class. for once.

partially because she wants to prove to herself that she can be on time when she wants to be, but mostly because her brain hasn’t stopped spinning since yesterday. the image of minji and her twin — side by side, effortless, synchronized — loops in her mind like a gif with no ending. the drink. the quiet conversation. the way they walked away without explaining a single thing, like they didn’t owe the world a damn word.

danielle had stood there for a full minute after they left, trying to process the existential horror of being the last to know.

now, seated at her desk, she stares at the empty chair beside her and braces for impact.

because if she’s right — and she is, now, confirmed — then the girl she mistook for minji earlier this week is about to walk in and sit next to her.

for the entire period.

as if on cue, she hears the familiar sound of boots.

low heels. solid tread. deliberate steps. her shoulders straighten instinctively.

the girl enters with the same quiet presence as before — blazer tied around your waist this time, sleeves rolled, collar slightly askew. guitar strapped to your back. there’s a pen tucked behind your ear and a crease in your sleeve and a scuff on the toe of one boot. you look like you meant to walk into a different timeline but ended up here anyway.

you don't look at danielle. just moves to your seat, shrugs off your bag, and set it down with practiced ease.

danielle sits frozen. like if she shifts too quickly, you will disappear again.

a beat passes.

then another.

“you’re not going to say anything?” danielle blurts before she can stop herself.

the girl — not minji — glances over. not annoyed. not surprised. just… tired. or maybe bored. it’s hard to tell.

“about what.”

danielle gapes. “you know what.”

there’s the tiniest twitch at the corner of your mouth. not quite a smile.

“mistaken identity?” you say flatly.

“that’s putting it mildly,” danielle huffs. “i basically gave you a TED Talk about your hypothetical emotional breakdown.”

now the girl does smile. barely. “it was entertaining.”

“you let me spiral.”

“you spiraled on your own,” you correct, eyes already drifting to the front of the room.

danielle stares at you. stares hard.

this is not minji. not even a little. the resemblance is exact — almost creepily so — but the energy? completely different. you’re all sharp edges and soft silences. you move like someone who doesn’t ask permission. like someone who’s learned how to vanish without leaving the room.

“i’m danielle,” she says finally.

you raise an eyebrow, not looking at her. “i know.”

a beat.

“…are you going to tell me your name?”

a long pause. then, without turning,

“y/n.”

just that. nothing else.

danielle lets the name settle on her tongue.

it doesn’t feel like closure. it doesn’t answer any of the thousand questions still circling her brain.

but it’s a start.

and she can’t help it — she smiles.

it’s only after the bell rings that danielle realizes she hasn’t written down a single thing all period.

her notebook’s still open, pen resting in the groove of the spine, but the page is blank — no notes, no doodles, not even a smudged line to fake productivity. just faint pressure marks where her fingers tapped in time with her thoughts. she glances down, then sideways — at you, seated beside her, still so composed it almost unnerves her.

you pack your things in no particular rush, unbothered by the noise of desks scraping and students scrambling toward the door. you move like someone who doesn’t register urgency the same way others do — slow but not sluggish, calm without forcing it. there’s a rhythm to it: you close your notebook, you roll your sleeves up to your elbows, you adjust the strap of your guitar case like you’ve done it a hundred times. maybe you have.

she watches you like she’s trying to figure out what the punchline is.

because none of this lines up with the version of you she met in her head.

that version — the version she thought was minji — didn’t speak, didn’t blink, didn’t break. that version terrified her a little. this version doesn’t, but she still doesn’t understand you. you look like minji but move like someone who’s been quietly disappointing people for long enough to stop trying to explain herself.

you don’t look at her once.

and still, danielle follows you out of the room like she doesn’t have a choice.

you walk ahead of her, just a little, not enough to call it intentional, but enough to remind her that you’re not walking together. you don’t talk. you don’t check to see if she’s keeping up. and she knows — knows — she should probably leave it alone. let it sit. you gave her your name, after all. she could’ve left it there.

but something about the silence stretching between you itches at her. like a space she hasn’t earned permission to fill, but wants to anyway.

when you stop walking — just near the stairwell — she nearly crashes into you.

you turn a little. not enough to face her, just enough for her to feel it.

“i don’t bite,” you say, and your voice is lower than minji’s. slower. flatter. something about it makes the hair on her arms stand up.

she blinks. “what?”

“you’ve been staring since class started.”

she winces. “i haven’t— okay. i have. but not in, like, a creepy way!”

you raise an eyebrow. that’s it.

danielle stumbles to explain. “i just— i didn’t expect you to be so… not minji.”

you don’t answer. you don’t nod, or roll your eyes, or laugh. just let the silence return like a door closing.

you stand there for a beat longer. then you move — fluid and effortless, like you’ve already forgotten she’s there.

she watches you walk down the stairs, boots thudding evenly against the concrete. she’s still rooted in place when she finally finds her voice again.

“hey, uh— do you always bring your guitar to school?”

you don’t pause.

but your voice drifts back anyway, clear and quiet,

“only on days i feel like being myself.”

and then you’re gone.

danielle stays where she is, heart thudding, like something significant just happened and she hasn’t caught up to it yet.

she thinks about your voice. the way you didn’t look back. the quiet gravity you carry like it’s something you never asked for.

she thinks about all the things you didn’t say.

and how somehow, those are the things she’s going to remember most.

by the time she finds her way back to the courtyard, danielle’s still not over it.

she sits at the usual table — or, well, what’s become the usual table over the last week — already halfway through a juice box she doesn’t remember buying. her knee bounces. her elbow’s in a puddle from a still-wet tabletop. she doesn’t care. her mind’s still stuck in that stairwell, clinging to the sound of your voice and the absolute absurdity of the moment.

only on days i feel like being myself.

what kind of line is that? who says things like that in real life?

“she’s unreal,” danielle mutters to no one in particular.

hanni looks up from her phone. “who is?”

“minji,” danielle says immediately. too immediately. “except not. not minji.”

three heads turn.

hanni’s expression stays neutral — carefully so. haerin lowers her chopsticks. hyein slides her glasses back up her nose like she’s preparing for something.

“okay,” hanni says slowly, “so like... maybe go back a sentence?”

danielle puts her forehead on the table.

“minji has a twin,” she says, muffled.

“does she now?” hanni replies, drawing out each word with wide eyes.

“yes!” danielle sits up, flailing her hands. “and none of you told me!”

“i thought you knew,” hyein offers, like she’s been caught halfway through a test she didn’t study for.

“how would i know?”

“you’ve been hanging around minji like, a lot,” hanni shrugs. “figured she mentioned it.”

“she didn’t!”

haerin raises an eyebrow. “you seem upset.”

“i am!”

they all just stare.

danielle throws her arms up. “she let me ramble to her about having an identity crisis! i thought she was having a breakdown. she said nothing. she just stared at me like i was narrating a fever dream.”

“and you’re sure it wasn’t minji?” hanni asks, voice way too casual.

danielle shoots her a look. “i’m sure. i talked to her today. her name’s y/n.”

there’s a beat of silence.

haerin stabs a dumpling. “cool name.”

“yeah,” hyein agrees. “very mysterious.”

“very not minji,” hanni adds.

danielle groans. “okay, now you’re all doing it.”

“doing what?”

“acting like this isn’t the biggest bombshell of the century!”

“danielle,” haerin says, her tone flat, “bombshell?”

“yes!”

hanni leans across the table, eyes sparkling. “so... which one do you like better?”

“hanni—”

“just asking.”

“they’re identical!”

“not personality-wise,” hyein points out. 

“minji’s like... calm. soft. you know. student council vibes.”

“and y/n?”

danielle’s shoulders sink a little. not because she’s annoyed, but because she doesn’t even know how to explain you yet. not really.

“she’s... different,” she says finally. “she’s quiet. not shy, just... still. like she’s already lived a whole life and she’s tired of explaining it.”

the table goes quiet for a beat too long.

then hanni grins. “wow. you’re kind of doomed, huh?”

danielle buries her face in her hands.

no one disagrees.

danielle is still trying to breathe normally when minji arrives.

she doesn’t make an entrance — she never does — but something about her presence always shifts the tone. the conversation softens, or redirects. people straighten up without meaning to. even hanni lowers her voice a fraction when she spots her approaching across the courtyard, lunch tray balanced neatly in one hand, the other curled loosely around a juice pouch.

“speak of the devil,” hyein mumbles under her breath, just loud enough for the group to hear.

minji doesn’t catch it — or maybe she does and chooses not to react. she sets her tray down beside danielle and slides into the seat like she’s done it a hundred times before. like nothing has changed. like there isn’t a small storm still swirling under danielle’s skin.

but minji’s close now. too close for danielle to ignore the resemblance that’s been haunting her for two straight days.

she’s wearing her hair half up, pulled back with a pale green clip. simple earrings. she looks sharp today — clean lines, crisp collar, not a strand out of place. and yet, the moment she sits down, danielle’s brain flashes back to your rolled sleeves, your boots, your voice.

she can’t help it.

they’re identical, but not at all the same.

“hi,” minji says casually, like nothing’s different.

danielle stares at her for a beat too long before answering. “hey.”

the others pretend not to notice, but their silence is louder now.

haerin’s chewing slowly, like she doesn’t want to get involved. hyein’s flipping a fry over and over with her chopsticks, not eating. and hanni — hanni’s got this look, like she’s holding in a laugh so hard it might actually kill her.

minji unpacks her utensils with the same tidy rhythm as always. she glances up just once — at danielle — then looks away, like she already knows.

like she’s waiting.

and danielle knows she should say something. or ask something. anything. but her throat’s suddenly dry, and her mind’s suddenly blank, and she’s very aware of how normal everything looks on the outside when it’s absolutely not.

finally, she clears her throat. “so... your twin?”

minji doesn’t flinch. doesn’t pause. just finishes slicing her omelet into two clean halves.

“what about her?” she asks, quiet.

the group goes very still.

danielle frowns. “nothing. just... she’s cool.”

minji nods. “she is.”

and then that’s it. no elaboration. no teasing. no “i can’t believe you didn’t know.” she just eats her lunch like it’s any other day.

danielle feels like she’s going insane.

she looks to the others — for backup, for context, for anything — but they’re all too busy pretending this is normal. hanni’s sipping through her straw like it’s her job. haerin has pulled out a crossword. hyein’s reading the label on her juice box like it holds the secrets of the universe.

no one’s helping her.

so she just... sits there.

trying not to look as lost as she feels. trying not to picture your face instead of minji’s.

and failing. completely.

she’s not looking for you. not really.

school’s out, the courtyard’s thinning, and danielle’s halfway through a warm canned coffee when it happens — one of those moments that just… drops itself in front of you and refuses to be ignored.

it starts with laughter. not loud, not attention-seeking. just soft and short, like the kind that slips out when you’re not thinking too hard. she looks up — not even sure why — and there you are.

walking up beside minji like you’ve always belonged there.

no announcement. no dramatics. just… there. hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows. guitar case slung over one shoulder. your other hand reaches into your tote bag, and without even looking, you pull out a small, slightly squished bread roll wrapped in tissue.

you hold it out. not toward the sky. not like you’re proud of it. just directly to minji.

“still warm,” you say. “told the lady not to cut it.”

minji accepts it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “you always know when i crave bread.”

“i live to serve,” you say, voice dry but not cold.

“mhm,” minji hums. “a loyal peasant.”

“a tired one,” you mutter.

and that’s it.

danielle watches you both fall into step, walking toward the back gate, sharing that single bread roll like it’s some quiet sibling ritual. you don’t speak much — just bits and pieces, clipped lines passed back and forth like second nature. minji says something that makes you huff through your nose. you elbow her. she elbows back. no hesitation.

the kind of closeness that doesn’t need to explain itself.

and that’s what does it.

not the twin thing — danielle’s already wrapped her head around that. not the resemblance, or the confusion, or even the fact that you tricked her into monologuing the day before with that unreadable stare.

what gets her is how real it looks. how effortless. the way your body tilts slightly toward minji as you walk. the way she tears the bread roll and gives you the bigger piece. the way your steps fall in sync by habit, not design.

danielle doesn’t know why she expected it to be weird. forced. uncomfortable.

maybe because everything in her life feels a little like that lately — a puzzle she’s still piecing together while smiling through the gaps. but the two of you don’t look like that. you look like something whole.

and for the first time since she met you, she doesn’t feel the need to ask anything.

she just watches you both disappear down the path, arms brushing occasionally, heads bowed in some private rhythm. two faces she’s come to know — one gentle, one unreadable — moving as one.

same frame. same blood. but unmistakably your own people.

you get home before the sun’s completely down.

the sky’s still a little orange when you drop your bag by the door, guitar case leaning against the wall with that familiar thunk. no one says anything — your parents aren’t home yet. the light in the kitchen is off. the air smells faintly like dust and leftover rice.

minji’s room clicks shut down the hall. you don’t follow.

you don’t need to.

some twins share everything. toothbrush cups. playlists. friend groups. sometimes clothes. sometimes faces. you and minji just share faces and silence. and it’s enough.

you make tea, too hot to drink, and sit on the floor of your bedroom with your back against the bed. the window’s open. there’s a siren somewhere far away, a dog barking at nothing, and the faint echo of someone rehearsing scales two blocks down.

your fingers tap patterns against your cup. not a song. just muscle memory.

you think about your day in pieces. the bad tuning in music class. the vending machine that ate your coins. the breeze on the walk home. the way minji looked at you sideways after you handed her the bread — like she was about to say something but didn’t.

and then, after all of that, you think about her. the girl with the warm voice. the one who mistook you for your sister. again.

you didn’t expect her to follow you after class. you didn’t expect her to talk, either — not like that. rambling. panicked. dramatic in the way that made your chest itch, not with annoyance, but with the kind of secondhand embarrassment that lingers longer than it should.

you should’ve told her the truth.

but it was kind of funny. and kind of... interesting. the way she talked so much just to fill the space between you. like silence made her nervous. like you did.

you take a sip of your tea. it burns your tongue, but you don’t flinch.

you’re not thinking about her, not really. not about the way she looked at you — like you were a puzzle that shouldn’t exist. not about how she didn’t even try to hide her confusion. not about the way her voice caught when she asked if you were okay, like you’d fallen apart without realizing.

you’re not thinking about her at all.

you’re just... listening to the street noise, trying to hum a melody that keeps slipping away.

your guitar is still in its case. you don’t reach for it. not tonight.

instead, you lean your head back against the bed and let your eyes slip shut.

and maybe — just maybe — you let yourself wonder what she’ll say to minji tomorrow.

you kind of hope you’re nearby when it happens.

you wake before your alarm.

it’s still dim outside, the sky grey with the kind of morning that doesn’t promise much. you lie still for a minute. not tired, not exactly rested. just somewhere in between. your room’s quiet — no music yet, no kettle boiling, no floorboard creak from down the hall. it’s the kind of stillness you almost don’t want to break.

but you do. slowly.

you move through the motions without thinking. brush your teeth, tie your laces, pull your hoodie over your head. your guitar stays in the corner today. your bag is lighter for it. you make toast for yourself and an extra piece without asking why.

minji enters the kitchen five minutes later, adjusting her watch.

you don’t speak immediately. you just hand her the toast.

