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imaginedisish · 4 months ago

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I'm Not In Love (Logan Howlett x fem!Reader)

A/N: Okay, so this if my first fic in over a year, and it's also my first Wolverine fic...so please be kind. I'm just getting back into the groove. Expect it to possibly be a little rough. This is big time inspired by "I'm Not In Love" by 10cc. This fic is also thanks to a request I got from an anonymous user! Thanks for the idea, anon! Hope it's okay! Enjoy guys.

Summary: After harboring a crush on Logan for months, things finally come to a head while on an overnight mission.

Warnings: SMUT. 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. There's like no plot here just smut, Unprotected PIV sex (wrap it up), Oral (f!receiving), AFAB reader, Sizekink!(this was a specific size kink request, and so the reader is therefore described as being smaller than Logan/his shirt being big on her), cursing, praise kink, OOC!Logan (just putting this out there because I haven't seen the X-Men movies/read X-Men comics in forever and I'm probably giving him terms he doesn't use/having him act in ways he might not typically), feelings, cocky!Logan, softdom!Logan, one bed muahaha, probably grammar errors, think that's it?

Word Count: 3,162 I got carried away

He was driving you absolutely crazy. Logan. Logan fucking Howlett, with his cocksure attitude and self-satisfied smile. Maybe it’s the way he thinks he’s always right. Maybe it’s that stupid stubbornness, that prowl he does when he walks across a room to meet you. To mock you. His whole being towering over you—his musky, pine-scented cologne filling your lungs. He’s everywhere—and not just metaphorically—literally and physically. His giant frame shadows yours, and you can’t help but admit that there’s something about it…something about him.

You want him. Bad. And although you won’t admit it, you’ve wanted him for months. And so, as of lately, he’s not so much a nuisance as much as he’s a distraction.

You just had to be sent on this mission with Logan—this ridiculous two-day stake-out that you could have done on your own. You’re certainly strong enough; your telekinetic powers and regenerative abilities are enough to handle any situation. And yet, here you are, walking up to a motel with Logan fucking Howlett.

His frame practically consumes yours as he stands behind you on the sidewalk. You swear you can feel the ghost of his fingertips against your waist, impatient and ready to guide you forward. You silently wish he would—wish he would grab your hips and take you down that alleyway and—

“You okay, darlin’?” His voice is gruff against the shell of your ear. “You seem awfully distracted.”

You swallow your embarrassment and hope he won’t pick up on how fast your heart is beating. “I’m fine, just tired,” you mutter, lying straight through your teeth. You can feel his smirk against the side of your head. He has to know what he’s doing. He has to know how much you want him.

He chuckles and his chest vibrates against your back. “Too tired for the mission, bub? We’re almost at the motel, don’t worry.” The condescension in his voice is palpable. He knows exactly how to get under your skin. You’re putty in his hands.

He steps out from behind you, and before you can mourn the loss of the contact, he grabs your hand and leads the way through the doors of the motel. “This okay?” He whispers in your ear, his massive hand giving your smaller one a squeeze. All you can manage is a nod as you approach the front desk. You know it’s just to support your cover—you and Logan are posing as a married couple—but you can’t help but hope it means more. You need it to mean more.

God, you are so fucked.

You’re so distracted thinking about how close Logan is to you that you almost miss the moment when the worker at the front desk says the only room left has just one bed.

You crane your head to look up at Logan, who you find is already looking down at you.

“That’s perfect,” he says, his eyes still on you. His stare doesn’t budge as the man behind the front desk slides the key towards the two of you. Logan grabs the keys and finally breaks the moment. His hand is still holding yours as he navigates the two of you toward your motel room.

The room is…small. There’s one queen bed in the center, a bathroom on the other side of the room, and an old box television resting on an even older-looking oak dresser. On the bright side, the place appears to be clean.

“I should freshen up,” you say, taking off your shoes. Your hand slips out of Logan’s as you pad over to the bathroom with your bag.

The bathroom isn’t horrible either. Dated, but clean. You brush your teeth and wash your face before undressing and searching for your pajamas in your bag—which, naturally, you forgot to pack.

“Ah fuck,” You mutter louder than you meant to.

You hear Logan stirring in the other room, his footsteps quickly approaching the door. “You okay?” You can sense the concern in his voice, and you can’t help but smile.

“Yeah, just forgot to pack something to wear to bed.” There’s more shuffling on the other side of the door. You hear Logan’s bag zip.

“You want my shirt?” He asks, standing just outside the door now.

“I’d feel bad, then you—” Your protests are ignored as he opens the door just enough to toss his Calgary Flames t-shirt onto the bathroom sink, closing it tightly once the shirt lands. You smirk as you walk over to the shirt and put it on. The hem lands at the middle of your thighs. Logan really is massive, you think to yourself.

You take a deep breath, slowly twist the knob of the bathroom door, and head outside. Logan is lounging on the chair next to the dresser, his eyes on you as you place your bag down on the floor at the foot of the bed.

“Th-thanks for the…” You stutter, trailing off as you nod down to the shirt.

Logan smirks as he pushes himself out of the chair and makes his way toward you. You think you see him take you in, look you up and down, but that can’t possibly be.

He shakes his head as he stops at your side. You swear you hear him mutter a low fuck under his breath. “You look good.” But he doesn’t stop for long. He pushes forward and into the bathroom. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he mumbles as he shuts the door behind him.

“Let’s just share the bed,” you shout back, unsure of where the confidence to say that came from. But there’s no response, just the running of water from the sink.

You sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for what feels like forever, but Logan doesn’t take long at all. After a few minutes, you hear the sink shut off and the door creek open.

You shake your head as you stand from the bed to face him. “By the way, you’re not sleeping on the floor, don’t be ridic—” You’re too stunned to say another word. You’ve seen Logan shirtless before, sure, but not like this. Not in just his boxers. Not in a room with him, alone, for an entire night. You need to relax, to calm down, but there’s nowhere else to go, and nothing else to look at. You know he can your heart beating out of your chest now.

He steps toward you, engulfing you with his presence. You stare up at him. “Am I really that scary?” He closes the distance between the two of you.

You try to play dumb. “W-what are you talking about?”

“Every time I get close to you, that little heart of yours practically explodes.”

You swallow roughly. “I d-don’t know what you’re talking about, Logan.” But your shaky voice gives it away. You know exactly what he means.

His arms snake around your waist, resting on your lower back. “Yeah, you do, darlin’,” he says. “You afraid of me or something?” God he is so fucking cocky, you think to yourself.

“’M’not afraid of you,” you whisper. “Could never be afraid of you.”

He smiles and walks you to the edge of the bed, your knees threatening to buckle under the pressure. “What is it then, hm? You like how big I am? That it?” Your eyes frantically search his face for some sort of excuse, some sort of denial. But he can read you like a book. “Yeah, I think that’s it.” He’s towering over you, caging you in.

“It’s more than that,” you admit.

He cocks his head to the side. “Oh yeah? What?” He won’t let that be enough—you know he won’t. He’ll tease it out of you. His presence is dizzying and distracting. You’re not even sure you can form another complete sentence.

“I-it’s just you,” you finally choke out.

But it’s not enough for him. “What about me?”

Everything, you want to say. You want to tell him how you feel. “Logan, I…” But you can’t. I’m not in love, that’s what you’ve been trying to convince yourself of for months.

“Go on, say it. What’s got you going?” He tightens his grip around your waist, his thumbs rubbing gently along your back. He leans down, his lips brushing against your forehead. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

Your eyes flutter shut, and you take a deep breath. He’s everything and he’s everywhere. He’s in your head and in your hands. You can smell the musk and the pine and a hint of mint and that extra thing that is just distinctly him. He’s warm and his breath ever-so-lightly tickles your ear as his forehead rests against yours.

And then finally, it comes out.

“I want you, Lo.”

You open your eyes and immediately notice the change in his expression. That cocky grin is gone. He isn’t teasing anymore. This is something else. Want. No, stronger than that. Desire. Adoration. Longing. Like those four words undid something in him. Untangled some knot that had been there for far too long. Almost like he thought you maybe wouldn’t want this. That maybe someone wouldn’t want him.

So, you say it again. “I want you, Logan.”

He shuts his eyes. “Fuck.”

And then he’s pushing you down onto the mattress. His lips find their way to yours, crashing like the world is about to end. You can feel his hunger, his desperation. He rests one hand next to your head for balance and slips his free hand underneath the shirt he lent you. He’s exploring the curves of your body, the dips and turns, eventually pulling the shirt up and over your head.

He comes up for air as his fingers play with the clasp of your bra. You watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “This okay?” He asks, waiting for your approval. You nod and the hooks are immediately undone. You arch your back so he can slip the bra off. “Fuck, pretty girl,” he mumbles. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

His hands find their way to your chest, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, teasing you, pinching lightly.

“Lo, please. Need you,” is all you can say.

He trails a line of kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, the center of your chest, his mouth traveling achingly slowly until finally landing on one of your tits. He kisses your nipple before taking it into his mouth, biting lightly and licking the hurt away.

“Please,” you beg again.

He comes up for a moment. “Please what?” He asks before moving on to the other side.

“Need you so bad,” You whimper. But he doesn’t stop. “N-need you to touch me.”

He pauses again. “Think I’m already doing that, darlin’. Gonna have to be more specific.”

“Fuck me, please.”

He shakes his head. “Wanna make you feel good first, pretty girl.”

You sit up a bit, ready to protest. “But you are. You’re making me feel so—” You’re cut off by the sight of him staring up at you as he trails kisses down your stomach, stopping at the top of your panties. He grabs your hips and pushes you further into the center of the bed. His fingers slip under the hem of your panties, waiting for your approval. You nod, and he practically tears them right off you.

Logan kisses the inside of your thigh, slowly charting a path toward your core, his thumb tracing circles on the other thigh. You’re already squirming under his touch. “Lo,” You whimper. “Please—Fuck!” Without warning, his tongue licks a long stripe up your folds to your clit. His lips lock around it, sucking softly, his fingers suddenly teasing your entrance before slipping a finger inside.

“So tight darlin’. Gonna feel so good,” he mumbles against you, the vibrations of his deep voice sending a jolt up your spine.

He’s taking his time, tasting you, savoring you. His tongue laps at your cunt, licking slow circles as his finger pumps in and out. You need more.

“Lo,” You call out, your back arching in pleasure. But he doesn’t answer. He keeps going as if he’s gotten lost in you, as if there’s nothing that can possibly be said to bring him back. “Lo, please,” you moan again.

He chuckles against your core. “Please what, pretty girl?” He mumbles. You can feel his smirk against you.

“M-more,” you beg. You can feel his smirk grow wider as his motions stall. “No don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

He looks up at you, his finger buried deep inside your cunt, his lips just inches from your clit. “Wanna take my time with you, darlin’.”

“Y-you c-can,” You stutter. “W-whatever you want. Just need more.”

“More?” He repeats, arrogantly tilting his head. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight.

“Yes, please.” But you know by the look in his eyes that you’re getting more than you bargained for.

He adds another finger, pumping in and out faster than before. His lips latch onto your clit, sucking roughly. It’s overwhelming, and you know he isn’t going to let up. His tongue draws circles around your core, flicking harshly before ruthlessly sucking again. You can feel a third finger prodding your entrance before slipping in and stretching you out.

“This what you wanted?” He teases.

“Lo, I—” It’s too much, you can’t speak.

“I’ve got you darlin’. I’m right here. You’re doing so good for me.” His words by themselves practically send you over the edge.

“’M’so close Logan,” You whimper, spurring him on. His pace quickens; his circles become harder. You can feel your walls tightening around his fingers.

“I know, pretty girl. Wanna feel you come on my fingers. Can you do that for me?”

You can’t even speak anymore. All you can manage is a hum that passes for an affirmative. He pumps in and out of you, still alternating between sucking your clit and circling it with his tongue.

“Look so beautiful like this darlin’. So fucking beautiful,” He husks. And that’s all it takes to make that liquid heat, that tension building in the bottom of your stomach, cut like a knife, pouring out of you. Your vision blurs as you let yourself go. You chant his name like it’s a prayer, a spell, something otherworldly. He finally slows down, letting you ride out your orgasm.

He pulls out and away from you, crawling up your body so that he’s on top of you. He’s absolutely huge; his arms rest next to your head, caging you in. “You alright sweetheart?” He asks, one hand coming up to cup your cheek as he presses a chaste kiss against your forehead.

“Hm,” You hum. “Like you like this.”

There’s that cocky smirk again. “Like what?”

“O-on top of me,” You admit freely now. Your arms come up to wrap around his shoulders, but he quickly pins them above your head.

He smiles widely, his forehead coming down to rest on yours. You can feel his erection press against your core through his boxers. And—fuck—he’s big. “Gonna fuck you like this then, okay pretty girl?”

“P-please,” you stutter.

He sits up, pulling his boxers down, revealing just how big he is. You swallow harshly, sitting up and watching as he casts his boxers to the side. He doesn’t let you watch for long. He pins you down again, one hand keeping your hands above your head and supporting his weight, while the other guides his cock to your entrance. His slides against your folds before slowly sinking inside you. You can’t help but arch your back to meet his chest.

Everything is slow. He’s taking his time again, letting himself feel every inch of you, giving you the chance to adjust to the size of him. His free hand reaches in between your bodies and finds your clit, drawing slow, gentle circles.

His forehead rests against yours as he thrusts into you. “Wanted this for so long,” he confesses, his thrusts growing faster. “Always wanted you, darlin’.” You can feel your heart burst in your chest as his lips meet yours. You can feel his hunger, his desire.

“Wanted you too,” You whisper against his lips between kisses.

His cock rubs against your walls, hitting that sweet spot every single time. He’s massive, stretching you out with each pump. He builds speed, his thrusts growing rougher as his fingers circle your clit faster.

He whispers praises in your ear. “You feel so good, pretty girl. So fucking tight. Need you, darlin’. Always.”

Always.

It’s all too much. The words, the vulnerability, the feeling of him rutting into you with no end in sight. The promise of something else, something more.

“Logan, I’m gonna…” You trail off, your walls tightening around him. It’s all so overwhelming. But if you’re being honest, you never want it to end. This. This feeling. Him inside you. Him around you.

He curses under his breath, his thrusts becoming sloppier and faster as he chases his orgasm. “I know darlin’. Wanna feel you come on my cock.” He keeps his fingers steady on your clit, circling roughly, chasing your orgasm too.

“Lo,” You mumble. “It’s so good. Y-you’re so good, so b-beautiful.” You’re a bumbling mess, but you want him to feel good too, to know what he’s doing to you, to know that he deserves this. Deserves to be wanted.

You feel wetness on his cheeks as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. “Always wanted you,” he whispers again against the shell of your ear. “Always gonna want you.”

The tension snaps, and you feel blaring white heat ripple through your body. Logan somehow buries himself deeper inside you as you come, your walls squeezing him tighter.

“F-fuck,” he groans. “Where do you want—”

You cut him off this time. “Inside, please,” you pant. “Safe.” He curses under his breath and calls out your name as he fills you up.

“So perfect,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect.”

His thrusts slow down as he finishes, and he slowly pulls out of you. But he doesn’t pull away. He keeps you close, moving you both towards the headboard. It takes a minute, but he manages to keep you close to his chest as he undoes the covers and gets you both inside them.

Logan holds you tightly, peppering kisses against your temples every now and then.

He’s the first to speak. “When I said always…” He trails off. You brace yourself for the worst. It was just the heat of the moment, bub. ‘M’sorry I said it. This shouldn’t happen again. It was a one-time thing and I—

“I meant it.”

You look up at him, eyes wide. He smiles. But it’s not that cocky smile, not that self-satisfied shit-eating grin. It’s that other thing again. Longing.

“I meant it, too.”

tags: @cypherpt5fttaehyung

#logan howlett x reader #James Logan howlett x reader #Logan howlett smut #Logan howlett x reader smut #Logan howlett x you #Logan howlett x you smut #James Logan howlett smut #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine x reader smut #wolverine smut #Logan howlett x reader one bed #wolverine x reader one bed

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heartthrobin · 3 months ago

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all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest

an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers

summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.

part one

You can’t sleep.

You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.

“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”

The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.

It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?

You lingered on it all weekend.

Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.

The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.

There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.

Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.

When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.

“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.

Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.

It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.

Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.

“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”

Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”

The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.

“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.

You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”

He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”

You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“

“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”

There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”

His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”

“Without a doubt.”

Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”

You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.

Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”

Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”

This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.

“He said that?”

He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“

“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”

The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”

Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.

There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.

That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.

Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.

Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."

He perks: "really?"

Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.

"Ow!"

A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.

“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.

Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.

It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?

You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.

“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.

The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.

It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.

Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.

“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”

You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.

Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”

Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”

"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."

Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."

He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.

"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"

Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."

"Tense?"

"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"

At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.

"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.

Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"

Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"

Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"

The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.

"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."

"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."

Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"

"She said that, too."

Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"

"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."

A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"

Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."

He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."

"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"

You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."