“no crust,” you say, even though she can already see.

“you spoil me,” she murmurs, taking a bite.

you shrug, sitting opposite her at the table. the silence between you isn’t awkward. it never is. it just breathes. she scrolls through her planner. you stare out the window. she finishes eating. you hand her a tissue before she even asks.

when it’s time to leave, you walk together. not side by side at first, but close enough that your steps fall in sync after a few blocks. you take the shortcut behind the bakery, like always. she makes a note about a student council meeting. you hum in response.

before you reach the gate, she glances sideways.

“you’re quiet.”

you smirk faintly. “i’m always quiet.”

“quieter than usual.”

you don’t answer.

minji doesn’t press.

but before you slip through the side entrance, she taps your arm gently.

“if she says anything today, don’t be mean.”

you pretend not to understand. “who?”

“you know who.”

you roll your eyes and keep walking.

you do know. and you don’t plan to be mean. not really.

class drags.

not because of the lesson — though the topic’s dry, and the teacher’s voice is the kind that makes fluorescent lights feel louder — but because danielle keeps trying not to look at you. and failing.

you’re sitting two rows ahead, two seats to the left. just far enough to avoid direct contact, but close enough that every time you shift in your chair, it pulls her attention like gravity.

you’re not taking notes. your notebook’s open, pen in hand, but your eyes are somewhere else. not bored — just distant. like you’re thinking about something deeper than the room, the class, the noise around you. you do that a lot, she’s noticed. disappear in place. quiet, steady, unreadable.

danielle doesn’t mean to stare. she tells herself that every time. and every time, she loses track of her own writing.

by the time the teacher calls for pair work, her page is a mess of half-finished bullet points and one very crooked diagram.

everyone starts turning toward their usual partners. chairs scrape, voices rise. she sees minji shift beside her, already pulling her desk slightly toward hanni’s. haerin and hyein lock eyes across the aisle. there’s a rhythm to it now, these class routines. even if she’s still learning where she fits.

and then she looks at you again — and you’re still alone.

you haven’t moved. your desk is unchanged, body angled slightly toward the window. your fingers are tapping lightly against the edge of your notebook, like you haven’t decided whether to stay or leave.

danielle hesitates. then moves.

she grabs her notebook and rises, slipping through the small gaps between desks. doesn’t ask. just lowers her voice and stops beside you.

“do you—” her throat catches. she clears it. “want to work together?”

you glance up. slowly.

your eyes land on hers with the kind of weight that doesn’t immediately answer. not cold. not kind. just still.

she almost backtracks.

but then you nod. once.

and that’s all it takes.

she slides into the seat beside you.

you don’t speak much at first. she reads the prompt aloud. you answer with short replies, low and flat, but clear. her handwriting improves as you go. she catches herself smiling once — at the way you draw arrows between your notes, not for neatness, but for logic. her heart calms down a little. her shoulders drop.

“you’re… really smart,” she says after a while, unsure why she says it out loud.

you don’t react at first. then, “you sound surprised.”

“not surprised,” danielle rushes to clarify, “just—okay, yeah. a little. you’re quiet.”

“quiet doesn’t mean unaware.”

“no, yeah, totally. i just meant—”

you turn to look at her. not sharply. not unkindly. but directly.

“you talk a lot.”

it’s not accusatory. just true.

danielle blinks. then laughs under her breath, rubbing the back of her neck. “yeah. i know.”

you don’t smile, but your eyes shift — something unreadable, something not quite blank.

“it’s not bad,” you say. then you look down at the worksheet again. “just loud.”

danielle doesn’t answer.

she just watches you underline a sentence and pass the sheet halfway across the desk — and feels the tiniest, strangest victory press into her ribs.

you’re tuning your guitar when it starts.

it’s quiet at first — just the scrape of a stool leg, the soft thud of drumsticks against the floor, the hum of an amp still warming up. you keep your head down, fingers working the tuning pegs with care, listening for the right pitch, the right tension. fourth string’s a little flat. you twist it gently. let it settle.

behind you, someone exhales through their nose like they’re trying not to laugh.

you don’t turn around. you already know it’s winter.

the space smells like sweat and takeout. it's small — barely wide enough to stretch your arms without bumping someone’s gear — but it's yours. worn rugs over concrete. empty water bottles in the corner. the keyboard has a sticky D key and the bass drum pedal squeaks when aeri gets too enthusiastic. but no one complains. this is where you breathe the easiest.

karina's already set up her bass. she’s leaning against the wall now, eyes half-lidded, casually plucking at her strings like she’s waiting for something to happen — or maybe just waiting for you to realize something already happened.

you strap your guitar over your shoulder. test the weight.

“so,” yizhuo says from the keyboard, not looking up. “you and the australian girl.”

you blink once. pause. adjust the strap.

“…what about her?”

aeri snorts from behind the drum kit. “don’t play dumb. we all heard what happened yesterday.”

“in class?” you mutter, without turning.

“mm. in class. in the hallway. at lunch. you getting followed around like a lost puppy—”

“she wasn’t following me.”

“no?” karina chimes in. “so she just happened to show up next to you. again. and again. and again.”

you sigh. plug your guitar in. the amp buzzes softly.

“she’s new.”

“she’s interested,” winter corrects, barely hiding her grin.

you don’t say anything. your fingers test a chord, E minor. it rings clean. too clean. you press down harder.

“she said she wants to get to know you,” aeri adds, tapping her sticks together in a lazy rhythm. “that’s basically a confession in y/n-language.”

“is there a y/n-language now?”

“oh, definitely,” yizhuo says, smiling behind her mic. “it's made of long silences, deep sighs, and occasional sarcastic remarks that actually mean you care.”

you strum again. G major. sharp on the second string.

you fix it.

you don’t look up.

karina lowers her bass slightly. “you didn’t tell her back then, huh.”

“tell her what.”

“that you’re a twin.”

you shrug. “didn’t come up.”

winter cackles. “didn’t come up? she thought you were minji mid-breakdown, dude.”

you frown.

“it was kind of funny,” yizhuo says gently. “also kind of sweet.”

you finally look up.

they’re all watching you now. not in a mean way — not even in that too-eager, matchmaking way. just… quietly. like they know something you won’t say out loud.

and maybe they do.

you sigh. press your pick to your bottom lip.

“she talks a lot,” you mutter.

“so do we,” karina shrugs.

“she looks at me weird.”

“you’re hot,” winter says plainly.

you roll your eyes.

aeri leans forward over the kit. “she’s not looking at minji when she does that. you know that, right?”

you glance away.

your fingers drift across the fretboard — not playing yet, just testing spaces between notes. D. F sharp. A. minor again. it’s muscle memory by now. the only language you trust when the room gets too quiet around questions you don’t want to answer.

“she’s just curious,” you say.

“and you’re just pretending you’re not,” yizhuo answers, soft and sure.

you don’t respond.

the silence stretches again, this time filled with something warmer. not teasing. not pushing.

just there.

you finally strum a slow progression. it hums through the amp — low, clean, steady. you let it ring, eyes on the floor, the warmth of their presence wrapping around you like a familiar soundcheck hum.

karina nods, starts matching your rhythm. winter joins in half a beat late, smile lingering under her breath.

aeri counts them in.

and just like that, you begin.

but somewhere between verse and chorus, your mind slips — just for a second — and you hear her voice again. talking too fast. hands flailing slightly. eyes bright like she’s trying too hard not to look nervous.

you don’t mess up the chord.

but your fingers press a little lighter.

there’s no sudden spark. no dramatic realization. no moment of clarity that punches you in the chest and leaves your hands shaking.

instead, it creeps in quietly — like the slow build of a song you’ve heard a dozen times but only just started listening to. like light slanting through your practice room window at golden hour, pooling warm on the worn-out floor, softening everything it touches.

danielle starts walking with you after class. not every day. not predictably. but often enough that it begins to feel routine. she doesn’t announce it — doesn’t say, “can i come with you?” or “mind if i tag along?” she just appears beside you, bag slung over one shoulder, a little out of breath like she’d jogged to catch up, and then starts talking like you’ve been mid-conversation all along.

you never tell her to go away.

sometimes she talks the whole walk — about her classes, her sister, the weird things hanni says during lunch. other times she just hums. low and absent-minded, like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. when she falls quiet, it’s not awkward. it’s not a demand for you to speak. it just... breathes.

you like that. more than you thought you would.

you notice small things first. the way her backpack always has something slightly poking out — a notebook with a chewed-up spiral, a dangling keychain, a loose headphone cord that tangles around the zipper. the way she walks with her elbows just a little bent, like she’s always about to gesture. how she leans toward you sometimes, not in an obvious way, but enough that her shoulder brushes yours if the sidewalk gets narrow.

she never comments on the way you walk with your head down. never points out how you keep one earphone in, even if nothing’s playing. she doesn’t ask questions you don’t want to answer.

instead, she hands you a folded candy wrapper and says, “this looks like your energy.” you stare at it — blue foil with a badly printed moon. you don’t know what it means. but you keep it anyway.

at band practice one weekend, she shows up fifteen minutes early.

you’re adjusting the mic stand. karina’s fiddling with her tuner. winter’s arguing with yizhuo about a synth line that sounds too much like a cartoon intro. danielle just walks in, backpack slung low, cheeks flushed from the sun, and drops herself into the beat-up couch like she belongs there.

you freeze. just for a second. then keep moving.

she doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t ask questions. she just watches. her eyes track your hands when you check the pedal board, linger on your face when you speak quietly to aeri about tempo.

and when you sit down during break, she sits next to you without asking.

she reaches for your water bottle — the one you haven’t opened yet — and drinks from it like she’s done it a hundred times. you feel the movement more than you see it, the tilt of her shoulder toward yours, the soft creak of plastic. when she hands it back, her thumb brushes yours.

you don’t say anything. neither does she.

and when her head tips, just slightly, enough to rest the weight of her hair near your arm, you still don’t move.

you tell yourself you’re just tired.

she doesn’t bring it up. not later that day, not the next. and neither do you.

but something shifts. not loudly. not dramatically.

just enough.

after that, she starts noticing your habits. not because you told her. because she pays attention.

she learns that you tend to fall quiet when there’s too much noise around — not out of discomfort, but to conserve energy. she notices that you rub your thumb against the side of your index finger when you’re thinking too hard. she figures out that when you give short answers, it doesn’t mean you’re mad — it means you’re overwhelmed, or overthinking, or unsure.

you catch her watching you sometimes. not in a staring way. just in a patient way. like she’s still piecing the shape of you together and doesn’t want to miss anything.

you don’t ask what she sees. you’re not sure you want to know.

but one evening — late, too late to still be out — you walk her halfway home after a show. she’s yawning and still talking too much, and you’re holding her wrist lightly because the sidewalk’s uneven. she doesn’t pull away. just keeps talking. her voice is lower now, softer, like she’s saving the last of her energy for you.

then, out of nowhere, she says:

“do you ever get tired of people not knowing what to do with you?”

you stop walking.

not suddenly. just enough to make her pause too.

the question doesn’t feel cruel. it doesn’t even feel heavy. it just… lingers.

you look at her for a long time. the streetlight flickers once behind her. her eyes catch it like gold. she looks concerned. but not afraid.

you shrug. “i don’t mind it.”

her gaze softens. she nods. “i think i would.”

you tilt your head. “you’re not me.”

“no,” she says. “but i want to understand you. even if it takes a while.”

she says it like a promise.

you don’t reply. you just look at her. and she waits. doesn’t fill the silence. doesn’t fidget.

just stays.

and something in you begins to steady.

the rain’s been falling since morning. not the loud kind — just steady, soft, rhythmic. it clings to the rooftops, crawls along the windows, dampens the streets until everything feels hushed and half-awake.

you don’t usually wait for people after class. you leave fast, take the back stairwell, disappear into the city like a smudge of color on a grey afternoon. but today, you linger by the lockers. bag slung low. hair sticking slightly to your temple. no one says anything about it.

danielle shows up a few minutes later, umbrella tucked under one arm, smile blooming even before she sees you.

“you waited?”

you shrug. “you have the better umbrella.”

she laughs, not quite expecting the joke. she opens it with a practiced flick of her wrist, the fabric snapping into place above you both. yellow again. always yellow. obnoxious and bright and hers.

you walk in silence for a while. your sleeve brushes hers. the rain hits the umbrella like soft static.

eventually, she says, “wanna stop somewhere?”

you don’t answer right away. but you don’t say no.

there’s a bakery a few blocks out of the way. it smells like sugar and warm dough and melted butter. the glass windows are fogged. the inside is lit like someone turned the sunrise on and never turned it off.

you order something with cheese. she gets something flaky with a name you forget. you both end up sharing without asking.

there’s only one table left — near the back, beside a rack of free newspapers and a window with condensation trailing down in uneven lines. she pulls out her phone halfway through the meal, untangles her earbuds. hands you one without a word.

you take it. it feels… normal. not forced.

she presses play.

it’s something soft. piano, strings, maybe. not what you expect. you don’t ask.

you lean your elbow on the table. she mirrors you.

neither of you speaks.

the song shifts, moves from one melody to another, and you realize she made a playlist. not a random one. a curated one. the kind someone makes when they want you to understand something without having to say it out loud.

you listen. not just to the music — but to the shape of the silence around it.

and when you catch her watching you, just barely, just enough, you don’t look away.

you let her see.

danielle doesn’t remember when it stopped feeling one-sided.

she used to think it would always be like that — her talking too much, overstepping, filling the space because silence felt like rejection. she thought you would always stay at arm’s length, unreadable, cautious, tilted slightly away.

but now?

now you wait for her after class. you text back, sometimes within seconds. you don’t flinch when she leans close. you don’t shut down when she laughs too loud. you still don’t say much — but when you do, it’s never meaningless.

she started to understand your rhythm.

you’re not cold. you’re careful. you’re not distant. you���re… measured. you let people in slowly. not because you don’t care, but because you care too deeply. and too quietly. and too much.

she knows you won’t say what she means to you — not yet, maybe not ever. but she sees it in other ways. how you remember the details she forgets. how you never forget to pull her umbrella closer when the wind shifts. how you always hand her the last bite of whatever you're eating even when you roll your eyes doing it.

she notices how you stop walking when she says something real. how your eyes soften when she talks about her family. how you always look at her hands when she’s nervous, like you’re trying to see what she’s holding onto.

it’s past ten when your phone buzzes once on your desk, the sound soft under the hum of your electric fan. you don’t check it right away — you’re halfway through untangling your guitar cable, fingers already a little sore from earlier practice. but when you finally look, it’s her name. “are you still awake?”

you think about ignoring it. you think about what it might mean — why she’s texting instead of sleeping — but in the end, you just type back: “kinda. why?”

a minute passes. then your phone lights up again — this time, a call.

you let it ring once, twice. then you answer.

“hi,” danielle says. there’s something in her voice — soft, a little embarrassed. “sorry, i know it’s late. i just… forgot what that lit term was. the ‘meta’ something?”

you shift in your chair, rub your thumb over your eyebrow. “metonymy?”

“yes!” she exhales like she’s been holding her breath. “that. god, i typed ‘melatonin’ in the gc and deleted it immediately.”

you huff out a laugh, but your voice stays low. “close enough.”

you expect her to hang up. you wait for the usual “thanks, night!” but it doesn’t come.

instead, “what’re you doing?”

you glance at your floor, still littered with practice scraps. “sitting.”

“can i stay on the line?”

there’s a pause where you could say no. where you should. but instead you shift your phone from your hand to your shoulder, curl into the space beneath your desk like it’s a fort, and let the silence answer for you.

she talks about nothing, then everything — her sister’s weird sleep habits, how she used to be scared of elevators, the song that made her cry last week. you don’t say much. you don’t need to. her voice fills the space between the night and your walls. and when the silence settles in for good, neither of you says goodbye. you just fall asleep like that, your phone cooling by your pillow, her breathing still quiet in your ear.

the next day, you’re coiling strings at your usual corner of the band room when she walks in, still in her uniform, bag slipping off one shoulder. she drops to a crouch without asking and scans the mess of wires, pegs, and tools in front of you.

“you need a hand?”

you grunt, “not unless you know how to loop a high e.”

“i definitely don’t,” she says, reaching for the wrong end anyway.

you don’t stop her.

she fumbles through the first attempt, tongue caught between her teeth. you try not to laugh. she curses under her breath when the string slips, and when your hands meet to realign it, she freezes — just for a second — before continuing like nothing happened. her knee bumps yours. you don’t move.

“this feels like surgery,” she mutters, head bent close enough that you can smell her shampoo. you hum in agreement and let the quiet take over. you keep winding. she keeps watching. and when she leans in again — closer this time, to inspect your frets — her shoulder brushes yours and stays there.

you don’t say anything. neither does she.

when you finally look up, you notice the uneven line of her collar — one side crooked, the button half-done. she’s still staring at the strings like she’s memorizing something. without a word, you reach over, smooth the fold flat, fix the button, tug the fabric gently into place.

she blinks. doesn’t move. doesn’t ask.

you go back to tuning like it never happened.

but she stays a little closer after that.

after practice, she hooks her finger into your sleeve before you can head to the gate. “come with me,” she says, already tugging you toward the back street near the train station. “you haven’t lived until you’ve had their fish cakes.”

you want to tell her you’ve had them before. that this stall isn’t new. but her hand is still lightly hooked in your sweatshirt, and her voice is already soft with excitement.

the street is lit by a few flickering lamps. the vendor waves without looking up as danielle orders too much food, splitting the sticks and sauce trays like she’s done it a dozen times. you sit on the curb, knees nearly touching, steam curling into the night air.

she talks with her mouth full. about music, about dreams, about how she almost joined a different club before choosing music as an elective “because the flyer had a little cartoon guitar on it and i trusted the vibes.”

you laugh once. just a breath through your nose.

her fingers are sticky with red sauce, and when she tries to smear some on your wrist, you dodge just in time. she gasps — dramatic — and falls sideways into you like she’s fainting from betrayal. her weight is warm against your side. your hand twitches but doesn’t move.

she’s still grinning when she leans back up. “you’re fun when you’re not pretending not to care.”

you don’t answer. you just take another skewer from her tray, eat it slowly, and let the silence settle between you — not heavy, not awkward. just full.

it’s late when you get to your street.

the air’s still warm from the day, but quieter now — like even the heat has started to sleep. the lights from the corner bakery are off. there’s an old dog curled under a scooter. somewhere in the distance, someone’s playing music just loud enough for the melody to reach you, warbled and slow.

danielle walks beside you, her sleeve brushing your arm now and then like she doesn’t notice — or maybe like she does and doesn’t want to stop.

you’re not in a hurry, and neither is she.

when you stop by the gate outside your house, she does too. doesn’t even pretend to keep walking. just stands there, sneakers toeing the edge of the curb, fingers still stuffed deep in her jacket pockets.

she doesn’t look at you when she says it.

“i keep thinking about you.”

your chest goes still. not tight — not exactly — but expectant.

danielle kicks lightly at a stone by her foot. her voice is soft, but steady. “like… when i wake up. when we’re not in the same class. when i see something that reminds me of you, which is, like, all the time now. and it’s not—” she hesitates, but only for a second. “—it’s not just that i like you. i mean, i do. obviously. but it’s more like… i don’t know. you make things easier to feel.”

she finally looks up at you.

“i didn’t mean to say all that,” she adds, blinking like she’s surprised herself. “but i couldn’t just go home and pretend i didn’t.”

you don’t speak for a second. the space between you fills with quiet.

then, “yeah.”

your voice is rougher than you mean it to be, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

you scratch lightly at your wrist. eyes down. then up. then down again. it’s hard to look at her when she’s being this open — like she cracked herself wide open and handed you all the soft parts.

“i’ve liked you for a while,” you say finally. “i just didn’t know how to… say it. or if i should.”

she tilts her head a little. doesn’t speak, just listens.

you shift on your feet. “i guess i’m not used to people noticing me unless it’s because of minji. or because i’m on stage. or both. but you’re not like that. you talk to me like… i’m not a twin. or a guitarist. or someone with a matching face. just—me.”

danielle’s eyes soften. that same look she gave you the first time she helped restring your guitar. like she sees everything without you needing to explain.

you look away before your voice can shake.

“i think i was scared if i said anything, i’d ruin it. or make it weird. or start thinking about it too much. but when you said all that just now, it didn’t feel weird at all. it felt like… oh. so that’s what this is.”

she steps forward. not much — just enough for your shoes to nearly touch.

“so,” she says, quieter now. “what do we do now?”

you pause.

then you say, “you could walk me to school tomorrow.”

danielle smiles. it reaches her eyes.

“okay,” she says. “deal.”

she turns like she’s about to leave, but before she does, she bumps your shoulder — light, familiar — and says, “i wasn’t planning on confessing tonight, by the way.”

you shrug. “i wasn’t planning on answering.”

you don’t say anything else.

you just look at her — really look — at the curve of her lips as they part like she’s about to say something and forgets, at the way her cheeks are pink from more than just the cold, at the way she’s standing like she doesn’t know what to do with her hands anymore. you think: this is the same girl who nearly cried over a juice box. who laughs with her whole chest. who clumsily helped you restring your guitar and watched you like you were playing something only she could hear.

you think, i want to kiss her.

so you do.

you lean in slowly, so slowly that she has all the time in the world to pull away, but she doesn’t. she tilts her chin just slightly, meets you halfway, breath catching when your lips finally touch hers — soft, warm, a little unsteady at first. her hand comes up to your shoulder, light as air, and you swear she’s smiling into it.

you don’t usually bring lyrics to practice.

not yours, at least — not the kind you scribble into your phone notes late at night, or the ones you record in voice memos so quiet you can barely hear the chords over your own breath. usually, you keep those to yourself. keep them tucked somewhere between half-finished demos and never-sent messages. you write to get it out, not to share.

but this time... this time you don’t just bring it.

you print it.

“okay,” you say, setting a few sheets on the old amp beside winter’s pedalboard. “before anyone says anything—yes, it’s cheesy. yes, it’s different. yes, i know.”

“uh-oh,” aeri says immediately, lowering her drumsticks.

“that’s never how a sentence should start,” karina adds, squinting as she leans in to read the title at the top. “‘your universe’? are we in our lover girl era now?”

you glare at her, only half-serious. “just listen.”

“you wrote this?” winter asks, already flipping to the second page. she pauses at a line. hums. “it rhymes.”

“i would hope so, most songs do,” you mutter.

“no, like... sweet rhyming. heartfelt rhyming. this is so uncool of you.”

you sit on the amp next to her, arms crossed. “do you want to play it or not?”

“depends,” karina says, plucking her bass string slowly. “did you write this for a certain sunshine-colored girlfriend who has no idea how whipped you are?”

yizhuo immediately chokes on air. “oh my god. you did.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t deny it.”

“i didn’t confirm it either.”

“that’s literally the same thing.”

you groan and press a palm to your face, but the edges of your mouth tug anyway.

“you guys suck.”

“we’re the best,” winter replies. “and we’re playing this.”

karina shifts her strap over her shoulder, already adjusting the amp levels. aeri taps a soft tempo against the floor, leaning back on her stool like she’s trying to act unaffected, but her grin is all teeth.

“you’re lucky we like you,” she says.

“more like we’re lucky someone finally turned you into a sap,” winter adds, raising an eyebrow as she glances at the lyrics again. “you really wrote ‘you hold me like i’m the one who’s precious’? who are you?”

“shut up and play,” you mutter.

but your voice cracks on a laugh.

you adjust your mic stand with careful fingers, steady your guitar against your hip, and take one long breath as karina gives the signal.

the first chord is soft.

the second fills the room.

and by the time you reach the chorus — by the time the words slip from your mouth like they’ve been waiting for a place to land — none of them are teasing anymore.

they just play.

because even if they’ll tease you later — even if aeri will call you a simp and karina will make gagging noises when you hand her a new verse — they get it. they’ve seen the way you look at danielle when you think no one’s watching. they’ve seen how your voice softens around her name.

so they let you have this.

your cheesy, dreamy, painfully honest song.

your universe.

and when the last note fades into the walls, no one says anything right away.

then winter nods once. “we’re definitely closing with that at the next set.”

“i’m gonna cry,” aeri sniffs dramatically, pretending to wipe her face.

karina stretches her arms over her head and grins. “you’re still disgusting. but in a beautiful, deeply annoying way.”

you shake your head, fingers still buzzing from the last chord.

the gym smells like dust and sugar and plastic chairs. someone spilled soda on the floor near the sound booth, and a junior is trying to mop it up before it dries sticky. behind the curtains, aeri’s tuning her snare with a quiet precision she doesn’t usually show, and winter’s leaning against the wall with her guitar already slung across her chest, idly tapping a rhythm on her thigh. karina’s scrolling through the setlist again, mouthing lyrics she already knows by heart.

your fingers are trembling slightly.

you wipe them on your jeans, then adjust the strap of your guitar for the fourth time.

the applause from the last act fades, and somewhere in the crowd, someone yells “aespa next!” like they’ve been waiting all evening. your name is said, too — maybe by hanni, maybe by danielle, you can’t tell through the curtains — but the way your stomach flips makes it clear enough.

when they call your band to the stage, you step out first.

it’s loud. not chaotic, not overwhelming — just… full. full of voices, full of heat, full of flickering phone flashlights and the scrape of chairs shifting, people standing, a buzz that builds in your chest like an open amp. your shoes echo a little on the wooden boards. the mic stand is taller than you remembered.

karina walks past you with a light bump of her shoulder, and winter gives your wrist a quick squeeze. aeri tosses a stick in the air and catches it with a grin.

you take a breath.

adjust the mic.