"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"

"Yes." You don't look at her.

The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"

You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.

She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."

"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.

Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.

The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"

You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.

Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.

Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.

"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"

You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"

Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."

"She's just answering your question, professor."

Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."

A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.

Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.

You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.

Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.

Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.

It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.

There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.

'Maybe.

We good?'

There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.

You hunch over the note again.

Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.

He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.

When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.

'Never :)'

His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."

"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"

"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"

Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."

He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.

Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.

In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.

But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.

Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.

Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.

He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.

You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.

"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.

He huffs.

Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.

It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"

You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.

Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.

Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.

The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.

It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.

Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."

You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.

Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.

Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.

"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"

The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."

On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.

There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.

Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.

He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.

It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.

Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.

But lately he's foggier than usual.

You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.

Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.

Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.

Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.

You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.

The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.

Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"

You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.

The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.

There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.

The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.

Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.

Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.

Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.

Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.

"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"

It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.

Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.

You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.

Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.

Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.

He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.

"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"

A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.

Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.

His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.

Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"

It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.

"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"

After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.

The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.

He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.

Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?

The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.

There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.

Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.

Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.

So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.

You're not at dinner.

He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."

Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."

Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."

He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.

Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.

Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.

He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.

"What does it look like, Arch."

Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."

He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"

Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.

You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them.

The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.

By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.

The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.

The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.

It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.

"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.

He shrugs. "Not today."

You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.

There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.

There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."

He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.

You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.

"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"

His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."

By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."

You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.

The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.

You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."

He nods. "I know."

"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"

Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.

"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."

You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.

"You wouldn't."

"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.

Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."

Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.

"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.

He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."

The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.

By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.

Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.

You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.

His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.

You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.

Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.

Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.

"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"

He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.

He won.

Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.

He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.

It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.

He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.

Will you forget him?

It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.

He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.

You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--

The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.

A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.

His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"

Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.

This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.

"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."

There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.

"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.

The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.

He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.

It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.

"Wood! What are you do--"

His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."

Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.

With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"

He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.

"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.

You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."

Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."

He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.

"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"

A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.

"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."

"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.

"So, is that a yes?"

You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.

"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.

He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"

You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.

It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.

It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.

Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.

"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."

He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."

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lex-the-flex · 29 days ago

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Misty Mornings

Origins!Logan Howlett x reader

Summary: On this particular morning, Logan is in need of a shave, and you’re more than happy to take on the job.

Word Count: 650

Warning(s): None, PURE FLUFF! (Cause Logan deserves it). A tiny amount of nervousness.

A/N: If I had a man that would let me do this, I’d be his forever. (Basically a MEGA GREEN FLAG) Feedback is appreciated and enjoy!

The low coo of multiple mourning doves echo across the woods lingering beyond your backyard. The strong scent of the early morning lake balances itself against the soft and subtle fog hovering over the calm water as the morning sun threatens to break the cool air. Pulling your knitted blanket closer, a calm breeze welcomes the ambiance and colors of Autumn to the secluded place you call home.

Being fully engrossed in your novel, you don’t hear Logan walking down the dock. Turning the page, the creaking sound of the wooden deck brings you back to reality.

“Baby?” He asks.

“Hi, Lo.” You respond.

Closing your book, you stand up to greet Logan with a warm hug. Extending on your toes, he briefly presses a kiss to your forehead.

“What are you doing out here? You’ll catch a cold.” Logan replies.

“It’s not snowing yet, babe. Trust me.” You smile, before reaching down to pick up your book.

Offering his hand to you, you close your palm around Logan’s fingers as he leads you back towards the elegant two storied cabin. Folding your blanket, you throw it on the back of an armchair along with your book.

Following Logan into the kitchen, you hop up on the granite countertop, and he turns on the coffee pot. Gazing up at Logan, you hum to yourself at the sight before you.

“What is it?” He asks with a sly grin.

“Nothin’. I’m just not used to you ever being in the kitchen. It’s still strange to me.” You explain.

“Oh, yeah? And how long have we been together?” Logan questions, walking to you.

Placing both of his hands on either side of your hips, you tilt your head backwards and wrap your arms around his large shoulders. Smiling, the two of you just gaze at each other lovingly for a moment, silently enjoying the peace.

Running your fingers through Logan’s thick dark hair, he lightly chuckles when you move onto his slightly overgrown beard.

“Hmm, you need to shave.” You firmly state, tickling his scruff.

“Is that a threat, darlin’?” He teases.

“Maybe… Will you let me trim your beard this time? Please?” You ask.

Determined to get an answer, Logan finally agrees, ultimately losing the never-ending battle.

Leaving you in the kitchen, Logan shortly returns with his shaving kit. Placing it on the counter next to you, he unzips the small leather pouch and takes out a pair of scissors. Handing them to you, Logan carefully returns his hands to your hips, eager to see what you’ll do. Softly cutting off pieces of your lover’s beard, you suddenly become focused on the task at hand, unaware of Logan’s loving and intrigued stare.

HIs light hazel eyes glance deeply along the edges of your face, studying the details of your focused state. Unconsciously wrapping your legs around Logan’s waist, he slowly pulls you closer, wanting to be more intimate. Your heart begins to pound in your chest, nearing the end of your task.

“I”m almost done, babe.” You whisper, flicking away the remnants of his beard.

Finishing up, you set down the scissors and wipe Logan’s freshly trimmed jawline.

“There you go, you’re all nice and clean.” You reply.

“Mmm, thank you, Y/N. It feels so much better already. You should imagine it.” Logan teases.

Lowering his lips to the nape of your neck, Logan playfully kisses the soft skin of your neck. Allowing you to feel the fresh scruff tickle you, a smile creeps on his lips whilst a gentle moan escapes your mouth.

“Okay, cowboy… le–” You try, but can’t.

Unable to push Logan away, you find yourself craving his touch even more. Tangling your fingers in his thick hair, his mouth searches for yours. Kissing you passionately, your fingers grip Logan’s strong muscles whilst he lifts you from the counter and carries you deeper into the house.

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#wolverine #wolverine xmen #wolverine fanfiction #deadpool and wolverine #logan howlett #logan howlett fic #logan howlett fluff #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett xmen #logan howlett x y/n #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett headcanon #logan howlett imagine #hugh jackman

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imfoive · 3 months ago

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Fool, Hopelessly in Love

Minho x Reader (fem.) Genre: Brother’s Bestfriend au!, Angst, Romance, unrequited love, slow-burn, slightly NSFW (mdni) Warnings: mentions of cheating, drinking, cursing, blood, physical violence, somewhat proofread WC: 12.7k A/N: raise your hand if you needed a pining lee know fic 🙋‍♀️ Feedback is always welcome, enjoy! ── MASTERLIST

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Lee Minho was an ordinary man. Minus the occasional dangers of his profession, he thought of himself as just an average guy leading a typical life. He was quiet and composed, enjoying his solitude, yet loved goofing off and letting loose with his closest friends. Again, despite the challenges of his job as a cop that he found fulfillment in, Minho was perfectly ordinary.

But hidden deep inside was a secret he had kept locked away for what seemed like forever.

Lee Minho was a fool, hopelessly in love.

He hadn’t anticipated falling for her.

No.

Never in a million years.

He wasn’t aware he’d fall this hard. The aching feeling in his heart intensified just at her presence, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, unknown to anyone but himself.

Yet all he could do was pretend.

After all, she was his best friend’s little sister.

It hadn’t always been like this. Despite knowing her for more than a decade, he had never felt such an overwhelming pull to her before.

How was it possible that now, after all this time, he was painfully aware of these newfound feelings?

Her brother, was his first and only friend in high school. The then-sixteen year old had transferred in the middle of the semester, recently losing his mother, and had come to live with his uncle and aunt. He was a loner for the most part, yet by the second week of school he had gained a reputation for being blunt and rude, a cold demeanor displayed by a teenager who was still mourning. Still, the class mood maker, who was absent for the two weeks Minho had been there, due to a sports injury, smiled brightly in front of him. Knocking on the desk Minho had laid on with head buried in his arms.

“So you’re Lee Minho huh? Hey, I’m Seo Changbin!”

His voice was loud, yet Minho never understood why he had smiled at him. Even approached him, when he was hobbling around the school and had lots of school work he had to catch up on.

But slowly they became close. Changbin would persistently stay next to him, well aware that Minho didn’t want him there. The sound of Changbin’s lunch tray clattering across from him would become something he became used to. And suddenly he found himself laughing, opening up to something he didn’t know he needed. A friend.

By the time the semester ended they were best friends. The notorious reputation he earned, long gone. They played basketball, went on trips, hung out at each other’s places for hours, fingers working against game controllers in frenzy.

That’s how Minho met her. His best friend’s sister.

Y/N was only two years younger than they were. The siblings were always bickering. Their teasing and pranks were things that stretched even into their adulthood. But still, anyone could tell they were close. Even at fourteen, Y/N’s voice rang out loudly, matching her brother’s, if not even louder.

When Minho introduced himself, she quipped, “Ah, so you’re Grumpy Minho from Bin’s class,” earning a nudge from her flustered mother.

Their mother, a warm and kind woman, who had been acquainted with Minho’s aunt, understood the tragedy he had endured before living in this town. Initially uncomfortable with the sad look in her gaze, Minho gradually grew accustomed to her kindness. She welcomed him into their family, treating him like a second son and providing the love and support he had lost.

As the years passed, Minho’s bond with the Seo siblings deepened through shared experiences and countless hours spent together. By the time they graduated from high school, Minho had become a protective figure in Y/N’s life, someone she could rely on when her brother couldn’t be there.

And a few years later, once Minho graduated from the police academy, Y/N proudly declared she would marry him someday, eliciting chuckles and teasing from those around them. He was too good for her, they scoffed. Her mother, though, secretly wished it would come true, hoping Minho would become a permanent part of their family.

They all laughed.

Only a handful of years ago, Minho, who laughed at such a ridiculous thing, was now at a loss for words.

What changed so drastically that she became someone who occupied his thoughts day and night? He found solace in her smile, joy in her laughter, and pain in her tears.

Probably that night.

The day before his promotion. The week after Changbin secured a full time position at the company he had been interning at.

It was also the day Y/N planned to officially introduce her boyfriend to them.

Her birthday.

It was her first attempt at bringing a romantic partner in front of her protective older brother and his equally overwhelming best friend. One was a gym enthusiast, the other a cop, easily intimidating for any suitor.

They made reservations for dinner and drinks at an upscale venue later that evening to meet the man who supposedly made her feel special. But with so much to celebrate, the siblings decided to hit a club first. Though Minho’s promotion was not yet official, the occasion demanded dancing, laughter, and drinks. The birthday girl, initially beaming with joy, danced gracefully to the music. However, her mood shifted upon receiving a text from her boyfriend. He was busy at work and couldn’t step out, couldn’t make it to her birthday celebration. She returned to find the two older guys at the bar, masking her disappointment, though they could see right through her facade.

So they decided to distract her.

They continued drinking, dancing, and trying to lift Y/N’s spirits. Minho found himself back at the bar, navigating through the crowd when he accidentally collided with someone who looked eerily familiar. He squinted in disbelief, he’d only seen that face in pictures that Y/N shoved in his face, but he was sure it was that person. Minho’s face had contorted, and he tried to convince himself that it wasn’t who he thought it was. Perhaps the shots he downed were playing tricks on his mind. Changbin intervened, pulling him away, something about getting some fresh air. Minho nodded absently, stealing one last glance over his shoulder, but the familiar face had vanished from the bar.

The familiar face was outside, and Minho’s initial hunch proved correct.

All three of them stood in stunned silence as they witnessed Y/N’s boyfriend passionately kissing another girl by the club’s entrance. Changbin hesitated momentarily, glancing back and forth between Y/N, frozen in disbelief, and the scene unfolding before them. Like Minho, it took a moment for the realization to sink in for him as well. Y/N’s soft voice, barely audible over the bass of the loud club music, booming even outside, and the chatter around them, was enough to confirm their doubts.

“He wasn’t at work after all.” Her voice carried a mix of hurt and resignation.

Her boyfriend finally noticed them, his face going pale as he hastily pushed away the girl he was with. Who turned out to be a mutual friend, looking awkward and guilty. He stumbled over his words, attempting feeble excuses that neither Minho nor Changbin found convincing. His eyes darted nervously between them, fully aware that the two men were probably going to kick his ass.

Minho let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his temples as he stepped forward to restrain Changbin, whose fists were clenched and ready to strike. Y/N remained silent, her gaze fixed on her boyfriend, processing.

“Hey, I’m a cop…” Minho started, his tone cool and controlled, fully aware of the consequences of any altercation, especially the day before his promotion. And this loser was not worth it.

He glanced briefly at Changbin, silently urging him not to attack.

But before Changbin could respond, Y/N cut in sharply, her voice firm and decisive.

“Let’s go.” She said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

She turned on her heels and walked away, leaving her boyfriend standing there, stunned and calling after her futilely. But the boyfriend’s calls cut short, seeing the deathly glare Changbin had shot his way.

Minho sighed heavily, his frustration evident as he glanced back at the cheating man, who was now taking cautious steps backward, still shielding his cheating partner.

“Pathetic.” Minho muttered under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief at the situation.

The Seo siblings found themselves seated in a humble hole-in-the-wall bar, far from the upscale place they had originally planned to celebrate Y/N’s birthday. Despite its lack of glamour, the dimly lit bar became the perfect place where they could gather their thoughts.

Changbin struggled to find words that could provide comfort or solace, as he sat in the stool next to his quiet sister. His initial attempts were drowned out by the bitter taste of anger and disappointment. But each time he began to speak out in a string of curses, Minho’s subtle gestures urged him to hold back, a silent reminder to tread carefully.

“Ugh, let’s just drink.” Changbin finally muttered, breaking the heavy silence that hung over them.

The brother-sister duo began drinking. Minho observed them quietly from his seat, knowing he would eventually need to ensure they got home safely. His gaze shifted between Changbin, visibly letting off steam with each drink, and Y/N, surprising him with her capacity to match her brother’s pace despite her usually lightweight tolerance.

Changbin had fallen first, his head landing with a dull thud against his folded arms on the bar counter. His shoulders rose and fell rhythmically with each breath. Meanwhile, Y/N swayed slightly in her seat, her elbows propped on the counter as she cupped her flushed face in her hands. Her eyes struggled to remain open, the effects of alcohol painting her cheeks with a noticeable tinge of red. When she spoke, her words slurred together in whispers that caught Minho’s attention. Frowning slightly, he leaned in closer, trying to decipher her drunken murmurs.

“Why can’t I find anyone decent?” She began questioning, turning towards Minho, who truly did not have any answers for her.

Minho listened intently as Y/N poured out her frustrations, her voice wavering with a mix of disappointment and vulnerability.

“I just want a good man who will treat me well.” She lamented, her glistening gaze searched his face for understanding.

“Before this cheating dog, there was the jerk who just wanted a fling. Before him was the thief. Even you laughed at the idea of marrying me.”

Minho had blinked back, suddenly caught off guard by her last sentence.

“Have you never seen me like that?” Her question hung in the air, heavy with implications that Minho suddenly struggled to process.

He continued to blink, big eyes taken aback by the unexpected turn of the conversation.

For a moment, silence enveloped them, broken only by the soft murmur of the bar and Changbin’s occasional sleepy shuffle on the other side of her. Y/N’s eyes bore into Minho’s, waiting for a response that he didn’t have.

“You are a good guy then.” She whispered finally, a fragile smile playing on her lips.

And she leaned in, her lips meeting his.

The man next to her stiffened. Wide eyes bore into the air behind her. His mind raced as Y/N’s lips brushed against his, a gentle press that sent a jolt through his entire being. Her warmth lingered on his lips even as she pulled back, her sheepish smile breaking the spell of their fleeting moment.

Before he could process what had just happened, Y/N slumped forward onto the bar counter with a heavy thud, the sound echoing in the quiet bar. Changbin stirred beside her, groggily lifting his head and scanning the scene with furrowed brows of confusion. Minho could feel his heart pounding in his chest, entire body igniting with a burning sensation.

“What’s wrong?” His best friend muttered, still a little drunk, a little sleep hazed.

Minho snapped out of his daze, still utterly at a loss for words.

The siblings had shown up hungover at his promotion ceremony, they had gotten so drunk to the point that Changbin only remembered bits and pieces of the previous night, while Y/N didn’t remember anything at all. Her genuinely puzzled expression left Minho feeling conflicted, uncertain of how to process the situation.

He couldn’t help but wonder if he should be relieved that she couldn’t remember, sparing her from embarrassment. Yet, another part of him wondered if he should have felt worried that she did something like that? What if it had been someone else?

Or maybe he should’ve been mad that he had to be the only one who knows what happened between them?

But ultimately, Minho did not want to confront it.

Instead he lied. Nothing stupid had happened.

Minho brushed off the incident as a drunken mistake, burying it deep within and keeping it hidden from everyone. Even her.

But then his mind wandered beyond his control, bringing up questions he never anticipated.

What did Y/N mean when she included him in the list of guys who hurt her?

Did she truly want to marry him back then?

Why did she kiss him?

The detective wracked his brains. The unanswered questions gnawed at Minho’s thoughts like an unsolved case. It replayed in his mind, each detail scrutinized for clues. Surely, part of her had to be aware she was kissing him and not someone else.

Her words, “You are a good guy,” echoed in his mind.

His eyes tracked her movements with a new intensity, questions at the tip of his tongue but never said aloud.

That’s probably how it started.

A slow time-lapse of his resolve breaking down, a gradual shift in his perception of her, something that seemed to have easily slipped under his radar.

He found himself looking for her, his eyes wandering until they landed on her. Each time he saw her, his mind replayed the moment. The soft of her lips, plush against his, the warmth of her smile afterward, and the sheepish glance she had given him before succumbing to unconsciousness.

He had smacked himself, shuddering for even remembering such details. Despite his efforts to push aside those memories, they persisted stubbornly, haunting him.

Then he woke up one night, stunned. Eyes darted from one end of his room to the other, his chest heaved with each panicked breath.

He had dreamt of her.

He had dreamt of kissing her.

And he had liked every second of it.

The sensation was so vivid, so real, that it lingered even in the darkness of his bedroom.

It doesn’t take much for a woman to get a man to notice her, even if it’s just from a drunken encounter.

Minho wrestled with himself, debating whether he should have just told her the truth when she asked the next day if she had done anything foolish.

But it was too late he concluded. He had already lied.

Instead, he made himself busy.

The new detective was commended for taking on so many new cases. To the outside world, he appeared focused and driven, but deep down, only Minho knew the real reason behind his relentless workload. It was his defense against thoughts of Y/N.

Against the memories of that kiss, the confusing emotions that followed, and the vivid dreams.

And for a while, his strategy seemed to work. He managed to avoid seeing Y/N frequently, although he had little energy left for socializing with anyone else at all.

Minho was becoming a fool, falling hopelessly in love.

There was a particular instance when she dropped by unexpectedly with coffee, and his new teammates couldn’t resist teasing him about whether she was his girlfriend. His response was unexpectedly sharp and loud, heavy with denial.

“Of course not! Never!”

It made her flinch, visibly taken aback.

“Geez, you don’t have to deny it that eagerly.” She retorted, rolling her eyes at him before turning to his team and introducing herself with a lighthearted smile.

If only she had known how much of his thoughts she had taken up.

Minho tried to convince himself out of those forbidden feelings til the very end.

But then he found himself smiling at her while she did something she always does. In that fleeting instance, he found her utterly endearing, cute even.

The realization hit him like a sudden wave, his smile fading as he stood frozen, eyes cast downward. It was as if his heart had sent a clear message to his entire being.

Accept it, you like her.

Everyone always talks about the five stages of grief, but what about the stages of secretly crushing on your best friend’s sister?

Then came anger.

His emotions finally boiled over one day when Y/N visited him unexpectedly on New Year’s Eve, insisting that he take a break from his relentless work schedule and join their celebrations. His outburst wasn’t just about her interrupting him, he knew it stemmed from the frustration and confusion he felt about his growing feelings for her. The emotions he shouldn’t have even felt to begin with.

Why was he the only one tormented by that damn kiss?

Why was he the only one dreaming of doing things to her that made him shudder just thinking about?

Was it even fair to blame her?

These questions gnawed at him, stirring up a storm of conflicting emotions that he struggled to contain.

In a moment of raw vulnerability, he lashed out, slamming his hands against her and the wall, unintentionally caging her between them. Y/N was stunned at his outburst, confused as to why he acted that way, worried even. Her concerned eyes darted between his shining gaze.

“I’m not supposed to feel like this.” It was a panicked mutter to himself.

The intensity of his emotions surprised him, and he quickly recoiled, realizing his eyes had lingered on her lips.

Afraid that he’d be the one to kiss her this time. Fully sober.

He pulled back abruptly, his fear palpable. The thought of doing something and crossing a line that he had been desperately trying to avoid, terrified him.

Y/N thought Minho’s outburst was because of stress from work, concerned that he was dealing with a particularly challenging or disturbing case.

She misunderstood. And he let her misunderstand.

Then he disappeared.

Well, attempted to disappear. Believing that some time away would help him sort out his feelings and make them fade, much like Y/N’s apparent teenage crush on him.

He was confident at one point that he would be able to overcome whatever disease he believed it to be. If he believed hard enough that he would convince himself that it wasn’t so.

But the dreams.

The damn dreams that often woke him up in the middle of the night, sweaty, ears and cheeks red and flushed, the painful tent in his pants. All make him groan, rubbing his face in his palms.

He had transferred to another city for a year to get away from the source that made him feel those emotions he’s never felt before, but once there and away from her, he did nothing but pine for her.

Alone in a city over, Minho had constantly prayed for those forbidden feelings to fade as quickly as they surfaced. But after crying to himself countless nights, feeling overwhelmed by the turmoil within him, the tug at his chest whenever he thought about her, the detective’s prayers changed.

He prayed she would be his.

That’s how this game of pretend began.

After returning back, Minho slipped back into his routine. As if the year apart hadn’t stirred and set his feelings for Y/N in stone. As if he hadn’t been pushed over the edge. Pretending that he hadn’t fully accepted the fact that he was probably in love with her.

He smiled and laughed as he always did. Changbin and him would hang out, catching up on everything he’s missed over the last year. He lied he had been well, that the city he was working in kept him so busy he didn’t have time to think.

Of course his thoughts were full of his best friend’s sister, but the detective would never admit that.

Throughout this charade, Minho often found himself searching for Y/N in crowded rooms or during quiet moments. In hopes he could simply observe her and take in his fill of her for the day.

Then one day, when he asked about her, Changbin casually mentioned that she was on a date with her boyfriend. Unlike the fleeting relationships Y/N had described before, this one seemed different.

This one stayed.

This one was a good man. ──────────────────────── Y/N had known almost instantly that she saw him as something more than just a brother figure. From the moment she met Minho, she teased him. A familiar sense of comfort lay over her whenever she was with him. At fourteen she didn’t know what that feeling was, concluding it was because he was someone she looked up to in some sense, much like she did with her own brother.

But when she began maturing, going from a fourteen-year-old who was busy fangirling over her favorite boy band, her eyes began opening up to the beautiful chapter of teenage love.

It started out as a crush. Her heart raced at the sight of her brother’s best friend, her cheeks flushed whenever Minho spoke to her. At seventeen, she convinced herself it was love, it had to be love. So when she realized that she would never be able to cross that line and get out of his blatant sister-zone, she was heartbroken. He was, after all, her first love.

First loves, however, often end up as stories scribbled in diaries or reminisced about in old age. The chapter of secretly loving Lee Minho closed by her college years. Or so she thought, because exactly on her twenty-second birthday she had kissed him. But the only problem was that the memory of it was all fuzzy.

If only Minho hadn’t abruptly chosen to leave and transfer, perhaps things would have unfolded differently. But that all remained unknown, probably in another storyline, another universe.

Y/N had a knack for falling for the wrong type of guys, the ones who effortlessly wielded charm and knew the right words to say.

A magnet for heartbreak, her friends would tease.

But everything changed when she met Han Jisung.

Han Jisung, a good man.

Their paths crossed at the cosmetics company where Jisung was in finances while Y/N worked in the marketing department. Initially, they didn’t cross paths, beyond sharing the same workplace. However, when Y/N’s team leader, responsible for a critical product launch, went into early labor, she was suddenly thrust into the role of temporary team leader. Finding herself collaborating with the finance department frequently.

Their relationship unfolded like a classic enemies-to-lovers tale. The ambitious temporary team leader, determined to ensure a flawless campaign, clashed with the detail-oriented man who managed budgets and processes. Despite the initial dislike, they found themselves drawn to each other, their feelings blossoming into a deep romance.

A year had passed since Minho left, a year of change. Suddenly, when Minho decided it was time to confront his feelings he had a painful realization.

It would remain a dream, a reality that that was unreachable and impossible.

Minho felt his heart race, cheeks flushed with a mixture of emotions he surprisingly managed to mask. Extending his hand, his smile concealed the turmoil within him, meeting Jisung’s steady gaze.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Han Jisung, Y/N’s boyfriend.”

Glancing at Y/N, Minho caught the nervous anticipation in her eyes, a silent plea for his acceptance. He realized how much his opinion mattered to her, how dear he was to her. Though not in the way he yearned for. Her eyes sparkled with admiration as she looked at Jisung, a gleam of affection shining through.

Returning the handshake, Minho nodded graciously, his voice smooth, even though he tasted bitterness with every word.

“Nice to meet you too.” He smiled, lying straight through his teeth.

Her brother’s best friend found himself hoping this new man was just another in the string of disappointments Y/N met. Like every other asshole she thought made her feel special. Minho wished she would discover him cheating, or catch him stealing from her. Anything that would rid him from her.

He wished she would cry because of this other man.

How selfish of him.

But he couldn’t help it.

Like he couldn’t help loving her no matter how much distance he put between them.

His yearning for her so painful that sometimes he found himself clutching at his chest. Sometimes crying in the solitude of his bedroom.

Minho had never thought he would love secretly.

No, an unrequited love story was something he had never imagined for himself. Especially with his best friend’s little sister.

Lee Minho was an attractive man. He had dated his fair share of women, was successful as a detective with a good income. It was obvious he’d be able to protect his woman. And no matter how much of a cold front he put up in public, he could love his woman madly.

He would love his woman madly, doing exactly that, with his walls of pretend built up so high no one was able to catch even a glimpse of it.

Except he didn’t think when he tucked that photo into his favorite book.

A captured moment of Y/N’s radiant smile, standing beside him with a bouquet of flowers held between them. He was sharply dressed in his police uniform, a proud symbol of his graduation from the academy. It was the photo that brought him solace during his time away. The one he couldn’t help but stare at every time he missed her that year he was away.

He was a cop, yet he had done a terrible job of hiding the picture.

So when he was caught, he was utterly surprised. His eyes widened as he froze at the entrance of his bedroom door, seeing his best friend holding up the photo in his hand, the open book it had been in, flat against the desk.

Changbin glanced at him, his furrowed brows relaxing, and in an instant, the detective understood exactly what that look meant.

Realization.

Changbin wasn’t the brightest in the box growing up, yet he was sharp enough to become an accountant at a very big company.

Only a handful of minutes ago, the accountant’s ocd got the best of him as he stared at the clutter on Minho’s desk. He rifled through to somewhat organize, instantly his eyes caught sight of a familiar paperback novel. Its spine bent at a particular page, the book hovered open slightly. Changbin had opened it, eyes immediately seeing the photo, fingers automatically picking it up. At first he smiled, thinking back to the day it was taken. He was probably the one who took it. He glanced down at the half open novel, eyes narrowing, wondering why the photo was in there in the first place. His free hand flipped through the pages to see if there were other photos in there from that day, or even of Minho’s other friends.

But there wasn’t.

So the best friend stared intently at the photo of his sister and Minho. At the creases at the corner, clearly there from constant holding. And then his mind went back to that one time right after Minho’s return. The night the two of them drank by the river.

Changbin had asked if Minho wanted to be set up on a date. Some of his female colleagues were constantly asking him if he had any single friends, so he thought of Minho. Weirdly, the detective was single even with that handsome face. Weirdly, he chose to be single. For a long time.

Changbin had poured some liquor into his glass, asking why he didn’t want to go on a blind date. Minho smiled and leaned back into his seat.

“I have someone I like.”

His alcohol induced confession, surprised his best friend, who blinked back a couple times, leaning in. With both elbows on the table, his brows raised.

“When? Who—Why didn’t you tell me?”

Minho let out a faint chuckle.

“She doesn’t know.”

Changbin frowned. There was a clear look of confusion in his eyes.

“Why? Are you not going to tell her—ah, dummy what are you waiting for?” His mind racked, awaiting for a valid excuse.

“She has a boyfriend. She’s happy.” It was evident that the smile on Minho’s face was a sad one, eyes staring at the bottle of alcohol set in the center.

Changbin silently sighed, quickly catching on. This was something he wasn’t able to help out with. Instead he cleared his throat, waving it off, attempting to quickly changing the topic.

“Wait—just tell me. Is she someone I know?”

Minho looked up. He blinked at the man across from him, before he sat up in his chair. Slowly he shook his head and he smiled.

“No.”

Even if it was for a second. He hesitated.

Of course once sober, Minho had cursed himself for confessing such a thing to his best friend. But neither of them had ever brought it up.

Until now.

Maybe a part of him wanted to get caught. Maybe he wanted someone to uncover this harbored secret and rid him of some of his suffering.

“She has a boyfriend. She’s happy… It was Y/N?”

Changbin’s voice broke the tense silence that hung heavily between them, his tone a mix of disbelief and shock.

With a resigned nod, Minho finally acknowledged the truth. There was no use in denying it anymore. Changbin had already pieced it together.

The two men fell silent, the room almost seemed as if it froze in time. Minho kept his eyes fixed on the ground, the weight of his unrequited love heavier than ever in that moment, while the best friend grappled with Minho’s hidden feelings out in the open.

Changbin, usually quick-witted, was unsure how to react. He suddenly wrestled with conflicting emotions. He wasn’t exactly thrilled that his best friend had romantic feelings for his sister, but at the same time he couldn’t bring himself to be angry either.

Should he feel betrayed? Upset or curious?

Should he ask “since when?”

Questions swirled in Changbin’s mind, yet he didn’t ask any of them. Instead a wave of sympathy washed over him and he stared at his silent friend with concern. Aware that Y/N was the woman who didn’t know, the one that had a boyfriend.

The one that was happy.

His friend was simply a fool, hopelessly in love.

Finally breaking the silence, Changbin suggested quietly, “Let’s get a drink.”

Minho looked up, surprise flickering across his features at the unexpected invitation. Changbin turned away from him, returning the photo to its place between the book’s pages. With deliberate movements, he placed the closed book back to the place he found it. After his best friend had learned of Minho’s well kept secret, the detective hoped a weight would lift from his shoulders, that he would no longer need to wear a constant mask of smiles. Yet, he found himself more conflicted than ever.

Y/N had gushed about her boyfriend. The one that made her laugh, beam with joy.

The one that made her happy.

The detective would nod along as she told him about something funny her boyfriend did, as if his knuckles hadn’t grown white from the extremely tight ball of his fists he made. He would reach over with a smile and ruffle her hair. Pretending that he wasn’t just thinking about enveloping her pretty lips in his so he didn’t need to hear her talk about another man.

But instead he sighed.

“Enough.” He murmured softly, his eyes were dark with emotions she couldn’t quite grasp.

He turned away, attempting to busy himself, while she pouted, unaware of the turmoil within him.

And just like that another season had passed. Her brother’s best friend continued to bury his secret deep inside.

────────────────────────

The summer air hung heavy as Minho clicked away at his desk, ignoring his team’s complaints about the heat. It was only before leaving that he was summoned to an emergency meeting about a suspect.

Minho was assigned to apprehend the man. But suddenly the youngest detective on the team found himself in the middle of a chase. And although Minho and his partner had eventually managed to tackle the suspect to the ground, the young detective groaned after the heated altercation they had. The sudden scuffle that had ensued before he managed to pin the suspect to the ground, hands cuffed behind the flailing and cursing man’s back.

“You’re bleeding.” His partner pointed out, concern etched in his eyes as he gestured to Minho’s forehead.

“Huh?” Minho touched the stinging wound, feeling the wetness of blood on his fingertips. He shrugged saying it was nothing.

“You sure you’re okay?”

The detective shakes it off as he nodded.

“I’m good.”

Except he wasn’t, and his legs buckled under him, his vision grew hazy as he fell to the ground.

Y/N smoothed her lipstick, preparing for a date she had spent too long getting ready for. Sighing at the mess around her she mentally groaned. A problem future Y/N would have to deal with, she concluded.

As she stepped outside, her phone buzzed with Changbin’s name. The younger sister narrowed her eyes wondering what he wanted. He was at a conference in the next town over, surely there wasn’t anything he would have needed her for. But immediately after picking up she was taken aback by her brother’s urgent voice.

“Where are you!”

“I’m on my way out. Why?” Locking the door, she started walking out.

“Get to the hospital now! Minho is hurt.”

Her brother’s words made her falter, eyes staring into the night.

“H-Hospital?” She repeated in a shout, looking around to halt a taxi.

“Yeah, he got hurt on duty. They called me as his emergency contact.” Changbin’s voice is laced with worry.

Y/N begins to freak out, thoughts conjuring up the worst scenarios. With fear and worry coursing through her, she managed to hail a taxi. Her heart raced as the cab sped through the night. When she arrived breathlessly, she began running through the hospital corridors until she found the front desk.

“L-Lee Minho. Where is he?”

It isn’t until she’s drawing the curtains back to reveal a wide awake Minho, that she almost melts with her sigh of relief. He’s sitting on the hospital bed with his feet on the ground, a look of annoyance etched across his face. But upon seeing her sudden figure staring at him with concern, he’s stunned.