“hi,” you say, voice steadier than you expect. “we’re aespa.”

applause rises again, and this time you do hear danielle clearly — the pitch of her cheer, the clap that’s just a little too fast, a little too excited. your eyes scan the front row, and there she is — right where you thought she’d be. center, just off to the left. hanni’s next to her with both hands cupped around her mouth, shouting something you can’t quite make out. minji’s beside them, arms crossed but smiling in that understated way she does when she’s proud but doesn’t want to be obvious about it. haerin stands behind them, watching quietly. hyein’s already pulled out her phone and is waving it like a glowstick.

you swallow down the way your chest twists.

“this next song’s… different,” you say, brushing your hair back with your wrist. “not our usual kind of sound.”

karina chuckles behind you, but doesn’t interrupt.

you tighten your grip on your pick. “i wrote it.”

your voice is a little quieter now, but it still reaches. a few people shift in their seats. the gym hushes just a bit.

“i hope you like it.”

winter starts the intro — slow, soft, measured. it’s the gentlest you’ve ever heard her play, like she’s trying to coax the notes into being instead of pressing them out. aeri follows with a quiet tap of sticks against the rim of the snare. no crash cymbals. no heavy kick. just enough to give you a heartbeat.

you step forward, the lights warming your skin, and start to sing.

Tell me something

When the rain falls on my face

How do you quickly replace it With a golden summer smile?

your voice carries, soft but unshaking. not because you’re fearless — god, you’re not — but because you’re sure. the lyrics sit just behind your teeth like they were always meant to be said aloud. you don’t glance at the crowd yet. you’re not ready.

Tell me something

When I'm feelin' tired and afraid

How do you know just what to say To make everything alright?

yizhuo joins you on the chorus, bassline steady, low, grounding.

I don't think that you even realize

The joy you make me feel when I'm inside your universe

You hold me like I'm the one who's precious

I hate to break it to you,

but it's just the other way around

this time you do look.

and danielle — danielle is still.

not silent, not frozen, just completely still, like if she moves she’ll miss it. her eyes are wide. her smile is small now, softer. like she knows. like she knows it’s her.

you hold the mic a little tighter.

You can thank your stars all you want

But I'll always be the lucky one

a few rows back, hanni is smacking minji’s arm, clearly mouthing something like did you hear that?! and minji, ever composed, just bites back a laugh and shakes her head. hyein’s whispering in haerin’s ear while pretending to dab tears from her eyes with a tissue. someone from your class is swaying along, eyes dreamy.

but your eyes are only on danielle now.

Tell me something

When I'm 'bout to lose control

How do you patiently hold my hand And gently calm me down?

the second verse feels heavier, but not in a bad way. just real. exposed. like showing someone a diary you never meant to share.

Tell me something

When you sing and when you laugh

Why do I always photograph

My heart flying way above the clouds?

winter echoes you on the final lines of the bridge. karina’s harmonizing now. aeri’s kept it bare — just enough to lift the words.

you reach the last chorus and close your eyes.

I don't think that you even realize

The joy you make me feel when I'm inside your universe

You hold me like I'm the one who's precious

I hate to break it to you, but it's just the other way around

You can thank your stars all you want But I'll always be the lucky one

I'll always be the lucky one

by the time the last chord fades, the gym feels like it’s holding its breath.

and then the cheering breaks loose.

it’s not the loudest reaction of the night — not in decibels. but it’s full. warm. waves of applause and shouts and laughter and a very clear “GET MARRIED ALREADY!” from the third row that’s definitely hanni.

you turn away from the mic with your face flushed, heart still racing. giselle flings her stick into the air and yells something celebratory. karina slings her bass off and points at you with both hands like look at this disaster romantic. winter just walks over and pats your back, a rare grin spreading across her face.

you bow with them, the stage lights still soft and golden.

and when you glance at danielle again, she’s standing now. not clapping. just watching.

eyes shining.

the corridor behind the gym is dimmer than the stage, quiet in a way that almost feels sacred. it smells like old varnish and forgotten cleaning supplies — the kind of space that doesn’t see much use except on nights like this. your footsteps are soft against the tiles as you drift halfway down the hallway, guitar case slung over your shoulder, heart still tumbling unevenly from the last note you played.

you think maybe you need a minute. just one. to come down. to breathe again.

but you don’t even make it to the storage door at the end before you hear your name.

soft. rushed. familiar.

“y/n—wait!”

you stop, slowly turning around.

danielle's there, half-breathless, hair slightly out of place like she ran the moment the set ended. her jacket is falling off one shoulder, and her school ID is twisted around her fingers like she was fidgeting with it the whole time she was trying to reach you.

her eyes catch yours.

and the hallway gets quieter still.

“you—you didn’t think you could just walk offstage like that, did you?” she says, trying to sound casual, but her voice betrays her. too high at the edges. too full.

you smile, a little crooked. “i needed air.”

“oh,” she says, taking one slow step closer. “should i go?”

“no.”

your answer is immediate.

her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to let it turn into a grin. she doesn’t say anything for a second, just watches you. and you don’t move either — can’t, maybe. your body feels heavier than it did on stage, but not in a bad way. just weighted with everything left unsaid.

“you wrote that,” she says softly. “the song.”

you nod once.

“for me?”

your throat tightens. “…yeah.”

her breath catches just barely — you hear it more than you see it.

and then she’s stepping forward again, slower this time, until there’s only a foot of space between you. she’s looking up at you like she’s seeing something she hadn’t let herself believe until just now. like the song wrapped around her in the crowd, and she’s only just broken the surface again.

you glance away for half a second, nervous, suddenly too aware of how still you are.

her hand reaches for your sleeve.

her fingers find the edge of it and hold on.

and then, quietly — so quietly — she says,

“i love you.”

the words land like something soft and vast. they don’t startle you. they don’t knock the air out of your lungs. they settle. low and deep and warm. like she’s been waiting to say them for a long time, and now she finally has.

your gaze flicks back to her.

she’s smiling, but her eyes are glassy — not quite teary, but close enough that you can feel it.

you let the quiet stretch for just a second longer.

and then you breathe.

“i love you too.”

it’s almost a whisper. like if you say it too loud, it might shake loose the gravity of it.

and that’s when she laughs — soft and shaky, like she’s been holding her breath since the first chord.

“yeah?” she says, eyes shining. “you’re not just saying that ‘cause i clapped the loudest?”

you snort. “you didn’t. hanni did.”

“rude.” she tries to glare at you, but her smile breaks through almost instantly.

and then she’s laughing, and so are you, and then—

she leans in.

you kiss her.

slow, gentle, nothing rushed about it. it’s not a kiss meant to be seen. not one of those breathless hallway moments stolen between classes. it’s quieter. something patient, something certain. like returning to a feeling you didn’t realize you’d been circling for weeks. her hand doesn’t go anywhere — it just stays at your sleeve, her grip steady.

when you pull apart, you don’t move far. she rests her forehead against yours, breathing softly. her nose brushes yours. her fingers don’t let go.

and then, again — but smaller now, like a secret only meant for you,

“i love you so much.”

you close your eyes.

and finally — finally — everything in you exhales.

the walk from the back gate to the courtyard is short, but it stretches. not in a bad way. just in the way time seems to loosen after something big — like the world’s giving you room to breathe again. danielle walks close beside you, shoulder brushing yours, her hand still laced in yours like she’s not even thinking about it anymore. like it’s just… default now. natural.

the sky’s deepened a little since the stage lights faded, edges of the clouds now dipped in lavender. a warm breeze carries the scent of kettle corn from the last stall being packed up, and the glow from the campus lamps softens the pavement underfoot.

you take it slow, partly because neither of you really wants to go home yet, partly because her thumb keeps grazing over your knuckles. like she can’t stop.

you hear them before you see them.

the laughter’s loud. exaggerated, like someone just finished reenacting something dramatic. a voice that sounds a lot like hanni’s carries across the courtyard, followed by the distinct sound of hyein saying, “no because if she didn’t say it, i would’ve.”

danielle sighs beside you, already bracing.

you round the corner and there they are — minji seated on the edge of the bench, legs crossed at the ankle, water bottle in hand like she’s the only one taking this hangout seriously. haerin’s beside her, expression unreadable, though her juice box is suspiciously halfway crushed like she’s been quietly enjoying the chaos. hanni’s practically bouncing where she sits, one leg tucked under the other, fingers twirling her phone. hyein’s halfway lying on the bench, head dangling upside down, arms spread dramatically.

they all look up at once.

and when they see your hands — still tangled — the teasing doesn’t even wait a second.

“there they are,” hanni sing-songs, like it’s a sitcom entrance.

“you’re late,” minji says, deadpan, taking a long sip from her bottle. “we thought maybe you eloped.”

“we almost did,” danielle replies cheerfully, like she’s not the slightest bit embarrassed.

“and no one invited me?!” hyein says, faking betrayal. “i was gonna make a speech.”

“a very dramatic one,” haerin adds, nodding solemnly.

you blink. “are you all seriously still here?”

“we were waiting,” hanni says, grinning. “we knew you’d come back out.”

“you were waiting?”

“duh,” hanni snorts. “you really thought you could perform that song and walk off like we weren’t gonna say something?”

danielle buries her face in your shoulder again, muffling a groan. “i told you.”

“you did,” you sigh, barely hiding your smirk.

“honestly?” minji adds after a beat, eyebrow lifting in that very minji way. “i don’t know what’s worse. the fact that you sang that with your whole chest… or the fact that this all started because danielle thought you were me.”

danielle lifts her head just enough to say, “i’m still traumatized.”

“you have the same face!” hyein says.

“you do not get to talk,” you grumble. “you were all in on it.”

“you let me think i was hallucinating your face,” danielle accuses, half-laughing now.

“you were doing great, though,” hanni cuts in. “truly iconic meltdown.”

“and you,” you say, pointing at minji, “could’ve said something. anything.”

minji blinks, wide-eyed. “me? i offered to introduce you to her and you said, and i quote, ‘absolutely not.’”

you groan. “i didn’t think you’d take it literally.”

“well, maybe if someone didn’t disappear into the music room every lunch, we could’ve avoided this.”

“maybe if someone didn’t walk around like she owned the school, people wouldn’t confuse us.”

“excuse me?” she raises both brows. “who owns the school?”

“definitely not the girl crying over anime songs.”

“that was one time,” she hisses.

“you used my sleeve as tissue.”

“okay, wow.”

danielle looks between you both, clearly delighted. “you’ve been waiting to use that one, huh?”

you shrug. “had it in my pocket.”

minji exhales like she’s rethinking every sibling-related life choice. “unbelievable.”

“you love me,” you say smugly.

“debatable.”

“you gave me the bigger slice of cake last week.”

“out of pity.”

“see?” danielle mutters to haerin, “they’re like this all the time?”

haerin nods. “every day.”

“and yet no one warned me.��

“we wanted it to be a surprise.”

“you’re so welcome,” hanni says, bowing.

“anyway,” hyein says loudly, “can we circle back to the part where y/n was basically confessing on stage in front of the whole school?”

“yes, please,” hanni nods. “i want to talk about the part where she said ‘i’ll always be the lucky one.’”

“that was so much,” hyein agrees.

danielle clutches her chest. “it was, right?”

“you all suck,” you mutter.

“no,” minji says, standing and patting your head like you’re five. “you suck. we just witness it.”

“i’m your twin.”

“and you wrote a love song.”

“which you liked,” you accuse.

“which i tolerated.”

“you cried.”

“i yawned.”

“you stood up during the last chorus.”

“i had a cramp.”

danielle laughs so hard she almost stumbles.

you wrap your arm around her shoulders to keep her steady, and she leans into you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

danielle beams. “minji, we’re practically sisters-in-law now.”

“welcome to the family,” minji says dryly.

“you’re the worst,” you mumble.

minji pats your head. “and you’re predictable.”

“okay, we’re leaving,” you announce, tugging gently at danielle’s hand. “this is abuse.”

danielle’s laughing but doesn’t resist. “bye, bullies!”

just as you’re almost out of earshot, minji calls after you — smug and sweet all at once,

“tell your universe we said good night!”

you groan so loud it echoes.

the two of you walk off into the slow-fading gold of the evening, hands clasped tight, the sound of your friends’ laughter still tumbling behind you like a song that doesn’t end.

you leave the courtyard with danielle still chuckling beside you, her hand tight in yours like she’s not ready to let go even after the laughter fades.

the voices behind you grow smaller — hyein yelling something about snacks, hanni insisting they take a group picture before you leave, minji pretending she’s too cool for any of it but still smiling so wide it hurts a little if you look too long. haerin hums something under her breath. probably the chorus from earlier. maybe she’ll ask to cover it later. (you’re always gonna say yes.)

you and danielle walk slowly. the sun’s lower now, skimming just above the rooftops, turning her hair the color of honey and copper. she doesn’t speak right away — doesn’t have to — and neither do you. your fingers swing between you, barely brushing each other’s sides with every step.

then, after a while,

“so…”

you glance at her. she’s looking at the sky, squinting through the light, lips curled like she’s already halfway through the thought.

“i’ve been wondering this for, like, a while now,” she says. “but i didn’t want to ask before because i thought maybe it was, like, deeply symbolic or personal or whatever.”

you raise an eyebrow. “okay.”

“but now i have to know.”

you hum, curious. “know what?”

danielle turns to you, fully serious — too serious, actually. which makes it worse.

“why is your band called aespa?”

you blink. “…what?”

“aespa. like—what does it stand for? is it initials? a phrase? something meaningful?”

you stare at her.

“because i’ve had theories,” she continues. “like maybe it’s ‘aesthetic space’? or maybe something about alter egos or duality. you and minji are twins — maybe there’s a theme. or is it a play on ‘aspect ratio’? like visuals, performance, dimension—”

“spaghetti,” you say.

she blinks. “…what?”

“spaghetti.”

her brow furrows, like she’s trying to unlock a riddle. “are you craving some? we can go to that italian restaurant if you—”

“no,” you laugh, shaking your head. “we were hanging out one day, and winter was zoning out — like, full on disassociating — and she just said ‘espaghetti’ instead of spaghetti.”

danielle blinks.

you grin. “we were quiet for five seconds. and then karina just went, ‘that’s it. that’s the name.’”

she stares at you.

you shrug. “we dropped the ghetti and added an ‘a’. now we’re aespa.”

danielle covers her face with both hands. “no.”

“yes.”

“you mean to tell me i’ve been out here trying to decode some deeper meaning—”

“—when it was just winter craving pasta, yeah.”

she groans dramatically, dragging her hands down her face. “i can’t believe this.”

“believe it.”

“i thought it stood for something cool.”

“it is cool,” you argue. “spaghetti’s timeless.”

she groans again, but she’s laughing now, forehead pressed into your shoulder as you both keep walking.

this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

[lily-bisque]

✎ a lesson in love

part 1 - flutterings

៹ series masterlist

synopsis: your bestfriend, satoru gojo, has always been the smartest. yet, when he begins to question his true feelings for you after unwanted sparks of jealousy ignite in him, he wonders how exactly he’ll manage to make you fall, too.

chapter wc: 3.1k

taglist (open): > @bobateea @sylusonlylove @aporcelainphantom @kay-the-ghost

“J-just… sob really loudly into the phone when I give you the signal. Sound good?” His voice was urging you, cerulean orbs searching yours for any hint of agreement. His somewhat overgrown locks fell over his forehead and stood out in awkward places, his look messy yet neat.

You scoffed, turning your head to the side and lifting your hand, palm up, between the both of you. He glanced down at it and huffed, digging in his pockets and muttering curses.

There was no way you were doing this for free.

Pulling out a wad that was definitely too much—but he didn’t care, and you wouldn’t complain—he slapped it in your hand and sighed, staring down at you once more. “This enough?”

Giving him your cheeriest smile, you clasped your hands and brought them behind your back, rocking on your heels and giggling. “Absolutely perfect. Won’t letcha’ down, Serge. Great doin’ business with you.” You mock-saluted him, standing in attention form, then turned on your heels, heading back into your dorm room and counting the bundle of cash.

Satoru Gojo—elitist 4.5 GPA, Student Council President, Captain of the Digimon club, and all-time 4-eyed nerd was your best friend. The two of you grew up alongside one another, ever since you’d both been clad in diapers and drool. Fast-forward to now, at your private university in Tokyo which you both attended, Gojo’s mom had set him up for blind date after blind date. She was worried that once the senior year dawned upon him, he’d be a depressed and single loser with his figurine collection.

He wasn’t the most fond of these arranged blind dates; after every single one of ‘em, he’d complain to you.

“That knowing and pitying look in her eyes, like I’m some fuckin’ clueless virgin she’s come to rescue, pissed me off.”

“She didn’t ask me any questions about myself. Not one. Ya know, just cause’ I’m double majoring in history and english, doesn’t mean I’m some guy whose too absorbed in his schoolwork to tell when she’s bored.”

“Her mom was with her. Dude. It was like I was on a date with her mom. She just sat there as her mother bombarded me with question after question-.”

It’s been a few months of this back and forth, so he managed to devise a plan to get rid of the dates. You, ever the sweetheart, offered your assistance after hearing his grievances, but when it started to eat away at your personal life as he’d call for help during a study session or even a date of yours, you needed some form of compensation.

So that’s how you ended up where you are now—perched up in a cafe clad in a not-so-subtle trench coat, black sunglasses, a scarf that was way too itchy, and a newspaper you snagged from an old lady who fell asleep on a bench outside. She wouldn’t miss it, right? After all, you were only borrowing it—planning to sneakily slide it back into her lap as you headed back out.

The sound of a bell reached your ears, signaling a new customer entering the cafe. Snowy tresses registered in your mind as you peeked over the top of the newspaper, your best friend adjusting his rectangular glasses as he caught your eyes. A smirk crept up on his lips as he winked at you and turned back to his date.

The lady in question followed close behind him—she had silky brunette hair that reached her waist and rippled as she giggled at something Gojo said. What was so funny? Brushing her waves past her shoulder, you made out a simple pastel pink blouse that matched her flowing white midi-skirt. Her feet were adorned in the cutest kitten heels, and part of you wanted to ask her where she had gotten them from.

But no. You steeled your mind, pushing away any distractions as you slid out of your seat and moved to a further back corner of the cafe.

A waiter walked over to the both of them, ordering whatever drinks and pastries in this overpriced meet-cute spot that would be spoiled as Gojo never wasted his time in escaping. He barely put an effort into dressing up—still wearing his school uniform. Yes, your university was far too overpriced, arrogant, and prestigious that it had its students wearing uniforms up until the ripe age of 22.

Sliding your hand to your latte, you brought it up to your lips and took a deliberate sip, eyes never leaving the interaction. Around 5 minutes passed with them chuckling about whatever they were talking about, with no signal from Gojo. He never even glanced your way, his eyes refusing to break from the girl’s face.

She was gorgeous, you couldn’t blame him. But, since when did he care? It’d been a couple months of this exchange of him sucking up to his mom’s pestering with the hope that she would lay off. Eventually, she would run out of friends and acquaintances with daughters his age to ask.

So why was he entertaining this?

Tearing your gaze from the interaction, you checked your phone to see if he had maybe texted you, but you had no notifications. What the hell?

“Anything I can get for you, miss?” The sudden voice startled you, making you flinch in your seat and glance upwards. A waiter stood before you, giving you a sheepish smile before apologizing for sneaking up on you.

“Hah, no worries. You’re alright! A-and you don’t need to get me anything. M’ all set.” The words tumbled out of your mouth as you lifted your cup, nearly knocking it over and taking a knowing sip. He let out a low chuckle, the deep and velvety resonance entering your ears.

“I’ve seen you around campus, haven’t I?”

You titled your head, eyebrows furrowing as you scanned his face. “Have you?”

“Yeah. Tokyo Tech, right?” He said your name, and your heart nearly skipped a beat.

Nodding slowly, you took in the man’s entire form, giving him a slow once-over before you registered his familiarity. “Oh! You’re on the football team, aren’t you?”

Another laugh left his lips, this one sending a chill down your spine. “Yup. That’s me. Ino. Ino Takuma. Glad I made somewhat of an impression.”

You nodded slowly, clasping your hands in your lap as a question left your mouth faster than you’d intended. “Where on campus have you recognized me from?” Your campus was pretty big, so the fact that he not only recognized you but knew your name surprised you.

The man shifted in position, reaching his hand up to rub his nape, his gaze breaking away from you as he smiled nervously. “I sit next to you in literature and film.”

Your eyes widened, feeling your heart rate pick up as your hands clammed up. There’s no way you just embarrassed yourself like this–is he lying? No—he knew your name. How could you not notice him sitting next to you?

Literature and film was the advanced English course you’d been taking since early September, and it was well into October now. As a film studies major, you wanted to use this class for an honors thesis you’d be writing for an internship, and hearing that Gojo would be taking it as well made it all the more exciting since your schedules rarely aligned with your contrasting majors.

He picked up on your guilt-written expression, shaking his hands before you and chuckling. “Don’t worry about it. You’re usually with your friend, uh… Satoru Gojo. I didn’t expect you to notice my presence since you’re usually chatting with him.”

You nodded slowly, fiddling with the seamwork of the coat you had on and feeling embarrassed, cheeks flushing and all. “My bad. I’ll make sure to say hi on Tuesday,” you mumbled somewhat, clasping your hand over the opposite forearm and nibbling on your lip.

Ino glanced behind him, his gaze fixed on where Gojo was sitting and then turned back to you. “You two are usually hanging out. Why’re you here and… not there.” He pointed out.

You smiled awkwardly, adjusting the scarf that was tickling your neck. “It’s complicated.”

“Right… and I’m not gonna ask about the uh.. costume,” he trailed off with a chuckle, his gaze lingering on your clothes. Your cheeks burned as you opened your mouth to somehow defend yourself for the eccentric outfit, but you were interrupted.

“Ino, rush hour in 10. Need all hands on deck, c’mon!” Wow. They were serious for a cafe spot.

The brunette man turned and shouted back that he’d be there in a second before returning his gaze to you. “So uh… see you Tuesday?”

You plastered on a sweet grin, nodding your head and giving him a small wave. He returned the gesture and headed back into the kitchen.

Letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, you lifted your hands to your cheeks to feel warmth on the back of your hands. The entire encounter felt mortifying–how had you not noticed this guy for over a month ? To be honest, you didn’t even remember his name until he told you, unknowingly saving you the embarrassment.

You could blame that on Gojo–he made it his sole duty to make fun of you in your shared class whenever you were confused. He’d scribble over the notes you’d jot down, saying you didn’t need it, or smack you on the back of the head when you’d start losing consciousness out of boredom from the droning lecture.

…Speaking of Gojo–

Your gaze snapped upwards to where the man in question had been sitting, but both the seats were empty, their plates and cups still full, and a wad of cash laying idly on the table.

“Shit,” you cursed under your breath. Jumping from your seat, you grabbed the newspaper and your latte, heading outside in hopes of seeing them. Maybe they weren’t hungry… possibly taking a walk? The prospective thought made no sense as they wouldn’t leave their things behind in a mess, making you shake your head to brush the thought off and iron out any nerves that lingered.

One thing you knew—Gojo was going to kill you.

As you made your way to the door, you could see Gojo and his date on the other side of the street through the glass, deep in some sort of conversation.

Her arms were lifted and flailing, gesturing at the cafe you stood in, her face contorted in what looked to be anger. You could only guess she was yelling at him from the sideways glance the two received from bystanders.

Gojo had a hand draped on his neck, his expression reading with what looked to be remorse as he endured whatever insults she spat at him. Eventually, once she gathered her bearings, she stormed off and left him standing there.

Sliding as inconspicously as you could out of the restaurant in the hopes of avoiding him, the bell chimed again, and Gojo’s head snapped in your direction. He pushed his frames up his nose before his face twisted in—oh shit.

Turning on your heels, you passed by the elderly woman—who was somehow still snoring—and set the newspaper back onto her lap with a whispered ‘sorry’ and hurried down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

Pretending not to feel the impending doom blooming in your chest, the feeling that prey experience as they sprint away from the strides of an advancing predator, you hurried your walk. Gojo had no issue catching up, however, as his slender fingers reached out and tugged against the nape of your coat.

A yelp left your lips as he pulled you to his chest, and you clasped your eyes shut. Oh man, were you going to get it. Not only that, he was probably going to take back the cash. The idea made your heart sink and sigh.

Your name left his lips, his tone dry and flat.

“Y-yes,” you stammered out, refusing to open your eyes.

“What the hell was that?” His question sounded rhetorical and you were ready to receive his chiding words. Your body braced itself for impact.

After a few excruciating moments, his grip loosened, and your feet settled on the ground. Huh? An eye peeked open in confusion before you turned around to see the distressed man.

Those large hands of his dragged across his face as he groaned, recounting the horrible events of the date. “Christ, I fucked up. I’m so mortified.” The reddened tinge tickling the crown of his ears didn’t go unnoticed to you.

You looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to the white haired man losing it in the middle of the sidewalk. To your surprise, no one was.

“Well, it couldn’t have been–,” the whisper that left your lips was starkly interrupted.

“No. It was that bad. It was the worst it could’ve been. It was so so so bad. So much worse than you think.”

Your heart rate picked up as your interest was piqued, ears perking up like a puppy. “What happened…” you questioned, feeling as if you were entering unmerited territory.

A grimace twisted in his face as the memories flashed back. “She… she was pissed that I wasn’t looking at her.”

“What? Why weren’t you looking at her?”

“Cause’ I was looking at you, dumbass. You and Ino chatting it up.”

You slapped a hand on his shoulder to which he flinched at. “You idiot. If you couldn’t at least finish the date, you should’ve given her some attention. You’re such an ass…” you trailed off, pinching his forearm to which he cursed you at before a question entered your mind. “Isn’t that what you wanted, though? Why’d she get so pissed off if you were just distracted?

A feigned smile made its way onto his face, radiating seething anger that nearly had you stepping backwards. “I wanted the date to end after I got distracted. She told me about her grandma who died recently when I called out for the signal at the same time.”

Your eyebrows shot up so high that they nearly touched your hairline. “W-w… you did what?”

Note: the signal the two of you managed to come up with was Gojo making an eagle sound. Literally “ca-cawing” and then blowing it off when his date would be confused, enter you with some sort of marvelous emergency he had to escape to. It made you giggle everytime.

The thought of him doing that after she revealed such a horrible truth–.