He had swore he was okay, the nurses had said he only had a concussion, yet they wouldn’t allow him to leave on his own. He insisted he was fine, that he’s been hurt even worse before, that it was nothing. But still, they didn’t sign off on his discharge. His teammates were too busy with the suspect, his emergency contacts either not picking up or out of town. He had fully expected to spend the night here, or at least be kept here until they thought he was fine to leave on his own. But seeing Y/N’s distraught form sliding into the open chair as she caught her breath, almost had his own breath hitch.

“What are you doing here?” He finally asked, puzzled.

Glaring at him, Y/N finally stood and approached, eyes scanning his injuries. There was a wound on his forehead covered by the dressing of bandages, a red gash on his jaw, blood on his shirt and bandaids on his forearm. Clear signs of a scuffle he didn’t want her to know about. He stiffened under her hot gaze, his next words stuck in his throat.

“I heard you were fighting the nurses to leave. How can a grown man not listen to the professionals?” Her voice is stern.

“I’m fin—”

“No you’re not.” She cuts him off.

Her finger pushed back the hair that fell over his bandaged forehead, trying to take a closer look. He grips at the sheet of the bed, sucking in a breath.

“Does it hurt?” Worry tinged in her words.

Minho can’t help but break into a smile at the softness of her tone, as if seconds ago she wasn’t scolding him. He brushed away her hand.

“It doesn’t anymore. I’m actually more embarrassed that I passed out on the streets.” He laughed, trying to dismiss her concern.

“I’m fine, I promise.” He stated, as he looked back up at her.

But, once again, he stumbles as he takes a stand. This time she caught him, grabbing his torso to steady him before shooting him another glare.

“Just a little light-headed.” He grinned sheepishly, slowly allowing her to throw his arm around her shoulder for support.

Minho felt exhaustion wash over him as they settled into the back seat of the cab. Despite waking up in the hospital bed not too long ago, he now felt the urge to sleep again. His head swayed momentarily before he leaned against Y/N’s shoulder.

Just for now. He told himself, his eyes closing.

Y/N glanced down at him, though his eyes were closed, he was still awake, his slightly furrowed brows revealing his discomfort. She swallowed, wondering whose heart was beating so fast, hers or his?

Helping him back to his apartment was easier than she expected. Inside, she gently settled him on the couch and placed her belongings on the coffee table.

“I’m fine now. You can head back.” Minho insisted, noticing her taking off her jacket and rolling up her sleeves.

Ignoring his protests, she proceeded with her plan. Through tired eyes, the older man watched as she moved effortlessly around his apartment, reheating a pot of soup on the stove before bringing him a glass of water, which he gulped down quickly. And then she’s swiftly taking it back. The injured man observed her from his spot, soft gaze taking in the sight of her doing something so simple, yet his heart clenched. His watching gaze is interrupted by the soft vibrating sound of her phone. His eyes flickered to the device on the coffee table, his throat suddenly feeling dry as her boyfriend’s name flashed across the screen with another missed call.

The boyfriend she had forgotten all about.

Once again, Minho tried to convince her to leave, but she persisted. She helped him out of his jacket, placing it neatly on a nearby chair, then handed him an ice pack wrapped in a towel for his bruising jaw.

“Press.” She instructed firmly, and he complied.

A comfortable silence settled between them. And sometime after he felt his eyelids getting heavy.

Minho wasn’t sure when he had drifted off to sleep again, but when he woke up in the early hours of the morning, he was still dressed in last night’s clothes, feeling his head still ache faintly. The coffee table was clean of last night’s contents, her belongings, the bowl of soup, and the make-shift ice pack were gone. Just like she was.

Heading to the kitchen for another glass of water, his eyes caught sight of a note on the fridge.

Medicine on the counter. Bin should be visiting this afternoon. Take it easy and DO NOT WORK!

He couldn’t help but smile at the familiar messy handwriting, sticking the note back onto the fridge before pouring himself a glass of water.

Han Jisung had come to realize, sometime into their relationship, that Y/N’s eyes didn’t light up for him the way they did when she spoke about Minho.

Initially, he thought Minho was just a brotherly figure to her, but he started noticing subtle gestures. The way the so-called brother figure would hold his hand over the corner of a table when she bent down to pick up whatever she dropped. The way his gaze would follow her across the room, full of emotions he would mask as quick as they emerged, were far from brotherly.

She blew off their date. And this wasn’t the first time.

Jisung wanted to ask her to move in with him last night, to replace the small corner of her heart where Minho unknowingly seemed to reside, with himself. He wanted to end this one-sided battle with the detective. But she had stood him up.

She was sitting across from him, yet her mind was on Minho, glancing back at her phone to see if the injured detective had gotten up, had read her messages. Any word from him that would’ve calmed her mind.

There was always a reasonable excuse. Just like this excuse she gave him. Minho was injured, and there wasn’t anyone else to help besides herself. She apologized profusely. But her boyfriend couldn’t shake the memory of his unanswered calls, and then the message she sent after finally leaving Minho’s place at dawn. He thought back to the lingering gazes his girlfriend had.

“You love him.” Jisung finally said, the conclusion painfully obvious to him.

It was such an easy connection to make, yet she stared back at him slightly taken aback by the directness of his statement.

He watched as her expression contorted to a frown.

“What are you talking about?” Y/N’s fingers tug at his arm across the table.

He sighed, dropping his head briefly before meeting her eyes, holding back the words he wanted to say. Instead, he withdrew his arm.

“You love Detective Lee. Your brother’s best friend.”

The accusation seemed absurd to her, and her brows furrowed into a deeper frown. How could she love Minho.

How could she still love Minho?

There was no way. She cared for him, certainly… but love? However, when she tried to speak, the words of refusal didn’t come out. The denial she wanted to voice remained stuck on her tongue.

She couldn’t say anything against it. And her eyes widened in realization.

The boyfriend watched as the truth dawned on her, the emotions she thought she had locked up and thrown away the key to long ago, flooding her. Shock and a lingering fearfulness filled her gaze.

Jisung attempted to smile, but of course he couldn’t bring himself to be happy, he’d be crazy if he did. He gently grasps her hands, guiding her out of her thoughts, noticing the tears that had welled up unknowingly, shimmering under the lights.

“No. I-I don’t. Jisung-I…” Y/N attempted to deny it, to shake off this unsettling feeling, but she failed.

She couldn’t even lie.

“It’s okay.” He muttered gently.

Jisung didn’t expect to have gotten in the way of something that ran so deep, even though she herself wasn’t aware of it. He felt quite foolish, but surprisingly he didn’t regret it, falling for Y/N.

And another beautiful chapter of her life had ended just like that. ──────────────────────── Changbin watched his sister sigh once again, her fingers absently stirring the creamer into her coffee. Her mind seemed far away, lost in her thoughts.

Y/N had been like this for most of the past couple of weeks, though it wasn’t until recently that Changbin, usually not very observant, began to take notice. Their mother would ask her a question, snapping her out of her worries momentarily, her frown smoothing into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

The older brother sensed that something was amiss with her. Her behavior had been unusual, especially when it came to her boyfriend. Whenever he tried to ask probing questions, she deflected or shut down the conversation entirely. He couldn’t shake the feeling that her boyfriend was somehow involved. Changbin convinced himself that the asshole had done something.

His suspicions were confirmed a month later when Changbin spotted Jisung out with another person, clearly on a date. Normally composed, Changbin found himself reacting in a way that he probably shouldn’t have, resulting in a trip to the police station.

Sure, the brother was the type to use his fists first, and his typically level-headed best friend wasn’t there to restrain him either. But Minho did not see Y/N’s boyfriend leaning over to press a small kiss onto whoever he was with. The confrontation left both Changbin and Jisung bruised and battered.

So there Seo Changbin sat, surrounded by an officer, who glanced back and forth between him and the other man, both marked with bruises and cuts from their altercation. At one point, Changbin had even been on the other side of those bars, though Jisung had steadfastly refused to press any charges.

Minho practically sprinted up the stairs, alerted by a call from an officer who recognized Changbin as his best friend. When he arrived at the holding area, Minho took in the scene before him with a sharp inhale, surprised by what he saw. But before he could even begin to ask what the hell had happened, Y/N’s voice cut through the tension.

“What did you do?” Her voice crackled with anger as she strode towards the now group of four men.

Changbin sighed inwardly, shooting a glare at Jisung. He was certain Jisung had been the one to call her.

“You didn’t tell them?” Jisung raised an eyebrow, a red bruise marring his cheek, causing Y/N to grimace in a mix of guilt and embarrassment.

“I didn’t. I’m sorry.” She shook her head apologetically.

Changbin frowned deeply, casting a bewildered look between the two of them.

“You two actually broke up?!” His exclamation made Minho clench his fists at his sides, his eyes widening even more as another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

The ex boyfriend had admitted to the breakup when Changbin had grabbed his collar earlier, but at the time, Changbin hadn’t believed him. “Cheating bastards will say anything to make excuses”, he had spat out then.

Now, though, the older brother found himself grappling with the reality of it all, followed by a heavy dose of embarrassment.

The officer finally cleared his throat, directing a pointed look at the detective, bringing Minho out of his thoughts.

“This appears to be a personal matter. Since Mr. Han has decided not to press charges, I suggest you resolve this among yourselves.” The officer sighed, returning to the paperwork that awaited him.

“Thank you, Officer Kim.” Minho finally spoke up, nodding gratefully at his colleague, who responded with a thumbs-up before refocusing on his duties.

For the past three months, Y/N had wrestled with her thoughts. In the solitude of her bedroom, she would give herself a pep talk. Each night, she lay beneath her sheets, urging herself to muster the courage to confess to Minho. Yet, every morning, as the sun rose, she found herself backing away, consumed by doubt.

It was an endless cycle that would’ve continued if she hadn’t received the stressful call from Jisung, the ex boyfriend sighing into the phone as he informed her of what had happened. There was only one reason she hadn’t disclosed the breakup to her brother or his best friend.

It was pretty obvious, she had no excuse.

Jisung was a good guy. He was always going to be a good guy. Even the way he broke up with her was the coolest way she had ever heard.

What would she say when Changbin inevitably asked about their split?

She feared she might confess everything. Her emotions, her thoughts, her lingering gazes, everything that tied back to Lee Minho, his best friend.

So she hid it, hoping to pass it off as lovers drifting apart or becoming too busy for each other. But as she watched her swollen-lipped brother and bruising ex boyfriend exit the station, regret washed over her. She realized she should have come clean sooner. At least to her older brother who had always been protective of her in his own way.

The weight of it all suddenly felt heavier than ever before.

Changbin might have been one to always jump to conclusions before hearing any side of any story, but he wasn’t shameless to not accept his mistakes. He bowed his head in apology, guilt plain on his face as he surveyed Jisung’s injuries. Jisung, the good guy, smiled reassuringly, shaking his head as he comforted the older brother.

“It was all a misunderstanding, don’t worry about it.”

Minho remained silent, catching the meaningful glance Jisung shot his way before bidding farewell.

The three of them sat in tense silence in Minho’s car, heading towards the detective’s place where they knew Changbin could find refuge because they knew his mother would have a heart attack if he went home looking like that. Once inside, Changbin wasted no time, directing an accusatory glare at his sister.

“We need to talk!” His voice was strained with anger, his words cutting through the quiet.

Changbin headed inside, pacing restlessly in Minho’s bedroom, trying to calm his nerves.

Minho tugged at Y/N’s hand, halting her before she could follow behind.

“Are you sure everything is okay?” His voice was gentle, eyes filled with concern.

She fought the urge to not jump into his embrace, as she slowly shook off his gentle grip, nodding.

“Everything is okay. He was just trying to protect me. I understand why he’s upset.” Y/N nodded again, mustering a reassuring smile before retreating into the bedroom, the door closing softly behind her.

Changbin’s questions came immediately, causing Y/N to unintentionally flinch as she leaned against the door.

“When did you break up?” His tone was urgent, probing.

“No, why did you break up? I thought you really liked him?” The questions poured out in a torrent, exactly as she had anticipated since arriving at Minho’s apartment.

Y/N felt her nerves intensify, her lips trembling slightly as she prepared to answer. It felt like all the emotions she had bottled up were now on the brink of spilling out, her brother’s steady gaze bearing down on her.

“We broke up three months ago.” She whispered, her voice barely audible.

She watched as Changbin took a deep breath, his expression tightening as he processed her words. She felt overwhelmed, the heavy feeling from earlier washing over her with more intensity.

The brother had been about to barrage her with more questions, but the sight of tears streaming down Y/N’s face left him speechless and bewildered. Panic surged through him as he rushed to her side, unsure of how to comfort her, his eyes darting around in confusion and worry.

“W-why are you crying?” He didn’t know what to do, his voice quivered with concern as he gently reached out towards her.

She wasn’t entirely sure why the tears were flowing so freely either. But deep down, she knew her heart was in turmoil. She could feel her heart clenching, the alternate paths she had taken to forget Lee Minho had ultimately led her in a circle, back to him. Her brother’s best friend, unaware in the other room, stood oblivious to her feelings.

The words poured out with ease, much to her surprise.

“I just love Lee Minho so much.” Y/N’s voice squeaked out between sobs, her palms pressed against her eyes in a futile attempt to stop the downpour of tears.

Changbin froze, his hands dropping limply to his sides as he struggled to process what he had just heard.

She wasn’t talking about his best friend Lee Minho right?

He blinked, processing her words.

“W-what?” His voice came out in a calm yet incredulous tone, his eyes blinking in disbelief as he locked gazes with his sister’s pained expression.

“I’ve always loved him. I-I was just too scared to admit it.” Y/N confessed, her voice wavering with emotion.

Dumbfounded didn’t even begin to describe how Changbin felt at that moment. Shocked and stunned, he stood rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend whatever was happening right now.

His sister loved his best friend.

His best friend loved his sister.

Were these two playing a game he wasn’t aware of?

For some reason the brother felt anger bubbling within him.

He had been patient enough.

But after taking a beating from his sister’s apparent ex boyfriend, who was trying to defend himself, and then staring at his best friend flash sad smiles ever since he found out about his one-sided love, Changbin had finally lost it.

“You two are going to drive me fucking insane.” His muttered words shattered the uneasy silence that had settled in the room.

Frustrated and visibly upset, Changbin flung open the bedroom door and strode into the living room where Minho sat. The detective stood up immediately, concern etched on his face as he noticed Y/N trailing behind her brother, her confused eyes, red and teary.

“What happened?” Minho’s voice was laced with worry as he glanced between the siblings, searching for answers.

Changbin’s frustration boiled over. He scoffed before he shot a pointed glare first at his sister, then at his best friend

Though right now, that title was very close to being revoked.

“You!” Changbin snapped, jabbing his finger accusingly at Minho, who blinked, startled.

“Tell her everything, or I swear to god I’ll end up in jail again.”

He turned swiftly to face his stunned sister.

“If you don’t tell him today I’m gonna shave your head.” He threatened, his frustrated anger, palpable.

Minho and Y/N watched in surprised astonishment as Changbin grabbed his jacket he had thrown on the stool upon their arrival and stomped towards the door.

“But your face—” Minho began.

“I’ll live!” Changbin yelled back over his shoulder.

The door slammed shut with a resounding echo, the automatic lock beeping a few moments later. In the sudden aftermath of Changbin’s outburst, Minho and Y/N stood frozen, trying to process what had just happened.

After a long, tense silence, Minho studied Y/N’s tear-streaked face, his mind racing with questions. What had her brother said to upset her so much? Or was it about Jisung? The mere thought of her ex boyfriend tightened his jaw with unresolved emotions.

“Why did you break up with him?” Minho finally broke the silence, his voice gentle yet probing, his gaze soft as he waited for her answer.

Another few seconds of silence after, Y/N seemed to finally find her voice.

“I-I don’t love him.” She whispered, the admission slipping out easier now that she had opened up to Changbin.

She watched as his brows relaxed, taking in her words. Minho felt a wave of relief wash over him, her words sinking in, but his brows furrowed slightly again as he processed this new revelation.

“Since when?” He took a step closer.

“Since I realized a few months ago.” She confessed, a small sniffle escaping before she wiped away the remaining tears that had mostly dried on her cheeks.

Minho took another step forward, now only an arm’s reach away from her.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why did Changbin have to end up at the police station before he found out?”

His questions mirrored those her brother had asked. But how could she explain it to him? She couldn’t say that she was a fool, hopelessly in love with him. Even though she had practically admitted as much back in the room to Changbin.

She was terrified. Afraid that once she acknowledged the feelings that she had tried to suppress for so long, she would end up in the same place she was all those years ago.

She did end up in the same place, loving her brother’s best friend.

“I was scared.” Y/N breathed out, her eyes darting nervously between Minho’s.

His gaze softened, his fingers reaching out to gently wipe away the tear stains on her skin, unaware of the goosebumps his touch gave her.

“Scared of what?” His voice was barely a whisper now, his head tilting slightly as he searched her eyes.