“Shut up,” he cursed through gritted teeth, glaring into your back. Now, you were on the ground, hands on the concrete as you struggled to catch your breath. Your stomach hurt from the laughs you were letting out, completely forgetting the two of you were in public.

Perching back on your heels once you’d calmed down, you looked up at Gojo, who looked far from pleased. “This funny to you?”

Standing up, you let out a few more giggles and brushed off your knees. “Extremely. And it’s your fault anyway. Why’d you take so long to signal for me?” You chuckled in between huffs.

Your eyes searched his, and his gaze changed to something unreadable. “Dunno. Thought she was funny,” he spoke softly, pupils darting left and right between yours as if he was assessing your reaction.

Turning away from him, you nodded your head and mulled the information over. “I could tell, asshat. You guys were giggling the second you walked in, she must’ve been hilarious.”

He fell into pace quickly beside you and leaned down to look at your face. “Ya think so?”

In the back of Gojo’s mind, he was searching your face for something, anything to hint at what he wanted to hear.

“Duh. You shouldn’t have signalled. If you liked her, you should’ve let the date keep going. Dunno why you were stupid enough to get distracted.”

That occasionally reocurring thought of his subsided, returning to his full length, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “What were you guys talkin’ about anyway?” Ah. He must be talking about Ino.

The memory of the encounter flashed back into your mind, making you sigh with embarrassment. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” you teased and he scoffed. “Did you know he was in our lit. and film lecture?” You added

He nodded, furrowing his brows. “Yeah. He sits right next to you. You haven’t noticed?”

A loud groan left your lips as you jabbed your finger at the pedestrian push button and stopped your stride, gazing into the street. “I’m such an idiot, Gojo. Like… truthfully.”

He chuckles and ruffles your hair, to which you swat his arm at. “Yup. Don’t have to tell me that.”

You cursed him and waited for the walk signal, a comfortable silence settling between the both of you. “What do you… think of him?”

Gojo looked down at you, a confused expression crossing his face. “Ino? Dunno, I don’t really know him personally. We don’t uh… hang in the same crowds.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

The pedestrian walk signaled illuminated neon white, Gojo grabbing the back of your head and pushing you forward teasingly. “You really are oblivious to everything, aren’t’cha?” He joked, a knowing grin plastering on his face.

“Shut up! And no I’m not. I just don’t… I don’t pay close attention,” you defended, though you sounded pretty unconvinced which earned a chuckle from the man beside you.

“Yeah yeah. He’s captain of the football team. I’m basically summa cum laude. He’s a frat boy. And I’m uh… academically driven.”

“You mean a nerd?”

“Tomato, tomato.”

“Just because you two don’t run in the same crowd doesn’t mean you can’t be friends. Like, look at you and Geto. He’s not all that academically driven, yet you two are joined at the hip.”

“And you’re an idiot and glued to the other side of my hip.”

You smacked the back of his milky hair to which he chuckled at.

“Why do you care anyway?” He added.

“He seems nice,” you put plainly. “I don’t know, he seems like he’d be a good friend to have.”

Gojo pouted as the two of you turned a corner, and he pulled you to the other side of him and away from the bustling street. “Am I not enough for you?” He whined, feigned jealousy dripping from his tone.

‘You’re too much actually.”

The two of you made your way back to campus and trudged up to the girl’s dorms, where he kicked your shin and ran off before you could hit him back.

Waltzing into your single dorm, you shut the door with your foot and set down the latte you had purchased on your desk, eyes skimming over the plethora of assignments you had waiting for you. A groan left your lips as you plopped down, deciding to attempt to work through them before your next classes.

៹ next part - stars for you

[pitchsidestories]

lovers II Keira Walsh x Williamson!Reader

masterlist I word count: 2468

a/n: Hi, we realized that it's our 100th oneshot which sounds absolutely wild, so enjoy. For the readers who wait for the Emily Fox fanfic it will come out next. <3

You were in love with Ibiza.

In love with the beaches and the sunshine, the palm trees and the blue of the ocean.

You were in love with the clubs and bars, your sister and her friends took you to.

But above all, you were in love with your sister’s best friend.

The afternoon sun painted the hotel room in soft golden light as you slipped into a short dress. You could still feel the salty air and the sun from earlier that day on your skin as you began applying mascara to your eyelashes. Except for a bit of hunger, you felt fully content.

“Ready for dinner? You look gorgeous by the way.“, Keiras voice said from behind you.

You hadn’t noticed her coming in.

You flinched, almost stabbing yourself in the eye with the mascara wand.

Keira smiled apologetically at your reflection in the mirror.

You watched as her gaze started to travel down your body, taking in every curve in your tight-fitting dress.

With a smile you turned towards her and bridged the gap between the two of you.

“Are you kidding? Look at you… Your curls are so pretty and soft.“, you whispered, gently running her fingers through her reddish brown hair.

You loved the way the salt water had restored Keiras natural hair texture.

“My curls? I just didn’t straighten my hair.“, she laughed.

Her cheeks flushed slightly, barely visible through the light sunburn on her skin.

Completely enamoured, you beamed at her: “I love it.“

You were about to lean forward to kiss her when someone cleared their throat behind you.

Your heart stopped while you pulled apart. You ran through possible explanations for this situation in your head, just in case you would turn around to face your sister.

Instead, Alex Scott watched the two of you with a knowing grin.

“You do? Oh hi, Alex.“, Keira greeted the former football player.

“Little Williamson is right though. She could have done something with fashion but…“, Alex said without finishing her thought.

You rolled your eyes, she had always tried to convince you to work in the fashion industry but you wouldn’t trade your job as an English teacher in Barcelona for anything in the world.

“She chose to teach people English in Spain and honestly, it was the best decision ever.“, you finished for Alex.

Keira laughed: “I agree with that.“

Leah appeared next to Alex in the doorway. Subconsciously, you tried to put more distance between yourself and Keira.

“Of course, you do, Kei. Because that way you can talk to someone in your mother tongue almost every day. How did the Catalan interview go again?“, your sister teased.

Her best friend released a tired groan: “Don’t remind me.“

Alex changed the subject, pointing with her thumb over her shoulder: “Now that everyone’s dressed up, let’s get some dinner in before we go clubbing.“

“Sounds like a good idea.”, you agreed in a good mood, the sea air made you hungry.

At the restaurant Keira studied the menu thoroughly before looking at you with an innocent smile on her lips.

“Everything here sounds so good, do you want to share?”, she asked.

“Sure.”, you replied happily. Above your heads the fairy lights were switched on and you could hear the waves crashing on to the shore in the background.

The romantic atmosphere was quickly disturbed by your older sister.

“Excuse me? I thought you’d share with me!”, she pouted, sending glances at the Barca player which could kill.

“What about your girlfriend? Doesn’t she want to share with you?”, Keira asked in return, cheeks flushed.

“Yes, Lee, no need to be that dramatic about it.”, Alex Greenwood intervened laughing.

“I’m not dramatic.”, Leah countered smirking.

“That’s just how she’s.”, you explained cheekily.

“Why don’t we order food for the table so we can all share?”, your girlfriend suggested hoping this would calm the Blonde Arsenal defender down.

“Yes, that’s perfect. I’m in.”, the two Alex’s declared grinning.

“Same, you too, Leah?”, you turned around to investigate your sister’s face, waiting for her reaction.

“Sure.”, she nodded, sounding much calmer already.

 “What about a first round of cocktails?”, Jess wanted to know.

“Please.”, Leah answered.

A few minutes later the drinks arrived at your table, beaming you toasted with her. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”, she responded grinning.  

The sweetness and the alcohol sparked the desire in you to touch your lover’s curly hair again.

“Stop it.”, Keira demanded giggling.

“I’m not doing anything.”, you remarked in a not guilty tone.

“Yes, you’re. Stop it.”, she bit her lip nervously.

“Fine.”, you sighed defeated, quickly finishing your cocktail.

After the last sip you stood up smiling delighted at the other girls. “Girls, are we ready for the club now?”

“Let’s go.”, Alex Greenwood chirmed.

The sun was long gone now, the moon and the stars shown brightly as you and your sister former and current teammates joined the Ibizan night life.

Something your sister and you both shared was the passion for music. While Leah preferred to sing you would take every chance you could get to dance. Before Keira your first love has been rhythm and beats.

“Come on, Kei.”, Alex nudged the red-haired woman who admired you from the distance.

“I don’t dance. I’m here for the drinks.”, she waved the sports journalist off.

“But I do. Come on, Alex.”, Leah remarked cheerfully.

“Coming.“, Alex laughed and let the defender pull her into the direction of the dance floor.

The other Alex jumped up as well, following closely behind: “Hey, wait for me.“

You caught Keiras eye from across the room and danced your way over to her. You were not ready to stop yet but you also didn’t want to leave her alone.

Keira reached for your wrist with a laugh: “Stop twirling around, y/n.“

“Why?“, you asked, spinning out of her grasp.

“Just because.“

You stopped for a moment, studying her face. There was something serious and pleading in her eyes that you didn’t understand. You only wanted to continue dancing with your friends. “Keira…“

You interrupted yourself, taking in a sharp breath in surprise as two hands laid on your hips and spun you around.

A man in his mid-thirties and clearly drunk grinned at you. His gaze traveled down to your neckline while he asked you something that your brain didn’t seem to comprehend. Apparently he wanted you to dance with him but everything about him made clear that he had other things in mind than just dancing.

You froze in place, not sure if you felt disgusted or disgusting.

Just when you were about to say something, your sister squeezed between him and you and pushed him back: “Sorry, no. That’s my sister!“

“And she’s already taken.“, Keira added. You hadn’t noticed that Keira had gotten up from her seat as well.

Leahs head whipped towards her best friend: “What?“

“Uhm…“, you mumbled as you watched the man retreat with his hands raised in surrender.

You desperately tried to find a good reason to change the subject but you just couldn’t come up with one.

“Who is it, y/n? One of your colleagues or one of the Barca girlies?“, Leah asked, her voice tinted with anger.

“It’s…uhm…“, you started and forced yourself not to look at Keira. Lying would be so easy right now. But did you actually want to keep hiding?

Your sister got impatient: “Just tell me.“

“Keira.“, was all you could get out and prayed that you made the right choice.

The two best friends looked at each other. Keira nodded slowly: “It’s me.“

“Wait, you?! When? How? She’s my little sister!“ Leahs eyebrows furrowed in anger.

Keira shrugged, trying to keep her voice calm: “In Barcelona… it just happened.“

Your sister turned towards you with her jaw set: “We’ll talk about this tomorrow morning!“

She stormed off without waiting for an answer and you quietly wondered where she would go.

Keira and you ended the night there and went back to your hotel room.

You walked out on the balcony overlooking the ocean, Keira followed right behind you.

“She’s really mad.“, you said nervously into the night sky.

The midfielder wrapped her arms around you and rolled her eyes: “She can’t be mad about this.“

You knew she had a point.

“No, Lee is more upset about the fact that we didn’t tell her.“

“Still. I can talk with her if you want me to.”, Keira offered while you kept watching the waves come and go which was scarily similar to your older sister��s temper. Deep down you knew she would eventually calm down.

“No, I’ll do it, it’s fine.”, you assured the Barcelona player before kissing her temple softly.

For a moment she closed her eyes under your touch. “She’ll be fine.”, the midfielder whispered in a convinced tone as her lips touched yours in a heartfelt kiss.

“What was the kiss for?”, you raised an eyebrow at her curiously.

“For good luck.”, Keira replied smirking.

“But she said tomorrow so maybe we could just go inside and..”, you begun rambling.

“You think that’s a good idea?”, your girlfriend interrupted you with a doubtful look on her face.

“No, I’ll do it now.”, you sighed, knowing fully well that some things shouldn’t be put on hold. Although you’d miss the comforting hug of the midfielder who pretended to hate them but always made an exception for you.

Cautiously you stood at the entry of the hotel room your sister and her girlfriend were staying in. “Lee, can we chat outside?”

Without a word the older blonde got up and put on her shoes, signalling that she was ready to talk to you outside.

For a while the two of you walked silently on the sand which felt still warm under your naked feet.

“So, you and Keira, huh?”, Leah broke the silence, sounding more curious than mad this time.

“Yeah.”, you answered timidly.

“Since when?” the defender continued asking.

“We got closer when she came to Barcelona.”, you confessed.

“That was forever ago.”, she noted slightly hurt by your reply.

“Yes, but we just started dating a few months ago.”, you added quickly. This much was true. Undoubtedly, you always had a soft spot for your sister’s best friend. The more time you two spend together, the more it became obvious that there was more than just friendship.

“And you didn’t tell me.”, Leah swallowed hard through that realization.

“You didn’t ask me.”, you reminded her.

“If you’re dating my best friend? How was I supposed to know.”, she retorted.

“No, in general, it’s mostly about you when you call me.”, you countered.

“I didn’t realize that. I’m sorry. But I thought you’d tell me such things.”, the defender apologized, her skin despite the tan turned pale.

“It’s okay. I guess we weren’t great sisters for each other recently.”, you admitted guiltily.

Leah nodded in reluctant agreement: “I guess we weren’t.“

There was a moment of silence between the two of you, not uncomfortable but thoughtful.

“But we could do better now.“, you said determinedly,

Your sister stopped walking. You only realized that wasn’t on your side anymore after a few more steps.

You turned towards her and caught her staring at you.

“Y/n?“, she asked.

“Yes?“

“Are you happy?“

You smiled at her: “Very.“

“With Kei?“

“Yes.“, you confirmed again.

Leah studied your face for a moment, searching for any indication of a lie before she finally nodded once: “Okay.“

“Okay?“, you echoed with hopefulness in your voice. You didn’t want to fight with your sister. You wanted her and Keira in your life.