Y/N felt his touch like a burning imprint on her skin, her heart racing so fast and hard that she was certain he could hear it.

She swallowed.

“That I’d have to tell everyone about my feelings for you. About how infatuated I am with you.”

Silence enveloped them as Minho’s gaze widened slowly, his fingers freezing at her jaw before falling to his side. His expression was a mixture of surprise, and something deeper, unspoken emotions flickering in his eyes. He seemed to be processing her words, his mind racing with thoughts.

It wasn’t what he was thinking right?

Surely not.

He was imagining it, his crazy mind making up stuff, stretching and connecting her words into what he wanted to hear.

But Y/N’s heart sank as Minho stunned stare, his expression a mix of shock and confusion. His silence weighed heavily on her, confirming her worst fears.

She had gotten too bold.

Let her feelings slip too easily.

She let out a self-deprecating laugh, trying to mask her sadness. Unable to meet his gaze, she dropped her eyes to the ground.

Finally confessing her feelings, words she had carried since her teenage years, had only led to this moment of painful realization that she had expected, but wasn’t prepared for.

Of course he didn’t see her that way. He never had, and likely never would.

“I know you don’t feel the same way. I know you’ll always see me as just—“

“I love you.” His voice cut through her self-doubt and resignation, stopping her mid-sentence.

Y/N’s head snapped up, her eyes widening as she searched his face for any sign of deceit or misunderstanding. But Minho’s expression was sincere, his earnest gaze, unwavering.

This time, it was Y/N’s turn to feel at a loss for words, her eyes reflecting a mix of disbelief, excitement, and a touch of fear at Minho’s sudden confession.

His words hung in the air, sinking in slowly. Her heart raced so loud, so quickly, it scared her.

Minho dropped his head slightly, the weight of his confession finally released into the open. There’s a sudden sense of relief that washed through him, making him break into a soft smile.

“I love you Y/N. So damn much.” He repeated, his voice soft and sincere. A tinge desperate.

Her mouth parted in surprise, a silent gasp.

“S-since when?” Y/N managed to ask, her voice barely above a whisper.

She hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath, the chaos of emotions swirling inside her, threatening to overwhelm her.

Minho took a final step forward, closing the distance between them until he was standing so close that his presence seemed to tower over her. Her back brushed against the wall, leaving them in an intimate space where the air between lingered with unspoken feelings.

“I’m not sure. All I know is that you have always plagued my mind, driving me mad with thoughts of you and only you.”

Y/N’s heart raced as he spoke, her cheeks tingling with heat. The man she had just confessed to was now pouring his heart out in return, with words she had never expected to hear.

“Minho…” Her voice was barely a whisper, but it caused Minho to shut his eyes tightly for a moment, overwhelmed by the delicate call of his name coming from her lips.

He leaned in, closing the gap between them until her figure was pressed flush against the wall.

This moment between them was something neither had ever dared to imagine, yet here they stood, their deepest feelings laid bare in the open.

It brought Minho back to the last time he had trapped her against this same wall. The last time he had almost kissed her but had pulled back, in denial. Out of the fear of crossing a line he believed was forbidden.

But in truth, Minho had been wandering in that forbidden territory for a long time, his feelings for Y/N gnawing away at him with each passing day.

He opened his eyes, locking onto hers with intensity, his hand reaching up to gently cup her cheek. The warmth of his touch sent another shiver through her, a fluttering feeling erupted in the pit of her stomach.

“Do you know how crazy you’ve driven me?” Minho’s voice held a growl, his jaw tightening as he struggled to contain the emotions surging within him.

His intent gaze makes her stiffen, fully reminding her of the position they were in all over again. Her heart drummed against her chest.

“How crazy you still drive me?” His tone softened to a whisper, eyes searching hers with a mix of tenderness and desperation.

Y/N felt her breath catch in her throat as she tried to decipher the emotions swirling in his gaze. The words he had spoken, her heart continuing to pound with anticipation. She wanted to hear more.

“How?...” The response comes out automatically, a genuine curiosity laced in her words.

But her response to his rhetorical question faltered the intensity in his gaze. Minho chuckled softly, a brief, welcome break in the tense atmosphere that had enveloped them.

His head dipped momentarily before he lifted it again, his eyes darkening with a look that sent another shiver down Y/N’s spine. His fingers trailed down to gently grasp her hand at her side, daringly lifting them to his mouth and pressing a soft kiss against her fingers.

She stared in fascination almost, feeling the warmth of his lips against her skin, the touch erupting a searingly hot sensation that surged through her. She shuddered slightly, her throat drier than it already was as she struggled to find her voice amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

“I dream of you every night. I have for god knows how long.” Minho’s confession hung in the air, Y/N stared with her mouth slightly agape, stunned all over again.

Every word he had uttered was making her feel warm and fuzzy. Curious, yet the want to pull him into her arms tugged at her.

He continued, his lips pressing another tender kiss, this time on the palm of her hand.

“I’ve dreamt of holding you close.” His voice was a gentle murmur against her skin, filled with longing and sincerity.

Her heart raced erratically, its beats thundering in her ears amidst the silence of the room she was sure it was going to explode.

“I’ve dreamt of kissing you.” Minho’s other hand grazed her cheek, his knuckles trailing down the soft skin before fingers settled on the point of her chin.

He lifted her head gently, his touch searing and intimate. Y/N’s arms were littered with goosebumps, her eyes fluttered closed briefly to calm herself, then opened to meet his intense gaze.

“I prayed you could be mine.”

She swallowed hard, her eyes dropping momentarily to his lips before meeting his eyes once more.

Y/N can hear the thread snapping. His heartfelt words both biting and heart wrenching, has her peeling herself off the wall, closing the gap between them to finally, finally press her lips against his.

For a split second, Minho stiffened, just like he had done the first time she had kissed him years back.

But this time his eyes fluttered close, lips instantly parted to kiss her deeper. Returning it with a desperation he had suppressed for far too long. His arms encircle her, pulling her into him as if he’s afraid she would disappear if he let go.

The kiss was full of desire, a feverishly hot kiss that has them melting into each other’s mouths. The sounds of sucking are loud in the air, tongues swirling, exploring, was breathtaking almost. And when they finally part, they’re panting for air.

Minho doesn’t let her go. His eyes remained closed, afraid that this moment was just another figment of his imagination. That he was going to wake up in his bed and mourn this fleeting dream.

But it wasn’t a dream.

Y/N pressed her forehead against his, their breaths mingling in the intimate space between them.

“This was a better kiss than the last one.” She stated quietly after a long silence.

Minho’s eyes shot open, his heart skipping a beat at her words.

Shock, surprise, and finally, a profound realization washed over him.

She had never forgotten that night.

The night of her birthday.

The night she had impulsively kissed him because that voice in her head told her to do so. The voice that belonged to a part of her that still pined for her brother’s best friend.

The night he could never forget.

And apparently she hadn’t either.

He pulled back slightly, trying to find the right words to say. His words spluttered almost.

“Y-you remember?”

Her lips were still swollen and wet from their kiss, shining under the dim light of his apartment. She softened them into a gentle smile and nodded slowly.

“When I had asked you the next day if I did anything stupid…” Her voice trailed off, and suddenly Minho was transported back to the day after her birthday. After his promotion ceremony when she had pulled him aside.

He had lied. Reassuring her that the only foolish thing she had done was accidentally slam into a trash can while he chased after her brother.

Minho had chosen to pretend it didn’t happen.

And Y/N had accepted his lie.

The detective in her arms was rendered speechless at this turn of events. How was he never able to tell that she pretended not to remember? That she had been pretending this whole time. He wished he could strangle himself from back then. There were a lot of things he wished he could redo.

Her gentle fingers grazed his skin, a soothing touch that brought him out of his thoughts.

And he decides it’s not important anymore.

Minho had spent so many years stuck in his thoughts, stuck yearning, pining, when right now all he should be focusing on is the woman he had been waiting forever for. His eyes returned to Y/N, drinking in the sight of her in his arms, waiting for him. He pulls her close again, head ducking in for another kiss.

“Don’t forget about this one.” He whispered against her, his hot breath gently fanning against her parted lips.

Her hands crossed into a tangle behind his neck, a smile spreading across her face as she pulled him in closer.

“I won’t.”

And he’s kissing her again, almost slamming her against the wall. Yet there was also something gentle about his touch, fingers intertwined with hers as he lifted their arms over head, tangled hands pressed against the cold wall. Minho’s lips traced kisses down the expanse of her neck, wet, lingering, needy. The warmth of his body flush against hers, fingers groping at parts of her he only eyed shamelessly. Lips sucking softly at any part they come in contact with, elicited a whimper from her. A sound that makes Minho growl into the crook of her neck, repeating the suckles that had her make such a pretty noise.

“S-show me.” She finally breathes sharply, “h-how crazy I drive you.”

In an instant Minho’s lips left her throat, pulling out to look into her hooded eyes, her fingers grasped at the collar of his shirt, a urgency in her actions.

Minho’s patience had long left the room. His eyes darken with an intensity that made her feel tingly.

In a swift motion the man that had been longing for this moment, lifted her off of her feet, hands gripping at her legs to tightly secure them around his waist, his lips met hers hungrily once again, taking their tangled bodies into his bedroom.

The same bed that Minho would wake up on, drenched in sweat after dreaming another painstakingly hot dream of the woman he could only describe as being madly in love with, was now filled with the scent of her.

Their clothes have long been discarded, laying in a forgotten trail on his floor, at the foot of the bed, remnants thrown across the room in desperation.

He wanted to do things to her that he had only dreamt about, his deepest fantasies he had never thought would come true. He had conjured up scenarios, imaginations of her welcoming arms laying on his bed, but now he could stare with a fascination that made him inhale sharply. A real moment that his dreams could never compare to.

He had already etched her naked figure, in his brain, his thoughts, taking in the beautiful sight of her under him. Splotches of bites, trails of wet from his tongue and his kisses running down her body, was suddenly something he would never be able to live without, he concluded.

Fuck, he was a ruined man.

And finally when he feels her clenched around him, filling her enough to earn a sweet moan of his name, he could only melt into her.

Minho grunts into the air, his body working against hers in a soft rhythmic pace, forehead gleaming in sweat. A pull and slam that leaves her clinging to him, to his sheets. His fingers graze over her warm skin, lingering here, tracing there. Her whimpers are music to his ears, his name escaping her swollen lips in heightened whispers whenever he moves a certain way, already memorizing it, already diving in to swallow her moans.

“Pleasepleaseplease” Her cries are full of desperation, a need for him to be closer, deeper.

Y/N’s fingers traced his tightened jaw, guiding him back to her lips, kissing the man that had always been her first love and probably the only man she would ever truly love. She never thought there would come a moment where Lee Minho was completely hers. That he would see her in such a light.

That he would make her feel him, his fingers, his lips, his tongue. Him.

He took his time with her. Testing, feeling, gauging what made her inhale sharply, what made her roll her eyes back as she was thrown off her edge. Everything made her squirm under him, ecstasy coursing through her. He made her see stars. The sight of his sweating and disheveled figure, kissing, nipping, grabbing at parts and places of her that make her moan and cry nothing but his name, had her writhe under his grinding figure with nothing but blissful pleasure. And finally when she came down from a high Minho drew out from her, when he dove into bury his face in her arms, she spoke out the words she had once attempted to bury.

“I love you.”

The confession came out in a low whisper, she was sure he hadn’t heard them, his mouth too busy latching onto the skin of her collarbone, creating more flourishes of red, that would darken to purple and blue. But his body stilled at her words, lifting his gaze up to meet hers. His eyes search hers, a glimmering shine in them. Tears that she could only look at with both astonishment and a fluttering emotion, made her stomach tingle. She wiped away the ones that pricked his eyes, threatening to fall, while Minho could only hold her hand to his lips, muffling his face into her palms, inhaling deeply before quickening his pace, his hips rocking against hers roughly, quickly. Filling her as much as he could before ultimately crashing his lips against hers.

“I love you too.”

There was a comfortable silence that settled in Minho’s bedroom. His fingers traced random patterns on the skin of her arms, making her giggle the few times he got too close to her armpit. The two of them broke into hushed laughter as she attempted to tickle him back.

“I don’t always cry during sex, you know.” He finally voiced.

Y/N’s head shot up to meet his nonchalant expression, though his ears were bright red from embarrassment.

She broke into another low giggle, lifting herself out of his embrace to hover over him. Her fingers pushing away the strands of hair in his eyes.

“That must’ve really been lingering on your mind this whole time huh?” She raised a brow, a teasing smile played on her lips.

The way her head cocks to a side cutely had Minho erupt into a hearty laughter Y/N hadn’t heard in a very long time. Reminding her just how much they had truly hidden during the years trying to forget one another.

She leaned in and kissed him, smiling into his slightly caught off-guard expression before pulling away.

“Can you prove it then?”

This time he raised a brow, a challenge he would never turn down.

“Come here.”

He’s already tugging at her, making her crash into his embrace, his lips already finding hers easily. ────────────────────────

Changbin stared at his best friend and his sister, their fingers intertwined as they giggled and whispered into each other’s ears.

Usually, weekends were his time to relax and goof off with Minho, but now his best friend seemed to be in another world. He suddenly regretted leaving them unattended that evening.

Those idiots.

“You know, usually in these kinds of scenarios I should be kicking your ass.” Changbin interrupted whatever intimate conversation they were having.

Minho blinked up at the third wheel, while Y/N scoffed at her brother’s remark, laughing as she gracefully exited the sofa and headed towards the dining table. Minho’s eyes followed her, but Changbin slapped his hand against the coffee table to get his friend’s attention.

“You jerk. How can you date my little sister? Let’s fight right now.” Changbin’s tone was theatrical, almost like something out of a cartoon, but Minho sighed, not amused.

“How many times do you want to end up behind bars?” Minho shot back.

The detective’s question shut him up, and Changbin muttered under his breath.

“Dammit, I should’ve become a cop instead.”

The tension eased with a shared chuckle, and Minho shook his head fondly at his friend’s antics. They might tease each other, but deep down, they both knew that Minho would protect Y/N with his life.

And though Changbin had begrudgingly accepted it, he didn’t have a single worry.

It was clear the best friend could no longer laze around in Minho’s apartment. Though it was thanks to him that the two had finally poured out their feelings.

Minho’s place, which was often empty because of how much Minho stayed out due to the nature of his job, had turned into a love abode. The detective, who was rarely home before, began rushing out the door as soon as his shift ended, much to the surprise of his captain and teammates.

He’d often come back to find Y/N passed out on his couch or in his bed, exhausted after her own demanding day at work. Sometimes, he’d collapse into her arms with a blissful sigh, inhaling her sweet scent as they embraced.

He’d often come home and pin her against the wall, push her against the couch, into the bed, as his lips kissed her hungrily, hips drilling against hers. Fingers raking into each other’s hairs.

Minho could love his woman madly, and he was doing just that.

He was a fool, hopelessly in love. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ end.

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afterglowsainz · 7 months ago

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fresh out the slammer | max verstappen

summary: after you broke up with your boyfriend, you join your friends for a night out in monaco and decide it's a good idea to invite max

warnings: fluff, mentions of breakups, drinking

word count: 1.8k

a/n: giggling and kicking my feet at the thought of a situationship with max

the tortured athletes department series

it’s been one month since you and your ex-boyfriend of one year broke up. you couldn’t say you were heartbroken because you really weren’t, like most men do at some points in their lives, he was disappointing you long before you broke up with him, so in a way, you mourn your relationship while you were still in it. now you just felt a bit lonelier than before, but you had definitely moved on.

on a saturday night, you had a few friends over to your monaco apartment for dinner and a very well deserved gossip session. you told them all about your breakup with your most recent boyfriend and how you were feeling almost too good.

“guys, what if we go out?” one of your best friends suggests. “a friend of mine is having a party at this club downtown and is supposed to be this very exclusive thing.” you thought about it for a few seconds after agreeing. it has been a while since you went out with your friends, especially in monaco where everything can happen. you got ready in less than ten minutes since you already were put together and joined your friends in the car on your way to the club.

during the quick ride you check your instagram and saw that your friend max posted a story. you and max have had this weird relationship for years, were you’re both really close friends who’ve also liked each other forever, but none of you had actually made a move on each other (except for that one time, but you’ve never talked about it). you clicked on his profile picture and the story popped up, a picture of him and his friends playing fifa on his couch. you smiled and liked the photo, putting your phone away.

once you got to the club your friend led you all to the entrance and when she gave her name to the bouncer they let you all in. the place was completely packed, but she took you all to a place on the top that was a bit less full and looked more like that exclusive event your friend was talking about. soon enough, alcohol was running through your system and your body was moving along with the blasting music at the club when a thought almost made you stop on your tracks. you looked for your best friend all over the place and ran over to her when you saw her near the bar.

“hey.” you call out loudly over the music.

“hey.” she smiled at you. “having fun?” she asks and you nod.

“can i tell you this idea i just had?” she takes a sip from her drink and nods. “would it be a good idea if i invited max?” her eyes widen with surprise and gives you a knowing smile.

“max like max verstappen?” she asks. “like your max?” you nod again, this time more euphorically.

“yes, my max.” you took a sip of your drink and cleared your throat. “he’s in monaco, so why not? the worst that can happen is he says no.” you shrug, like the idea of him not wanting to see you didn’t kill you a bit inside.

“go for it!” she exclaims. “absolutely, yes, invite him over.”

you smiled and headed over to the balcony, relieved to feel the cold air of the monaco night hit your skin, cooling you down. you took out your phone and hover over max’s contact for a moment, wondering if you should text or call first. you decided to call since that would be much more immediate. you listen to the phone ringing for a few moments and when you thought it would send you to voicemail, you heard max’s familiar voice.

“hello.” he answers.

“heyyy.” you greet him with a smile that he couldn’t see.

“y/n.” he calls your name with happiness. “how are you?”

“i’m good, how are you?” you ask. “what are you up to?”

“oh, i’m good, yeah.” he says. “just hanging out with some friends. you?”

“i’m in monaco.” you say looking at the stars. “actually, i’m at this club, i was wondering if you wanted to come? you can bring your friends, my friends are here too.”

you waited for him to answer so long you thought the line had dropped.

“what club are you in?” you gave him the name and heard some loud voices in the background. “okay, we’ll be there in twenty.”

you smiled at the sky and bit your lip.

“okay.” you answered and finished the call.

when you got back inside you met your friends again and let them know that max was coming with his friends. twenty minutes later, you were still dancing in the middle of the place when someone tapped your shoulder with tenderness. when you turned around you saw those blue eyes that you loved staring back at you.

“hello, you.” you smiled at him and he returned it.

“long time no see.” he said, giving you a small kiss on the cheek. you felt yourself flustered and were grateful that the place was mostly dark with a few colored lights.

“you should’ve told me when you got here, i would’ve gone outside to get you.” you frowned, ignoring the blush on your face.

“i wanted it to be a surprise.” he defends himself.

“it can’t be a surprise if i invited you.” you fought back and he placed his arm around your shoulders.

“you know what i mean.” he clicked his tongue, teasing you.

you spent the next hour dancing, drinking and talking with max. it was like the world around you had disappeared and it was only the two of you left in that club. when you took a quick break from dancing he got close to you and whispered in your ear.

“do you want to go outside?” he asks. you felt yourself blush again but nodded.

he was about to guide you to the balcony but you redirected him to the exit of the club. you stopped briefly to let your friend know that you were leaving with max for a moment so she wouldn’t worry and she just winked at you. you took his hand so you wouldn’t lose him while walking through all the people at the club and once you were outside you dropped his hand, even though you didn’t really wanted to, but the last thing you wanted was to make it uncomfortable for him.

“you wanna take a walk?” he asks while taking his jacket and putting it around your shoulders.

you nod and smile at him, grateful for his jacket. you both start walking along the streets, talking about nothing in particular until he makes the question you knew he wanted to ask all night.

“how’s it going with your boyfriend?” he doesn’t look at you while asking, no matter how much you wanted him to do so.

“we broke up.” you answer dryly.

“oh.” he finally looks at your face for any hint of sadness, but there is none. you’re not sad about it.

“how’s it going with your girlfriend?” you ask now, remembering the gorgeous redhead he was dating a few months ago.

it was on one of those few occasions both of you were in monaco at the same time. you were leaving from café de paris with your best friend and you crossed him at the entrance, next to him was one of the most beautiful girls you’ve ever seen, holding his hand. you remembered she introduced herself as his girlfriend and your heart skipped a beat at the word, even though you had no right to feel anything like that since you had a boyfriend yourself. you said your goodbyes and he did too and that was the last time you saw him.

“what was her name again?” you asked. “i can’t remember.”

“we broke up.” max ignored your last question, answering the first one you asked instead.

“oh.” you frowned, sad for him for whatever reason. maybe it was the alcohol in you bringing out all the emotions. “what happened?”

“it just didn’t work out.” he answers simply, giving you a reassuring smile.

“when did you break up?” you knew you were a bit out of line meddling into his relationship. especially when he didn’t ask you these types of questions about your own breakup, but you couldn’t help it.

“a few months ago.” he said, completely unfazed by your curiosity. “actually, it was the day you met her.”

“at the café de paris?” you questioned with surprise and he nodded. “why would you break up with your girlfriend there? it’s such a lovely place.”

he wanted to laugh at your remark, but bit his lip instead.

“i saw you.” he whispered and you felt like all the air was leaving your lungs.

“you broke up with your girlfriend because you saw me?” you ask incredulously and he nods again. “why would you do that?”

“why do you think, y/n?”

he holds your eyes for a few seconds until you turn your head and continue walking. you didn’t answer him and he didn’t say anything else, his words hanging in the air while you got wrapped into a comfortable silence. you were trying to process his train of thought while also processing yours. could his words have such an impact on you? did he feel about you the same way you’ve always felt about him? would he want to try something with you? with each question you asked in your head, you felt yourself leaning more and more into max until the back of your hands brushed each other while walking. he felt so familiar in so many ways.

before you could realize it, you were both outside of your apartment building. did you really walk this much?

“well.” he said, breaking the silence. “i guess this is where i leave you.” he pointed with his chin at the building.

you looked at him for a few seconds, your mind racing ten thousand miles per hour.

“you could stay.” you whisper.

max looked at you, a sparkle in his eyes you knew too well.

“you’re drunk.” he murmured, just like you had. you shook your head and got closer to him, touching the collar of his shirt gently.

“just as much as you.” you were so close you could see every speck of color in his eyes. “i think the walk here sober me up, anyway.” you joke, taking your eyes off of him, fearing that looking at him a second longer would make you do something unexpected.

“are you sure about this?” he took your face between his hands, forcing you to look at him. the beautiful blue of his eyes was now much darker and you fell a little bit more in love just by looking at them.

“of course i’m sure.” your voice low, only for him to hear. “i’ve always been.”

his eyes went from your eyes to your lips, and then back into your eyes.

“come inside.” you ask.

he smiles at you like he just won a championship, taking your hand and pulling you into the building.

#max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen one shot #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen angst #f1 x reader #f1 #formula one #formula one x reader #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #max verstappen fanfic #taylor swift #the tortured poets department #mv33 #mv1 #the tortured athletes department #fresh out the slammer #max vertsappen gif

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deathbecomesthem · 4 months ago

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Basement Apartment Part 2/2

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader - 6.6K

+18 ONLY - Minors DNI

Summary - It's 2001, and you've just moved into this new basement apartment. It's not so bad, except for the neighbor directly above your bedroom.

Contains a mean reader (kinda). There is smut within Eddie is submissive here, but there isn't really any kind of actual dom/sub dynamic. This is kind of an enemies to lovers deal. Sorta. Alcohol. Use of derogatory language against Eddie.

Part 1

A/N: Thank you @jo-harrington for loving this story, and thank you for editing this at a moment's notice. Love you forever.

The alley is dark with only a singular halo of light illuminated by the light perched over the oversized metal door through which you and Jeannie just exited. There’s a rusty pipe just outside of the circle of light dripping into a small puddle of trash water next to an open dumpster. Cigarette butts litter the ground like the memories of past alleyway encounters to which you and Jeannie will add your own.

“You really are the hottest girl I’ve seen around here in a long time.” Jeannie’s smile is sweet, one of a Chesire cat grin. She’s eyeing you up and down in appreciation. “Maybe that’s just because I get to see you put Ed in his place for once.” You cough out a laugh because it is fun to put that boy in his place. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s actually a great guy, just a cocky bastard when someone gets his dick hard.”

“Yeah, well, sounds like most of the guys I’ve dealt with,” you exhale the words along with a mournful sigh. You think about the casual misogyny that impacts every aspect of your daily life and frown at the thought. Just another man that looks at you like a prize, something they can win. Something they deserve.

“Nah, Ed really is a good guy. Not your typical asshole. Don’t let him fool you.” Eyebrows cocked, you take in the cheeky smile on Jeannie’s face. Guess I’m not getting any pussy tonight.

“I take it this” you move your hand between yourself and Jeannie “is not happening, eh?”

“Can’t do it, pretty. Not when you dance with me, and eye fuck a guy. No hard feelings.” No, no hard feelings. Not for Jeannie, anyway. No, you’re a stupid bisexual mess, and that’s not her fault.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I cock blocked myself.” This has you both laughing. “I’m sorry, that was bad behavior. You’re being too nice about it.”

“Nah, it’s cool.” Jeannie rubs out her cigarette and wiggles her fingers at you in a goodbye as she turns and heads back into work. She stops at the door and adds, “He’s not a bad guy. He’s really not,” and the door is closing, leaving you alone in that circle of light to listen to the water drip, drip, drip while the filter of your cigarette starts to burn.

You hear faint laughter and watch a couple walking by, arms wrapped around each other. You step to the side, hiding in the shadow so you can watch them without being seen. You let out a little groan and stomp your foot in frustration.

“Fuck this.” You’re done, ready to go home and find a bottle in the cabinet. You consider going to 2A to see if Mary and Steve were around, but you couldn’t bear the idea of cock blocking Mary too. It was pissing you off that this guy was in your head. It was pissing you off that you wanted him.

The short walk home is not enough. Just as your apartment building appears in the distance, you detour through an empty parking lot. This is a spot you’ve never explored, an elementary school with 4 square lines spray painted in the pavement, rusty basketball hoops, monkey bars, and 3 swings lined up in a row. One of the swings has been tossed over the top of the poles a few times, it sits higher than the other two. The moon is out, the air is calm, and you don’t mind the slight bite of cold through your thin pantyhose. You swing.

At first, it’s a gentle movement, but muscle memory takes over. You find yourself pumping your arms and legs, gaining momentum. Higher, higher, and higher still. You let your laughter erupt in the open air. Your breath fans out in a cloud around your face. You feel clean and free for a moment. You are laughing and swinging for what feels like hours, until something draws your attention.

A jingling sound can be heard at the side of the building, near the old basketball court. Someone is walking a dog, maybe? Your senses are heightened at the perceived possible threat, dragging your feet on the soft earth beneath the swing, you open the snap at the top of your purse. Then you see what is approaching, sauntering, towards you. A huff of aggravation leaves your mouth.

“You come here often?” The line is so ridiculously delivered, a faux husky voice, it earns Eddie a small laugh, and you can see his back straighten with pride. “Shouldn’t you be sitting at the bar waiting for Jeannie to get off work?”

“Did you put a tracking device on me somewhere? For fuck’s sake, give a girl a break.” His head is wobbling back and forth, as if to say, yeah, sorry. His long legs squat deeply to allow himself to rest on the swing to your right. You can’t help but giggle, the sight is endearing if not completely annoying.

“I heard someone laughing while I was on my way home. I had no idea I’d find you out here. I was intrigued, what can I say?” What can you say? Nothing. So, you don’t. You toe the dirt for a moment and begin pumping your arms and legs in earnest. Let him see your laughter. What harm could it do?

Eyes are on you as you reach the sky. Your hair whips from in front of your face to back behind your head. The laughter comes, the boy still watching and kicking the dirt. And then he says, “Wanna hear a joke?” And how could you not? You let out a loud, “Yeah” on your down swing.

“What do you do when your wife starts smoking?”

“What do you do?” You ask with genuine curiosity.

“Use some lube.”

You snort a laugh at the ridiculous joke. You drag your feet, a giggle still in your mouth. And you look at Eddie. God, he’s so beautiful it takes your breath away.

“That was an awful joke. Tell me another.” Now he’s swinging while you watch him. His legs are too long to kick back fully and get any real height, but he’s still going for it. He’s letting out a “Hmmmm” in thought while he thinks of another joke. You aren’t fooled, you know this guy has a whole arsenal in that brain of his.

“What do you call someone who refuses to fart in public?” He hasn’t even gotten to the punch line, and you're giddy enough to giggle already.

“What?” He stops hard, feet planted in the dirt to deliver his punch line.

“A private tutor.”

You can’t help it, you’re laughing like a flirtatious teenager, “You idiot.” You go to swat his arm, and he’s fast. He grabs it before it hits its mark. His fingers interlace with your own, and he lets your arms drop between you. Holding hands, arms formed in a V at this little school playground. It’s so tender you could puke.

“I’m sorry.” A long finger is rubbing along your knuckles while you listen to his soft voice, “I’m such an asshole. To be fair, that usually works for me.” His eyebrows are cocked at you, and his small smile is barely visible in the moonlight. He seems small and sweet in this moment, and you feel warmth spreading through your chest at the sight of him.

“Yeah, well, I was just about ready to hate fuck the attitude out of you.” He drops your hand and dramatically grabs his chest.

“Hold on, let me just get in the right mind frame.” He stands up and shakes his arms at his side to limber up and clears his throat. His long arms grab the metal chain of your swing, and he leans into your space. A low seductive voice reverberates through his chest as he says, “Baby, your boobs remind me of Mt. Rushmore. My face should be among them.”

Your laughter is a release of tension. You’re in hysterics. It’s the only thing to describe your reaction to this fucking nerd putting on this ridiculous show. There are tears in the corner of your eyes until you catch sight of Eddie’s face. He’s watching you, the moonlight creating a halo around his stupid head with a wide smile that beams with pride.

“I would do anything to hear that laugh.” When you let out a groan of protest, his hand waves it away, “I’m serious. It’s what drew me back here. You have the sweetest laugh I’ve ever heard.”

You grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him down to your eye level. Right as your noses brushes against his and you’re angling your mouth towards him he whispers, “I’d love to hear what other pretty noises you make.”

Hand flattened, you give him a shove. “You’re such an asshole, Eddie.”

“Oh, come on, I was joking.” You’re up and heading back to your building, annoyed with yourself more than him. “Please stop. I’m sorry.” Wheeling around to face him, he stops abruptly with his hands raised in surrender. You have your hands propped against your hips. You bend down and unlace your boots and toe them off. You’ve lost a couple of inches, but Eddie still seems completely intimidated. He inches his way towards you, as if approaching a rabid dog, and he reaches down to pick up your discarded boots to carry for you.

“Let me walk you home, hmm? Are you hungry? I picked up some perch at the fish market yesterday.”

“I’m sorry, are you offering to make me dinner at,” you look at your watch and scoff, “1:30 in the morning?”

“Uh, yeah. To be fair, I was planning to make myself dinner anyway, but why not. It’s obvious neither of us is getting laid tonight.” Too true. Neither of you were getting laid, which made you wonder…

“Why aren’t you getting laid tonight? You been in a dry spell lately? I saw plenty of pretty bimbos making googly eyes at you earlier.”

“Yeah, true.” He sighs dramatically, “I think I’ve had my fill of bimbos for a while, ya know? Plus, I think I was getting a slutty reputation around the building.”

“Pffffttt, come on.”

“I’m serious, I was more than a little embarrassed to have the hottest chick I’ve ever seen call me an asshole and a slut to my face.” Well, you are a slut. “And I know what you’re thinking, you were just calling it like you saw it, but is it a crime to have a good time, Sweetheart? I didn’t know everyone in the apartment building could hear me.”

There’s a tinge of something, guilt, in the back of your mind. You never told him about the vent. The vent that certainly can’t be legal. The vent that creates a direct opening between your rooms. Yeah, he’s a loud ass, but you probably wouldn’t hear most of what he’s doing in the privacy of his own room if it wasn’t for that fucking vent.

“Not everyone in the building.” You admit, sheepishly. A pause, a gentle hand on your shoulder, an eyebrow raised in question. “So, there’s this vent I discovered. It’s basically just wide-open space between our rooms.”

His eyes are moving side to side as if he’s trying to understand, trying to see it in his mind. “A vent? Why is there a ductwork that goes from one room to another room like that?” And you think for a moment you might get away with your bad behavior, because maybe he’ll focus on the design flaw instead of the fact that you blamed him for something out of his control.

“Wait. Are you telling me that you’ve been ragingly pissed off at me for something that isn’t my fault?” You wave your hand a little bit. Because, yeah, that’s pretty much true.

“Sort of. I mean, you’re still a cocky asshole that doesn’t consider his neighbors when he’s got his dick up.” His arms go up in frustration. “No, you’re right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have decided to be mean right off the bat.”

Eddie’s still gripping your boots while your feet are walking on the freezing cold sidewalk with nothing but pantyhose between you and the night. The chill is finally starting to get to you, the booze having worn off completely. Your building isn’t too far, about a block away, and your teeth start to chatter a bit. You’re trying to hide it, not wanting to seem too vulnerable, too weak in this moment, but he’s observant. He swings off his leather jacket, leaving himself in just his cropped t-shirt, and wraps it around your shoulders. It smells like cigarettes, worn leather, and Old Spice. You could scream at how comforting it all is. How safe and cared for you feel. Instead, you try to satisfy your curiosity.