Leah kicked up some sand with her shoe: “Yes, okay. I think I can live with that.“

“Good.“, you beamed and slowly continued your walk, waiting for your sister to take her place by your side again.

You thought your talk was over when your sister suddenly spoke up again: “Y/n?“

You looked at her, signalling her to continue.

“Just because you live a life outside of the public eye doesn’t mean I’m not interested in your life or I’m not proud of you.“

Her words caught you by surprise. You frowned at her in confusion. “Wait, you’re proud of me?“

“Why do you sound so surprised? Obviously I’m proud of you.“

You stared down at the fine sand under your feet: “Sorry.“

Another break in your conversation arose. Apparently, struggling to express your emotions properly ran in your family.

“Not everyone has the bravery to go abroad for work… I would not.“, Leah continued.

You looked back up at her: “Really?“

She nodded slowly: “You know how much I love home. And Arsenal. I just couldn’t.“

Hearing this filled you with pride but at the same time, you had to suppress a smile because you really couldn’t imagine your sister anywhere else.

“True, you’re such a homebody.“, you laughed.

Your sister smirked and gave you a small shrug: “See, we’re just very different.“

“Yes, but that’s okay.“, you assured her. You could feel the tension dissolve slowly.

Leah raised an eyebrow: “I will still have to talk to Keira though.“

You let out a groan: “Oh no, not the big sister talk.“

“Oh yes, even for my best friend.“

“Fine, but try and be nice, okay?“, you asked innocently.

“Of course.“

“Thank you.“

She reached over and ruffled through your blonde hair: “Anything for my little sister.“

You tried to get revenge. You two were laughing like children while you chased her down the beach.

You never heard anything about their talk. Both Keira and Leah refused to tell you anything and stubbornly maintained their silence. You didn’t care anyway. They seemed closer than ever and that was all that mattered to you.

The next days were spend at the beach, enjoying the sun and the refreshing coolness of the sea.

“No. I’m not going into the water.“ Keira shook her head determinedly. She had spend the morning straightening her hair but to you, that was not a reason to miss out on swimming.

“Come on.“ You impatiently pulled at her arm.

Leah appeared on Keiras other side, pushing her forward. “You better go now.“

Together you barrelled towards the sea, falling over each as soon as you reached the water. The rest of your friend group burst out laughing,

Keira pushed her now wet hair back. It started to curl at the ends already.

“I hate you Williamsons!“, she laughed.

You kissed her cheek: “No, you don’t.“

“Not really, no.“, Keira admitted and pulled you towards her by your waist to kiss you.

Leah grimaced in disgust: “Okay, but you don’t have to kiss in front of me.“

“Stop complaining.“, you rolled your eyes.

Keira grinned at her: “You better get used to it, Lee.“

[cactus-cuddler]

𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒚 ✭ 𝑨𝒕𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: dom!Bucky Barnes x Sub! virgin female reader

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Plot: There is no specific plot. Bucky and the reader like tease and are both dangerously attracted to each other

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: explicit sex, use of nicknames as "good girl", "slut" and "whore". Daddy kink and dirty talk. I don't think there are any other warnings.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 4.5k (sorry)

-------- ≪ °✾° ≫ Author's note: sorry for any mistakes that may be there, English is not my first language! And sorry if the scenes may be badly written, it's been a long time since I wrote a smut between a woman and a man.

I write this ff because today I turn 18 (Happy Birthday to me!!) and I want so sign it. From today I can interact with all the "minor DNI" posts!!

I don't care if you are minors, read it if you want <3 ------------------------------------------------------------------------

James Buchanan Barnes. The very mention of this name can make your heart race, recalling his powerful presence, his toned physique, and the intense gaze he fixes on you whenever your paths cross. Your thoughts often wander to him, an obsession that fills your mind in the quietest hours of the night.

Yet, despite the thoughts that consume you, you're still a virgin. You’ve never found someone you were willing to give your heart to, let alone something more intimate. You've had relationships, but each time, you’ve held back, refusing to let things go beyond harmless flirtation. The thought of being vulnerable like that has always kept you at a distance. But with him, it’s different. There’s something about Bucky that makes you reconsider everything.

Your relationship with Bucky is hard to define. Sometimes you get along well, but other times, you find yourself wishing he would just disappear. And then there are moments when you wish he’d stop arguing with you altogether, using his frustration in ways that words can’t express. Is that too much to ask?

You’re curled up on your couch with a cup of hot chocolate in hand and a blanket to ward off the winter chill. As you flip through the channels, trying to find something to watch, your phone buzzes with incoming messages. Seeing his name on the screen sends a pang through your chest.

Teasing him has always been your favorite game. You start a random movie, not really caring about the plot, as you wait for him to arrive. The distant sound of a motorcycle engine signals that you're in trouble now.

When the doorbell rings, you open it, quickly masking your excitement. He’s standing there in his pajamas, and you can’t help but giggle. His pants have a childish space motif, and the matching sweatshirt does nothing to diminish his appeal. You’re wrapped in a blanket, so you're not much better off in his eyes.

"Popcorn?" he asks, and you invite him in. As he sees the movie already playing, he reminds you of his earlier request. You shrug and sit on the couch, munching on the popcorn he brought.

“You’re a bad girl,” he says, taking the remote to choose something else to watch.

“Just the way you like them,” you reply with a smirk.

You and Bucky work together in the same company, nothing out of the ordinary. You handle the computers and accounting, while Bucky works with metal. His vibranium arm would be perfect for his job, but he rarely uses it. "Oops, I’m right-handed, I do it without thinking," he says when someone asks why he doesn’t use his more powerful arm. You’ve seen how he looks at women, and it stirs something within you—a mix of jealousy and curiosity.

You first started talking after you accidentally spilled coffee on his white shirt a few months ago. To make amends, you offered to clean it, using a trick you’d read in a 1950s magazine titled "How to Be the Perfect Housewife." Not that you’re aiming for that role; you detest the idea of being confined by outdated gender roles. Patriarchy is disgusting! You would never want to marry a man in your life who confines you to a house with four children, a dog, three cats and a cactus to take care of alone.

Your conversations started off innocent enough, but things took a turn when you began texting late into the night. You both started teasing each other, pushing boundaries just to see how far the other would go. It became a game, one where neither of you wanted to lose face, even as feelings began to creep in.

So, how did he end up at your place tonight? You’re not sure, and it worries you. He’s never been to your house before. Sure, he’s given you rides home after work, a habit that started after the coffee incident. It became a routine, all because you playfully challenged his chivalry. “You? A gentleman? Don’t make me laugh,” you had texted him one morning. That very day, he was waiting outside your building, opening the car door for you. "It doesn’t mean anything," you had said to him in thanks. But tonight feels different.

The movie he picks is just awful. It’s filled with scenes of sex without sense.

���Is this too much for you? Should I change it?” he asks each time, and you just shake your head. In your life you see, read and write stuff more scandalous.

“How boring, if done like this even sex becomes boring," Bucky complains about another sex scene with the missionary position.

“You talk big, but I bet you couldn’t do any better,” you say, challenging him, not realizing what you’ve just started.

“With just one touch, I could make you scream my name,” he says, his voice low and intense. You can feel the heat rise to your cheeks, but you’re not backing down.

“I’d like to see you try,” you whisper, the challenge clear in your voice.

He looks at you, his gaze lingering, but then he sighs and turns back to the movie. “I’m a gentleman,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t take advantage of you like that.”

You feel a wave of frustration, mixed with a sense of longing that you can’t quite shake. You don’t want him to be a gentleman; you want him to see you as more. You’re a ruthless woman, you won’t give up easily. If you are not satisfied with him, well you will do it yourself. In front of his eyes.

You take off your blanket and lift your shirt up to your hips and pull your panties off throwing them on the floor. You lie down on your back and put your feet on his knees. You put two fingers in your mouth and suck them in front of him. ‘He provoked me’. You repeat yourself so you don’t feel guilty about what you’re about to do.

You do small circular movements on your clit and slowly start to sigh for the pleasure you are causing yourself.

“Bucky..." you say between moaning as you start to penetrate your little cunt with two fingers. Bucky is doing everything he can to hold himself back. His erection thills in his boxer asking to be released and enjoy for you and your warmth however he does not want to give up. It will not look but has solid moral principles and not taking your virginity is one of those.

“Bucky… please fuck me with your cock,” you say clenching your couch with fingers to hold back your spasms. This provocation has hit the mark, his erection is now painful and not releasing it could drive him crazy. Reach out to your face, sweat drops are playing on your forehead. He orders you to sit down and you perform. You are sitting one next to the other and you have your leg over his to allow him free access to your pussy.

"I won’t take your virginity," he announces by passing his thumb along your big lips. An unsatisfied grunt comes out of your lips, you want more. Much more than that.

“Why not?" you complain "I want you Bucky, I want to shout your name" add grumbling.

"It would be a nice show, believe me sweetheart but I can’t deprive you of your first time with someone you love," he says. In a flash all the previous excitement fades away as if in a spell. You close your legs and ask him to leave. "You can’t decide what’s right or wrong for me" you told him by pulling out your voice. He’s made his choice, and for tonight, that will have to be enough.

As he leaves, you find yourself wondering what it would take to bridge the gap between you. Because despite everything, one thing is clear: you want more from him, and you’re not sure how much longer you can wait.

The next morning, you wake up hoping that the night with Bucky was just a bad dream—a nightmare you could shake off with a shiver. But as you lie there, staring at the ceiling, you realize that it was all too real. The memory comes rushing back: you, vulnerable and exposed, touching yourself in front of him, moaning his name, only to be met with rejection. Your cheeks flush with a mix of shame and frustration. How could I have let myself go like that?

But there’s another thought that creeps in, unbidden. Despite everything, a part of you finds it almost sweet that Bucky doesn’t want to take your virginity unless it’s something more than just lust. He wants you to save it for someone you truly love. But the truth is, you do want it. You want him. The image of his lips on yours, his hands exploring every inch of your body, flashes through your mind, and you feel a pang of desire so intense it nearly takes your breath away. You’ve fantasized about him for so long—wondered if he could fulfill the dark, desperate needs you’ve kept buried. You’re sure you wouldn’t regret giving him your first time, so why should he?

‘Maybe he doesn’t want me,’ you think suddenly, the possibility of hitting you like a bucket of cold water. ‘Maybe I’m just a game to him, someone he can tease and torment without ever really wanting.’ The thought is unbearable, twisting in your gut like a knife.

You force yourself out of bed, deciding that you won’t let these thoughts ruin your day. Before work, you brew a hot cup of coffee, hoping the caffeine will give you the energy you need to push through. You can’t face Bucky today—not after last night. Instead, you opt for your favorite mode of transport, the one so many dismiss as the “poor man’s commute.” But you’ve always found the train comforting, a place where you can disappear into your thoughts without the pressure of small talk or the need to keep up appearances.

The ride is uneventful, the rhythmic clatter of the train soothing your nerves somewhat. When you arrive at your stop, your office is just a short walk away. You’re early—too early, really—so you take your time, letting your mind wander as you stroll. The morning air is crisp, and the world feels strangely peaceful. ‘Why can’t my mind be this calm?’ you wonder, but of course, it’s not that simple. Last night’s events linger, casting a shadow over everything.

Just as you’re about to step inside, your phone rings, the sound jolting you out of your thoughts. His name flashes on the screen, and your heart skips a beat. What does he want now?

"Y/N, come down now or we'll be late!" Bucky's voice snaps through the line, sharp with irritation. You can almost see the frown on his face, the way his brows would knit together. But with a calmness that surprises even you, you tell him you're already at the office, having taken the train.

"I hope you're joking," he growls, his voice low and husky, sending a familiar shiver down your spine. Even when he's angry, it's a voice that could melt you.

"Sorry, I should have warned you," you reply, hanging up before he can say more. The truth is, you didn't want to face him this morning, not after last night. The thought of seeing his cold blue eyes, remembering how they watched you with a mix of desire and restraint, makes your chest tighten.

You greet your colleagues warmly, slipping on your glasses as you sit at your desk, but your mind is elsewhere. The memory of Bucky's gaze, the way his hand almost trembled before he pulled away from you, keeps playing on a loop.

Hours pass in a blur of work until lunchtime, when Bucky suddenly appears at your usual spot in the break room. The moment you see him, your heart skips a beat. His presence fills the space, commanding and intense. You watch as he approaches, your colleagues' chatter fading into the background.

"I need to talk to you, Y/N," he says, his voice a mix of urgency and something deeper-something almost vulnerable. His eyes, however, are still guarded, a wall you've never been able to fully break through.

Your colleagues exchange knowing glances, smirking, and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Without a word, you follow Bucky out of the room, conscious of the curious eyes behind you.

He leads you to the women's bathroom, and as soon as the door closes, he turns to you, his expression unreadable. "I'm sorry," he begins, but the words seem empty, as if even he doesn't believe them.

"For what?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. Your heart is pounding now, and you don't know if it's from anger, confusion, or the mere proximity to him.

"For last night. I have no right to tell you who should take your virginity," he says, but you quickly cover his mouth with your hand, the heat of embarrassment rushing to your face.

"Don't say that out loud!" you hiss, glancing around as if someone might be listening. The idea that anyone might hear about your inexperience makes you cringe.

His lips curl into a smirk beneath your hand, and he gently removes it, his fingers brushing your skin in a way that sends a jolt of electricity through you. "Do you still want it?" he whispers, leaning in close enough that you can feel his breath on your neck. His voice is dark, teasing, but there's something else there too-a hint of uncertainty, as if he's afraid of your answer.