“So, tell me, Eddie, what do you do for a living?” You ask, hating the way the question sounds coming out of your mouth. Boring chit chat that doesn’t fit the already too intimate understanding the two of you have with each other.

“Besides playing metal for free booze at the downtown bars? Take a guess.” Oof, if you had to guess, you’d have no idea. Tattoo artist? That’s plausible. Cook? Could be. Mechanic, plumber, electrician? How annoying to not know and how annoying to have him play coy about it.

“Oh, I don’t know. Can’t you just fucking tell me?” His head is thrown back in a laugh. He really enjoys needling you. He likes pissing you off, at least just a little.

“God, you’re so impatient. If you must know, I work with kids. Believe it or not, I’m a counselor for at-risk youth.” You can’t hide the shock on your face. There is no way you would have ever been able to guess that this guy worked with kids. Is a counselor. You’ve done work for family attorneys in the past, and you know what some of these kids go through. You imagine him holding the hands of kids going through the horrors of life. A lump begins to form at the base of your throat.

“Are you joking?” You practically choke out the words. It’s a rude question and you have no excuse for it other than the fact that it’s exactly what crosses your mind.

“Not joking. I had a rough time when I was younger. I barely got out of high school alive. Steve started going to a community college back home, and I decided to go for it with him. I spent 6 years getting a 4-year degree while flipping burgers.”

Your mind is so blown you can’t do anything but stutter, “You’re a fucking saint? That’s actually kind of annoying.” You nudge Eddie with your shoulder affectionately. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I do for a living?” He nudges you back, affectionately.

“I know what you do. Mary told me. You’re an assistant for a lawyer with the aspiration to go to law school. And, you’re very likely going to do it and be a huge success because you’re a genius and you work harder than anyone she’s ever met.” Bless Mary, what a sweetheart. You can see her saying this to him, verbatim. She’s your biggest cheerleader. “It’s why I haven’t been having any overnight guests. You seriously had me feeling like the biggest dick in the world, you know.”

Ascending your steps to the front door of your building, you stop and look at Eddie. He’s a step below you, and still taller than eye level. “Why did you come on so strong with me? Why not just” you’re flapping your hand around looking for the right thing to say, “be normal with me?”

“I’m naturally flirtatious.” A roll of the eyes has him breathing through his nose, “Fine. you’re hot when you’re angry. Like, it’s insane. And, you know, most people find me charming.”

Yes. You could see it. He is charming. And sweet. Jeannie is right, he’s not a bad guy, he’s a really good guy, in fact. You reach your hand out to touch his curls, you’ve been thinking about how soft they would feel between your fingers since the first time saw him. Yes, they are soft. Oh, his hand is cupping your cheek, and you’re leaning your head into it. His skin is so warm despite the cold.

“God, you’re so beautiful, I could cry.” The words are out before you can stop them, and maybe you don’t want to. Maybe he needs to know what is true about him in your eyes. That he is beautiful, and that you want him, even more now that he’s let you see who he really is.

He releases a slow exhale at your words, and you can see a flush creeping up his neck. You are charmed. Before a protest can be made, you let your mouth meet his. You let yourself taste him, breathe him in. And he is sweet. A light kiss, and his breath is fanning over your face.

He pulls back to look into your eyes and says, “I think you might have something in your eyes.” You furrow your brows a little while he inspects them, “No, sorry, just a sparkle.” He’s breathing out a laugh at his own terrible pick up line, and you hate him.

“I hate you.” You say the words without conviction, and this time, his mouth meets your own with a firm kiss. A tongue snaking across your bottom lip in a plea for entry, and you grant it. This is bliss. His arms are holding you at your hips while yours find his neck. Like teenagers at your parents’ doorstep not wanting the night to end. This goes on until he feels you trembling and remembers that you could be doing this inside. Where there’s heat and comfort.

“Wouldst thou allow me the honor of walking thee to thine door this fine evening, M’lady?” He asks, and you realize that this guy that has fucked every woman in the tri-state area is an actual nerd. A goofy bastard.

“Thank you, kind sir. I hate to be out on these streets alone.” You bat your eyelashes and he lets out a little groan of pain. You relish in that groan, an indication that you have the upperhand with this man. You do have him wrapped around your little finger. Not only could you make him putty in your hands, you are doing it by just existing within his space.

As you head to the stairs, you feel Eddie’s warm fingers tangling themselves with your own, and that feeling of being a kid hits you again. It’s been so long since you’ve felt this kind of zinging tingle from such a simple gesture. Will he be careful with me? A bit of doubt begins to prickle at the back of your mind.

“So.” You’re standing with your back against your door, head tilted up to Eddie while he’s leaning his arm above you and bending into your space. “Did you want to come in, or…” Lips are on you. His soft mouth, so warm and inviting, and your tongues are dancing. It is divine. It is perfection. Until. Until. Until. “Wait.”

When your eyes focus on his face, there is concern. Not anger at being told to wait. Not frustration at your hand holding him away from you. Just brows knit together in distress for you.

“Are you ok, Sweetheart. I’m sorry if I did something wrong.” His knuckles brush against your cheek, and then he takes a small step back to allow you a little distance.

“No, Eddie, you’ve done nothing wrong.” You’ve turned around at this point, and you’re fumbling for your keys. They rattle as they hit the linoleum at your feet. Curses are being muttered under your breath while you try to recover.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Eddie’s big brown eyes are still so full of concern, you could cry. You want nothing more than to bring him into your home, into your bed, and just let go. It would be one thing if there weren’t these feelings brewing inside of you. It wasn’t what you planned. No, you want his mouth all over you, a tender embrace. The last time you had those things, you got burned. You’ve learned about playing with fire, and you just don’t do it anymore.

“I’m sorry, Eddie.” You let out a little shocked noise at your stupid self, “you really are beautiful and sexy. And you’re a good person to boot.” Your head is shaking at him, because these are not things you’ve been looking for.

“Um, thanks? Why is that bad?” His tenderness is too much for you, and you feel yourself wanting to give in. His hand is gently brushing your hair away from your face, and he’s tilting his head to try to see you better.

“Because, I like you, and that’s not something I can deal with. I’m not looking to feel anything other than mutual physical satisfaction. With anyone.” You throw your hand out to emphasize your point. Nope. Not looking for a boyfriend. And that’s what this motherfucker is, he’s a goddamn boyfriend if you’ve ever seen one.

“Uh, well, I say that’s too fucking bad, Sweetheart. The feelings are mutual, and if you don’t want to hang out with me because we’re super compatible, that’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.” The smile he’s wearing barely masks his frustration. He’s looking like the cocky shit you first met. Arms spread open to present himself to you. “Fucking fine, I’ll leave you alone. Give me my jacket back.”

You shrug it off and hand it over, already missing the warmth. You feel so small right now, and so angry at yourself. He’s right, it is stupid. “I’m sorry, Eddie. I don’t think I could fuck you and have it be just casual. I can’t have you living above me, hearing you and whoever else. It would be one thing if we didn’t live in the same building, but I’d rather not even go there right now. There’s no way this wouldn’t end up being a complete shit show.”

He spins on his heel and takes the stairs two at a time, leaving you standing alone under the glow of the fluorescent lights that illuminate the hall. When you finally enter the apartment, tears are stinging at the corners of your eyes. What is your fucking problem? You don’t even notice that Mary and Steve are sitting on the couch watching a movie.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Mary is scrambling out of the embrace she was sharing with Steve. “I heard you shouting with, uh, someone in the hallway.”

“With Ed, it was definitely Ed.” Steve says nonchalantly, as if saying his name wouldn’t drive a dagger through your heart.

“Thanks for that, Steve.” Mary’s annoyed face is completely unconvincing. To be fair, how could anyone be annoyed with Steve? He’s so precious.

“I just,” You sigh and try to find something to say to get her to leave you alone, “I hung out with him a little bit tonight, and I can’t do this right now. It would be one thing if it was just sex, but he’s so fucking perfect.” Mary knows. She’ll support you. She knows how hard you took it the last time you tried to do the feeling thing with someone. She will hug you and tell you that you’re doing the right thing.

She is staring at you with incredulity. Flabbergasted. Bemused. Dumbfounded. Absolutely flummoxed. “You’re fucking stupid.”

Steve lets out a little laugh through his nose and clears his throat to cover the sound. You and Mary both shoot eye daggers in his direction and he just gives you both a little shrug. “You know, Eddie hasn’t stopped talking about how much he wants to get to know you. You have him so wound up, it’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, come on. I’ve done nothing but be a complete bitch to him.”

“Yeah, and Mary here has told him how amazing you are. He’s always like this. He loves when someone is willing to put him in his place.” Your head is spinning at the thought. Putting him in his place. “Plus, Mary told him that you want to be a lawyer and work with legal aid. He’s ready to go out and buy a ring.”

“Shut up, Steve, you’re freaking her out.” Mary turns back to you and grabs your hand. “Just answer this question for me, and I’ll leave you alone.” Her eyebrows are raised, and you nod in answer, “If you’re already hurting your own feelings by not allowing yourself the chance to spend time with Eddie, what’s the harm in seeing what might be there before you crush it?”

You roll your eyes and wave, “Good night, guys. Be safe.” You hate that everyone is right. Fuck this. You’re going to bed.

Emotionally exhausted, you find sleep easy to find. As you drift, through the sound of your fan blowing gently on your night stand, you hear something that is bringing you back into the waking world. It’s soft, so quiet. Is that? It’s music.

It’s a song you recognize, anyone would, but it’s so much more mournful than it should be. Soft and gentle strumming. Mary’s words are hounding you while you hear Eddie singing, through that fucking vent, I Want To Hold Your Hand. You’re so pissed off, there’s nothing you can do but throw your legs over the edge of your bed and stomp out of your room. Down the hall. To the living room where Steve and Mary are sleeping. Out your apartment door. Up the stairs. All while still in your tiny sleep shorts and tank top, the breeze of the front door to the building leaving your skin covered in goose flesh.

*knock, knock, knock* Come on, I know you’re awake. A little louder *knock, knock, knock*, and you hear him grumbling behind the door. “You’ve got to stop forgetting your keys man, it’s like 3 in the morning. The door swings open, and he sees you.

“Hi.” His eyes widen, “Oh shit, I’m sorry. Was I too loud?” Yes. Too loud. Too pretty. Too kind. Too sexy. Too everything.

You push your way past him and into his apartment, back into his bedroom. He’s following you, still confused, huffing at you. Until you stop to face him outside of his bedroom door. A finger firmly pointed at his chest.

“One of two things needs to happen tomorrow.” He’s looking from your finger to your face, trying to understand what’s going on, “Either we get the landlord down here to fix this vent issue, or you and Steve switch rooms.”

“Uh, ok. Yeah, that’s fine.” Your finger moves up to the fringe of his hair, letting it dance along his forehead. “Sweetheart, do you have something else in mind to talk about?” You shake your head at him, eyes still focused on his, absolutely mesmerized by him.

“I want you, Eddie, if you’ll have me. Even if it’s just for tonight. How does that sound to you?” Eddie’s lip curls up and throws his arms around your waist to lift you off the ground in a bear hug. Your fist pound his chest in protest while giggles are erupting out of you. Without putting you down, he kicks his door open and walks you over to his bed.

“Oh, Sweetheart, this is gonna be so fun.” Your mouths are mingling gently, with need and passion, but so sweetly. His big hands grip your torso and toss you onto his messy bed. He’s climbing over you while you crook your finger to draw him closer to you. Close enough for you to-

“Jesus, woman.” -wrap your legs around his waist and flip him onto his back. You wiggle your finger at him in a “no-no” gesture when he tries to push himself back up.

“Let me make you feel good, Baby. You’re so pretty, I just wanna play for a while.” A pathetic whine leaves his mouth at your words. You know these are probably words he’s used on countless women over the years. You mean it, too. You want to open him up and see his heart beating in his chest. You want to see his lungs expand and expel his breath. You want to explore the expanse of his chest with the tip of your nose. Your tongue. You want to see the freckles that are hidden from his own gaze and take the time to appreciate each of them.

“Let’s come to an agreement, Baby. If you tell me no, ask me to stop, or in any way sound like you’re anything more than enthusiastic about what I’m doing, I’ll stop. Ok?” Eddie nods enthusiatically. “The only other thing I’m going to ask is that you don’t touch me until I tell you it’s ok. You can ask if you really need it.” He’s nodding again, and you give a curt head shake, “Tell me if this is ok, please.” You’re sitting with your legs slung over his chest, and a hand cupping his cheek. You need to see what his face and words are telling you.

“Yes, please.” He’s nodding, and then a little wolfish grin crosses his pretty lips. “That all sounds good for now. We can talk about a switch up for the next time.” You scoff in answer, but you can’t deny the throb you feel at his words. Maybe you could see yourself relinquishing some control with him.

No more words for now, Eddie is on his best behavior as he watches you with keen, shining eyes. You waste no time and peel his shirt off, showing you that chest you wanted to mark up. Before even touching him with your hands, you lick a stripe from the line of hair below his belly button, up his stomach, over his chest, and to his neck where you begin sucking behind his ear. His responding groan is music to your ears.

Before long he’s laid out for you, completely nude, hard as a rock and moaning while you tease him with gentle strokes and words of praise. He is so good for you, so beautiful with the purpling marks on his chest and thighs. And quiet, he’s being so quiet for you.

“Baby, you’re such a good boy for me. Tell me what you want me to do.” You give his slit a little kitten li k and his eyes roll back but his hands are still firmly planted and gripping the sheets below him. “Wanna see how far I can get your cock in my throat? It’s pretty big, Baby, I don’t know if I can handle it.” You’re pouting at him, giving him your sweet big eyes, batting your lashes at him.

His response is high pitched, sounding almost painful, “Sweetheart, I want you to suck my cock, but god, can I touch you, please.” Aw, it’s only been 30 minutes.

“Oh, Baby, I was just getting started.” Your hand moves down his shaft to the soft sac at the base of his cock. As he’s watching you, you take two of your fingers into your mouth and let your saliva coat them. His own mouth is moving in sync with your own, tasting the ghost of your fingers. You bring your hand down to the spot below his sac where it’s so sensitive and press firmly. His cock jumps and arousal leaks down to the thatch of hair at the base.

“Oh my god, I need to touch you. Please, please, please, let me touch you.” His whining cry, and the tear gliding down his cheek have you feeling weak.

You work your shorts off, finally exposing yourself to him. His hands are still pinned to the bed while you hover your sticky center over him. You sit on his stomach and rock yourself, not quite touching the head of his cock with your ass. His head is thrown back in concentration when you finally tell him, “You can touch me, Baby.”

His eyes shoot open, and his hands find your hips. Without a word, he has you on your back. “You gonna let me make you feel good, Sweetheart?” He’s wild, he looks like he wants to devour you, and you’re ready to let him do anything in this moment.

“Please, Eddie, anything you want.” His eyes are still wet from the edging. You’re running your finger along the purple marks you left on his chest, and he’s gone. You feel him ripping your shirt over your head and he’s throwing it out into the room.

He’s not gentle, and you’re not surprised. He’s not used to being teased like this. Your legs are spread wide, and his big hands pull you down into his waiting face. Immediately, he gets to work, he’s laid flat against the bed, his erection finally getting some friction while his tongue gets to taste you. It’s broad stripes along your slit with tiny kitten licks when he reaches your nub. Over and over and over. The movements are calculated. You’re watching him and he’s watching you. It’s when you start to rock your hips up to meet his mouth that he latches on to your clit with ferocity.

*bang* you’re writhing in pleasure. The feel of his mouth has you shaking uncontrollably, your moans get higher and higher until every muscle in your body is tense and you feel your center releasing. Eddie is practically growling as he laps up your arousal until your hands thread through his hair and you’re pulling him up to you.

“I need you inside me. I need it, Baby. Please.” Eddie is calming you down with a gentle shushing. His hands have found your face, and he kisses away the tears you didn’t know you had shed.

“I’m here, Sweetheart.” Kissing him now, with your taste on his tongue, you want it to last forever. You wrap your legs around his waist, hooking your ankles around him, pleading with your eyes. He leaves a kiss on your temple as he reaches for the small box on the nightstand. You watch, your body still boneless as he glides the condom down his length. You can’t remember the last time you had a man in this position. His body flush with your own, covering you, his face in your neck. Every inch of him makes your body hitch in excitement until you are completely full. You and Eddie are both open mouthed, and making silent noises until he moves. You’re meeting every thrust with your hips.

Moving in tandem, hard and fast, you know it won’t be long. Every thrust is hitting your most sensitive spot inside, while the hair at the base of his shaft tickles your clit. His breath on your neck, the whimpers and moans in your ear. It all feels so unbelievably good. You’re wound tightly again, already, sweat is collecting between your breasts that are pushed against Eddie’s chest.

“Oh, Baby, you’re fucking me so good. I’m gonna cum.” His reaction is to speed up even more, pounding you brainless. Only static and pleasure. That’s all that’s left of you as he uses you.