Your breath catches as he presses his knee between your legs, his hands firm on your hips. God, why does he have to be so confusing? You need him, but his mixed signals are driving you insane.

"You have to understand, I don't want you to regret anything you do with me," he murmurs against your lips, finally adjusting his knee just where you need it. Your body responds instantly, a wave of heat pooling between your legs.

His words are laced with concern, but also with a promise of something darker. "Even though it may not seem like it, I really care about you," he continues, his thumb tracing circles on your cheek, a gesture so tender it makes your chest ache. You feel small under his gaze, like a puzzle he's trying to figure out. And yet, in this position, you're certain you could unravel completely in his hands.

"The day I fuck you, I want to hear words like 'I love you, Daddy' coming out of your mouth. I don't want it to be a simple one-night stand, okay?" he finishes, pulling back just as quickly as he came, leaving you breathless and reeling.

As the door closes behind him, you're left with the echo of his words, your thoughts spiraling. 'How can he have this much control over me?' you wonder, struggling to steady your breath. Your heart is racing, your body still humming with the desire he left behind. Until yesterday, you were convinced your relationship with Bucky was built on mutual dislike and a twisted game of dominance. But now, you're not so sure. There's something deeper-a need, an almost primal urge to possess and be possessed.

The day you finally give in to him won't be gentle. You can feel it in the way your bodies clash, in the intensity of his gaze. It will be raw, fierce, and everything you've secretly craved. And when it happens, you'll be ready to let him see every part of you-the parts you've never shown anyone else, not even yourself.

After work Bucky takes you home, you decide to let go of what happened because now you know that he wants you as much as you do. He wants to be there for you and give you everything you can give.

"I've been thinking about what you said all day," you admit, adjusting Bucky's seatbelt. It feels tighter than it should and you think it's the reason you're short of breath when in reality it's the man in the driver's seat who's gripping the wheel in a way that's too erotic for your tastes.

"What conclusion have you come to?" he asks without taking his eyes off the road. The way his jaw clenched when he spoke and the hint of a neat beard on his cheeks spark some very perverse thoughts in you.

"I want you Bucky, so much. It wouldn't be a one night stand, I know I'd be addicted to your body pressing against mine," you admit bravely and a smile lights up his face.

“Show me how much you want me,” he taunts you.

You decide to please him without using your sharp tongue and you reach out to the crotch of his pants to feel what you have dreamed of so much. Under your fingers you feel him slowly swelling and as you feel it you bite your lip to hold back the excitement that is growing inside you.

You unzip his pants while he is still driving, you notice that he has slowed down and on his face you notice the desire he has for you. As soon as you free his cock you notice that your fantasies did not do him justice. It is definitely bigger and thicker than the one you imagined you rode every night. You wet your hand with saliva - as you have seen done in many pornos - and you start to touch it enjoying the heat on your hand.

You make small movements with the palm of your hand and the idea that someone could see you does nothing but excite you more. You are not an expert, you do not know what he might like more but despite this the movements of your hand are decisive.

"I knew you were a good girl," Bucky says from behind the wheel. Seeing how he's reacting to your touch excites you even more. His breathing is no longer regular, you see his expression satisfied by your touch and when you notice that there are only a few meters left to your house you almost feel sorry.

You start to pump faster, you have decided to challenge yourself and you want to make him come before you get to your house. As your hand increases the speed his sighs become faster and faster and when you see from his look that he is close to that point you take off your belt and lower yourself towards his big cock and take his tip between your lips until your mouth is filled.

"Such a good girl," he says to you while parking the car and you look into his eyes smiling, swallowing all his seed and licking your lips to show him that you liked it.

He fixes his cock in his jeans and then follows you into your home. He intends to return the favor you have done him and will really make you scream as he always threatened while he was teasing you. Once the door is closed behind you, you begin to kiss with desire. Your tongues touch and search for each other and feeling your taste mixed with his cum gives him another throbbing erection despite the orgasm of a few minutes ago.

“I knew there was a whore inside you looking for my cock," he tells you in a hoarse voice. Your body is on fire, you need him to give you more. He makes you lie down on the same couch where he rejected you less than twenty-four hours ago and begins to undress you hastily without paying attention to your clothes. He scatters everything around the room and when you are finally naked in front of his gaze he admires you in amazement.

You are perfect. Your body is perfect in his eyes. Every little imperfection that you see in it are things that he loves. You are a Greek goddess in his eyes and every part of you belongs to him and you both know it. From the day you stained his white shirt with coffee you already knew it would end like this.

He starts taking your breasts with his big hands, only his mind knows how many times he has wanted to touch them, bite them and suck them and now everything is possible. With his metallic hand he holds one of your nipples tightly, the cold touch of his hand makes you arch your back with pleasure and in the meantime he sucks and bites the other nipple making you want even more. Your gasps are music to his ears, your body is like an instrument in his hands and with every touch he is able to let out those little sounds he loves.

“Bucky, please I want more,” you beg with the help of your needy gaze.

"What a needy whore, isn't you?" he sneers and you nod to agree with him. You want to be his whore for tonight and for all the nights to come. He leaves a trail of kisses all over your body and then lingers on your pussy. The place where you need him to focus.

With his thumb he begins to touch your clit and in the meantime his gaze is fixed on your face dominated by pleasure from that insignificant touch. While with his thumb he continues his work with his middle finger he begins to penetrate your cunt going deep to feel how wet you are just for him.

"What a wet pussy we have," he compliments and then licks your juices from his fingers and satisfied he licks his lips.

He makes you sit with your back to the backrest and positions himself between your legs, placing your legs on his shoulders. As he enters you with two fingers, he begins to lick your clit while your hands are firmly on his head. You push him closer to you while desperate cries escape from your lips. Before that, you had never felt anything more pleasurable. His tongue moves expertly on your tight pussy sucking the right spots and alternating with licking.

“Bucky… I’m about to come,” you tell him between sighs of pleasure.

"Good girls only come when they are told, you are a good girl aren't you?" he tells you after taking his tongue off the place he was devouring with pleasure. He puts his fingers in your mouth and you impulsively suck his fingers taking all your flavor away from him. Your pussy is sweet and the taste and smell make Bucky ecstatic. He starts to undress too, letting his erection come out, now it seems even bigger than before and you don't know if you'll be able to take it all. But you know you'll make it, you want to show Bucky that you're a good girl. Good girls can take all the cock.

Before filling your pussy Bucky positions himself between your breasts and you squeeze them around his hard and veiny member. He starts moving with restrained rhythms while you stick out your tongue to lick the tip when you have the chance.

"You have no idea how much I've dreamed of being between these tits," he tells you between thrusts. Your hot tits around his throbbing cock are an incredible sight. Then Bucky takes a condom from his jeans pocket and orders you to put it on him.

You tear it off with your fingers and place it on the tip of Bucky's cock and then with your lips you cover that member with the condom.

“You're my good girl," he says, caressing your cheek. Then with a brusque gesture he turns you around and you find yourself doggy style on the couch with your legs wide open. He spits on his fingers and lubricates your pussy and then he enters you. Slowly and trying to get you used to it, it's still your first time.

His thrusts are slow but firm. It's not enough for you, you want more.

"Bucky..." you say between sighs.

"I know, baby... let your pussy get at ease to my big cock," he replies, putting his hand around your neck and then touching your breasts with the nipples still hard and stained by him. As soon as he notices that you no longer feel any pain, he increases his speed. He fills you up completely, making you scream with pleasure, he doesn't give you time to make you understand that he's sending your mind into a spin.

"Bucky... I'm going to..." you can't finish your sentence because he slaps you on the right butt. The slap sends you into paradise.

"You can only come when daddy tells you to," he replies, slapping you again, this time on your left ass cheek making you scream in pleasure.

After many deep and fast thrusts you feel the orgasm inside you, holding it back is fucking hard but you don't want to disobey Bucky, or rather, your daddy. He has taken away all your sharp responses with his cock turning you into a perfect whore for him. Like you always dreamed.

"Come for daddy, doll," he orders you, he's almost ready to come too but he wants to do it to you. On top of your body. You don't have to be told twice and you come on his big cock and as soon as he comes out of you he takes off the condom and orders you to get on your knees in front of him.

He starts touching himself in front of you and explodes in an orgasm on your beautiful face throwing away every single ounce of purity you had left. You lick your lips hoping to be able to take some of his cum and be able to taste it again like in the car. He grabs your neck and kisses you with fury. Your mouths both taste like the sex you shared and you can't be happier.

“You did really well,” he tells you and you bite your lip at the compliment. “I'm proud of you," he adds, giving you another long, longing kiss.

You go to take a shower to wash your sweaty bodies but "by mistake" Bucky's cock enters your pussy again and fucks you in your shower again giving you the second orgasm of the day and again by mistake his cock ends up in your mouth and Bucky teaches you how to give a blowjob that satisfies him. As soon as you finish the shower you slip into your bed, he wants to be with you after what you have shared and once in bed you fall asleep hugging each other.

The next morning, thankfully a Sunday, you devour everything you have to eat. You were so into sex that you didn't have dinner last night and your arguments resume but end with you rolling around in bed.

This new perspective excites you more than it should, every argument now corresponds to a perfect fuck and now to shut you up Bucky will put his cock in your mouth. "What a beautiful whore you are when you suck it," and these dirty words help you get an orgasm. Bucky says good girls like to be called whores and you are one.

"You're all mine," he tells you while you're sitting at the kitchen table where you've just finished eating, he said he wanted dessert so you you decide to propose yourself as a meal. You took off your panties and without being asked he was between your legs sucking and licking his sweet dessert.

"I love you daddy," you say closer to your orgasm, those are Bucky's favorite words. They make him understand that everything about you is his, your heart, your perfect cunt, your mouth and the rest of your body.

[writer-freak]

Lads x Gn reader | Nice Pants. Can I test the zipper?

Characters: Xavier, Rafayel, Sylus and Zayne

Warning: gn reader, suggestive, english isn't my first language, pretty short

A/n: And another version of this prompt this time with the guys from lads. I am personally not that into Zayne but my friend loves him so I try my best to write for him. Hope you guys enjoy.

Comments, likes and reblogs are always appreciated and really motivate me to write more <3

Xavier

You and Xavier are lounging around in his living room, taking a break. He’s leaning against your shoulder almost dozing off while you are on your phone. After seeing the post you turned your head toward Xavier.

“Nice pants,” you say, biting your lip to hide a grin. “Can I test the zipper?”

Xavier pauses, glancing up at you with one eyebrow quirked. “Test the zipper, huh?” he repeats, now awake and clearly amused. His eyes scan your face, trying to figure out if you’re serious or just messing with him.

He leans back, crossing his arms. “Go ahead, but if this is a TikTok prank, I’m confiscating your phone.”

You laugh, reaching for the zipper, but he catches your hand midway, pulling you close instead. “Just so you know,” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear, “once you start, I might not let you stop.”

Rafayel

Rafayel is sprawled out on the couch, flipping through a book, but you can tell he’s not really reading it. His eyes keep drifting toward you, clearly more interested in what you’re up to.

You decide to have a little fun. “Nice pants,” you say, leaning over the back of the couch with a sly grin. “Mind if I test the zipper?”

Rafayel freezes, his book slipping from his fingers, and he turns to look at you with wide eyes. For a split second, he looks genuinely surprised, but then a slow, mischievous smile spreads across his face.

“What did you just say?” he asks, a playful spark in his voice like he’s daring you to repeat yourself.

You repeat the question, trying to sound as innocent as possible, but there’s a clear challenge in your tone. Rafayel lets out a laugh, his eyes lighting up with amusement. “You really know how to keep things interesting,” he says, shaking his head with a grin.

He shifts on the couch, patting his lap invitingly, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Alright then, be my guest. But just know… this might end up being a full demonstration, not just a test.”

The playful challenge in his voice makes your heart race, but you just grin back at him. “Oh, I’m counting on it,” you reply, your tone matching his.

Sylus

Sylus is busy cleaning his gun, and you decide this is the perfect moment to hit him with your line.

“Nice pants, Sy. Can I test the zipper?”

He doesn’t even look up at first, just hums in acknowledgment. Then, as the words sink in, he stops what he’s doing and finally glances at you, an eyebrow raised.

“Excuse me?” His tone is flat, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth that shows his amusement.

You repeat the question, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Is that a TikTok thing?” he asks, deadpan.

You nod, grinning. “Yup.”

He shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. “TikTok’s gonna get you into trouble one of these days.”

Before you can respond, he stands up, closing the distance between you in two steps. He tilts your chin up with one hand, his gaze intense. “But sure, darling, go ahead. Just remember, once you start, there’s no turning back.”

He steps back, gesturing grandly to his zipper with a smirk. You laugh, feeling your cheeks heat up as you realize what you’ve just gotten yourself into.

Zayne

Zayne is engrossed in some charts, his focus completely elsewhere as you slide up next to him. You wait for just the right moment before dropping your line.

“Nice pants, Zayne. Can I test the zipper?”

He blinks, the words taking a second to register his usually calm expression morphing into something darker. He turns to you, leaning in so close you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

“Careful what you wish for, sweetheart” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “You might start something you can’t finish.”

He straightens up, pretending to return to his work, but you notice the slight flush on his cheeks. A chuckle escapes him, and he shakes his head. “Where do you come up with these things?”

You shrug. “TikTok.”

Zayne smirks. “Well, let’s hope TikTok doesn’t get you into too much trouble.”

Divider by: @saradika-graphics