“Fucking cum with me.” The orgasm rips through you, and you’re screaming. If you had a brain to think with, you’d realize that if you were in your own room the sounds would be louder than any you’ve heard before. You can feel his thrust turning into a gentle rocking as he empties himself. And then, you’re both still, breathing into each other’s necks.

You lay together for a while, until you start to feel like you’re being suffocated. “Eddie, get off of me.” You reach down and give his ass a little slap. You think he might have drifted off to sleep while still inside of you.

He rolls over with a deep groan. You know you’ve worn him out, he looks exhausted. “Oh, Baby, I’ll be right back.”

You head to the bathroom and wash yourself. You count it as lucky that your apartments are identical, and guess that you could find some washcloths in the linen closet. When you reenter Eddie’s room, he hasn’t moved an inch. You remove the condom and clean him off while he makes little noises. You find his boxers and guide them up over his slender hips. After you find your own underwear, you climb into bed and cozy up into his chest.

“Sweetheart?” His voice is full of sleep and barely whispered. You hum back to him. “Can I keep you? Will you be mine?”

“Yes, Eddie.”

tagging: @missmarch-99 @powderblueblood @thornsnvultures @corrodedcorpses @munsonburn3r

@definitionwanderlust @mopeymopeymouse

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff

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darkenedurge · 1 year ago

Text

𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐑𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐭.

A/N : i’ve been wanting to write rolan for so long idk why it took me forever but AGH here we are i <3 tieflings

Rolan's head is reeling. Thoughts, realisations, spinning within the cavern of his skull. Lorroakan, gone. And, he owes thanks yet again to his 'valiant' hero. To which, he raises his head – lips, parting to speak.

Yet, not even a breath escapes him – not before he's barrelling backward into a bookshelf, hands grasping at his robes, and lips upon his own. Her lips. The lips he'd dreamed of for so long, lips he'd yearned for – yet so painfully denied himself.

Her tongue isn't patient, as impatient as she, winding its way into his mouth with a soft noise of satisfaction. In turn, he whines, hands reaching to grapple at any part of her he could blindly reach – clawing at her hips, drawing her nearer.

She rolls her hips into his, arousal coiling within his abdomen, and he has to muster all that he has to break for air – instantaneous in his mourning at the loss of her lips, her taste.

"What are you.. doing..?" Is all he can manage, in a panted breath, a string of saliva still connecting them – his gaze, hazy with desire, as he peers at her through half-lidded eyes.

"Something I should've done a long time ago," She replies, blunt, simple. Her hand brushes a strand of hair back, away from his face, touch uncharacteristically gentle in comparison to what he'd just witnessed – "I really like you, Rolan."

He almost laughs. In fact, no, he does laugh – a small, quiet huff of amusement. "I think we've established that," He quips, snarky as ever, "But for what it's worth, I like you too. A lot."

A brief pause. His eyes dart from corner to corner. Flitting between bloodshed, books and..

Her companions are nowhere to be found. To that, he internally, mentally, breathes a loud, genuine sigh of relief. She notices, a coy smile playing at her lips, her fingers dipping beneath his robes – fingertips cold, against the harshness of his warmth, bumping over the ridges that decorated his skin. Rolan feels a shiver crawl up his spine, eyes fluttering to a momentary close, as a shaking, uneven breath ghosts past his lips.

“So, are we going to finish what we started?” Comes her voice, Gods her voice, once more – the words purred against his ear, her teeth grazing his skin. He’s unable to swallow the whimper that fights its way out, chest notably heaving, “My ears are s– ahh.. sensitive..”

She hums, hand seeking purchase in his underwear, but lingering just above the waistband – awaiting consent. “I assumed as much,” She murmurs, “Elven ears are only the same..”

“So, I’m your first tiefling?” He asks, voice dipping to a low, rasping hum, as he guides her hand to his cock – hips stuttering as her hand began teasing, languid strokes, thumb paying mind to the ridges that adorned his shaft – alongside bitterly teasing the tip with clear intent. He moans. Pitched, and unrestrained.

“First, and last.” Is her reply, brows knitted in concentration as she peers down at her own working hand, wrist expertly twisting, earning further, mewling whines from Rolan’s mouth.

Rolan’s own, fickle, fantasies paled in comparison to the reality that had now so graciously dawned upon him, his thighs tensing with every pump of her fist.

“So sensitive,” She muses, and his hands grapple for the bookshelf behind him, “I wonder if your tail is the same..”

“Don’t–!” Rolan gasps, but his fragile warning is cast upon deaf ears, her spare hand already pinching the tip of his tail between her thumb and forefinger. He yelps, spilling over her hand with trembling of his thighs.

“Oh,” Her tongue swipes over her fingers, before they sink into her mouth, tasting his seed – “Very sensitive.”

The after-shock of Rolan’s orgasm blurs his vision, whirls his head. So much so that he hardly, if at all, processes her movements – the disappearing of his tail, within the caverns of her mouth, slick with saliva. It’s not until her cheeks hollow, and a spasm of pleasure writhes through him, earning a waned whimper from the back of his throat. “Don’t– I can’t, I– too sss–sensitive..”

Rolan tugs, his tail pleading for exit – her jaw falls slack, brows arched in question. He has to catch his breath, and he does so; though, incredibly unsteadily. Meekly.

“I’m sorry,” His hands, without forewarning, toy with her armour – a silent begging for her to be rid of it, bloodshed and all, “I can’t cum again, not unless it’s inside of you.” She blinks, still and unprepared for the first time since the mere moments ago that their encounter started. Her senses, however, are swift in their return – and she peels off piece after piece, revealing every curve; every freckle, every shred of skin that Rolan could only have ever dreamed of touching, tasting.

Rolan’s robes are much less hassle, and to a silent God he offers his thanks for it. Stripped bare in front of one another, silence offers it’s blanket. It’s her, who moves first, fingertips dancing from his shoulders, right down to his knuckles. He notices the faintest of smiles playing at her lips, adoring in its nature. With a swallowed breath, Rolan outlines her waist, her hips, thighs, ass, with his hands.

“You’re warm,” She states, softly. He hums, and with a sharp pull on his behalf – their bodies are pressed flush. Wordlessly, she’s lead backward – thighs hitting the edge of something hard, sharp, earning an expel of air from her mouth. A desk. Lorroakan’s desk.

With a grunt of effort, she was splayed before him – upon the wood of the desk, his tail wound around her leg, spreading her open with gentle encouragement. His fingers press to her lips, and she understands – tongue swirling, wetting them. With a ‘pop!’, the digits are released – sinking impatiently into her pleading, begging cunt. Rolan gasps, her cunt hot, and tight around his fingers, as they slid, in, out, in, out. He curls them, and her head is thrown back. Thumb, paying mind to her neglected bud, circling it.

“So wet,” He murmurs, not toward her in particular – more so, a thought that had accidentally been uttered aloud. Regardless, he doesn’t regret it. No, her reply only makes him wish he’d said more.

“Because it’s you, Rolan.” She whines.

Gods, he couldn’t wait anymore. She groans, at the absence of his fingers, and he shushes her. “So greedy,” He mewls, “Even when you’re about to get exactly what you want.”

The inside of her greets his cock far differently in comparison to that of his fingers. She clenches, near immediately, and blissfully so. His hips are steady at first, cautious. Until they’re not, her hands finding his in an act of desperation, as his hips piston at an impossible pace – her hips rolling in tandem with his harsh, needy thrusts. Lewd sounds encapsulate the room, skin against skin, raw noises ripped equally from both of their throats. It’s heaven, if such a place truly exists.

Delirious, Rolan barely registers, notices, the premature arrival of his orgasm crawling up his spine, strumming his nerves. A guttural, cracked moan is yanked from his mouth, and he spills inside of her – eyes blown wide. “I’m sorry,” His nose, buries in the crook of her neck, “M’sorry.”

He feels the shaking of her head, light and affectionate, against him. “It’s alright,” A kiss, tender as its pressed to his hair, “I wanted you to.. I’m yours now.”

“Mine.” The word, singular, is spoken through a hidden smile.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate iii #rolan x tav #bg3 rolan #rolan bg3 #rolan #tav x rolan #bg3 smut #bg3 x reader #rolan x reader #elf tav

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on-my-vigilante-sht · 10 months ago

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The Way I Loved You

Luke Castellan x demeter!Reader

Summary: "But I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain / And it's 2 a.m. and I'm cursing your name / So in love that you act insane"

Warnings: angst, possessiveness, jealousy, toxic relationship, fluff ending

Wordcount: 3.3K

Masterlist

A/N A. Yes, it's another Taylor Swift songfic and B. Four fics in five days, I've been cooking

And you were wild and crazy / Just so frustrating, intoxicating, complicated

Ever since Y/N met Luke Castellan, he drove her insane. When they were kids, 13 and 14 respectively, they hated each other. She hated the way he came in and immediately started bossing the campers around. Despite being so young she was the counselor for the Demeter cabin. Her big sister—her only sibling at the time—had tragically died on her way to camp that summer. But instead of mourning the always kind and radiant daughter of Demeter, they mourned the daughter of Zeus no one had ever met. And seeing the way the new boy seemed to soak up the attention made her hate him.

By the time she was 15 they still hated each other but he was all she had. They had both been at camp so long, and lost so many of their siblings and friends, both could hardly remember life without the other. But they still argued like children. So whenever they had bickered so much that Chiron or Mr. D got tired of it, they’d send them to do a chore together. They spent long hours cleaning the showers, stables, infirmary, doing practically every undesirable chore together that they finally started to talk.

Luke got to know her and understand why she hated him. And she had learned about his life and gained sympathy for him.

Soon enough those talks became makeout sessions. They stopped talking but at least they couldn’t fight if their lips were occupied. It was like they were addicted to each other.

Eventually they slid into dating. When they weren’t talking it was great. But someone would inevitably say or do something that made the other mad.

“Why were you flirting with him?” Luke demanded, slamming the door of the Demeter cabin.

“What are you talking about? I was training him. You know? Doing my job!”

“It wasn’t just training and you know it.”

“Gods you’re so insecure and possessive.”

“You’re the one who begged me to commit to you. Of course I’m gonna worry about my fucking girlfriend.”

“I did not beg you.”

“Yes you did. You’re the insecure one. You just needed to put a label on it and screw everything up.”

“You were supposed to meet me by the lake an hour ago!” Y/N stormed into the room.

“Oh crap. I’m so sorry babe,” he apologized. Trying to kiss her and make it go away.

“You do this all the time. I’m never a priority to you!”

“You’re literally my girlfriend. I don’t know what else you want.”

“I’m only your girlfriend because you didn’t want me to date anyone else!”

“Why are you packing?” Luke asked.

“You know my cousin who goes to Syracuse? She invited me up for the weekend.”

“So what? You can go party with frat guys?”

“No, so I can party with girls,” she tried to lighten the mood.

But Luke wasn’t consoled.“I don’t want you going to some college and getting drunk.”

“Why?”

“Because so many things can happen. You could get drugged and taken advantage of. You could get attacked. What are you gonna do if a cyclops sniffs you out but you’re too drunk to realize?”

“You’re not actually worried about that you just don’t trust me.”

“Of course I trust you. It’s them I don’t trust.”

“It takes two to tango.”

“Again, you could get roofied.”

“Urgh Luke you’re not listening to me!”

They had plenty of arguments. So much so that the Hermes and Demeter campers had a silent agreement to go to each other’s cabins whenever their counselors started arguing.

But toxic relationships can’t go on forever.

It was Y/N’s birthday. She was turning 18. Collectively Camp Half-Blood made a big deal about birthdays considering that each one literally signified a triumph over death. But Luke couldn’t even be bothered to spend the day with her. When she woke up in his bed, he was already up and putting on his training gear. “‘Morning,” she greeted softly. She tried not to seem too excited about her birthday but all she wanted in that moment was for him to say “happy birthday.”

“Hey,” he smiled. “I'm gonna go train with some of the other campers. The new kids have been excited to watch me fight so…” he said smugly, already halfway out the door. “Just uh make the bed when you leave? Thanks.”

She was left disappointed. Like she always was except for when they were together but not talking.

But almost as soon as she stepped outside she was greeted with several wishes for a good birthday. She nearly cried when she got back to her cabin and found her bunk decorated, small gifts left on her bed from her friends and siblings.

By lunch practically the whole camp had wished her a happy birthday and she was feeling a bit better. She was reading a book she got as a gift, sitting alone at the Demeter table while she ate. Laughter invaded the dining pavilion and she watched as Luke entered along with the campers he had been training. He spotted her, coming over to her table but she didn’t even look up at him.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked. No response. “Why are you mad?” Still no response. After a few beats of silence he tried to change the subject. “So what are you reading?” She just held the book up so he could read the title. “Ah. Where’d you get that?”

By now the other campers had grabbed their food and were walking past the Demeter table. “Happy birthday, Y/N,” they each wished as they passed by. She smiled up at each of them as they passed. She only spared a glance at Luke to witness the expression on his face.

“Are-are you mad because you think I forgot your birthday? Of course I didn’t forget your birthday, babe. I’m just uh… saving my surprise for after dinner.”

“Sure,” was all she said, flipping the page.

“No, no,” Luke insisted, coming around to the other side of the table. He straddled the bench, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her close. As he did so he pressed a kiss against her cheek because she was still focused on her book. “You’re gonna love your gift. I swear.”

Luke spent the rest of the afternoon running around trying to put together a surprise. He got Mr. D to summon a small cake. Fortunately Mr. D was the one person in camp that didn’t know or care that it was Y/N’s birthday so he didn’t ask questions. As for the gift, Luke was lost. Anything in the camp store she’d immediately be able to tell wasn’t something he had thought about and anything he already owned she’d recognize as his.

So he went out to the meadow, picking flowers. She was the daughter of Demeter, of course she liked flowers.

So by the time dinner finished, Luke was pretty proud of what he had pieced together despite his limited resources. After everyone had left the dining pavilion, he brought Y/N to the docks where he proudly displayed his hard work. Except when he handed her the flowers, she looked disappointed. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “I know you forgot my birthday. That’s fine. Whatever,” she sniffed passive aggressively. “But you gave me probably the most cop out gift you could think of.”

“What do you mean? You love flowers.”

By now the tears were freely flowing from her eyes. “You know I hate cut flowers because they just die. You could have dug a few up, preserved their roots and repotted them.”

“Okay fine, I’ll plant them.”

But she shook her head. “No, it’s too late.”

“Then I’ll get new flowers.”

“No, not about flowers. It’s too late for us.”

His heart sunk. “What?”

“Luke, I think we should break up.”

“Over a damn gift? Y/N, I’m sorry. I know I dropped the ball but the wrong gift isn’t something you break up over.”

“It’s not about the gift!” she cried. “Luke, we don’t know each other. We’re strangers who are together because it’s convenient. The gift just proves you only know the basics. We’ve been together for two years. Known each other for five. You should know I don’t like cut flowers.”

“So we need to reconnect? We can work through this. Please Y/N, don’t do anything rash.”

She just shook her head again. “You’re not getting it. It’s not even just that we don’t know each other. We can’t talk for more than five minutes before fighting. We’re toxic, Luke.”

“But we’re…”

“Just because we’re all each other has doesn’t mean we’re good together.”

“Y/N, don’t do this. Please.” By now even Luke had a few tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Luke. But this is better for both of us.” With that, she walked away from him for the last time.

He can't see the smile I'm faking / And my heart's not breaking / 'Cause I'm not feeling anything at all

Getting over Luke was the hardest thing she ever had to do. She spent several days crying to her younger sister, Katie. She tried to help her sister but the younger girl couldn’t relate, making Y/N just feel more alone. But then a new Athena camper joined and things got better.

Chiron had basically assigned Y/N to show Ben the ropes around camp. He felt bad for the poor girl. No one liked watching her or Luke sulk around camp.

“Ben, I’d like you to meet Y/N. She’s one of our most senior campers and counselor of the Demeter cabin.”

She smiled at the new boy. “Hi. Do you know what cabin you’ll be in yet?”

“Yeah, uh Athena. She claimed me when the satyrs found me,” he answered, already finding himself interested. Chiron tried to hide his smirk realizing the boy’s quickly growing feelings.

“Well you’re one of the lucky ones.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Y/N,” Chiron interrupted, “why don’t you show Ben around? Let him know how we do things around here.”

“Uh, sure. C’mon I’ll give you a tour.” As they went around camp, Ben asked her all sorts of things about herself. Favorite color, favorite flower, who her friends were, what they were like, what she liked to eat and more. All the things Luke should have known.

As they kept going through camp, Ben knew he was already falling for her. And not just because Chiron had talked her up so much as they had approached the daughter of Demeter. He thought she was pretty and smart. And she was so kind to him. Plus, everyone around camp seemed to love her.

Ben’s very apparent interest was much to the chagrin of Luke. He had spent the first couple days of his breakup pretending like everything was alright. An act that proved very unpopular with the rest of camp. But the lonely nights got to him and his siblings could hear quiet sobs and sniffles in the night. But almost as soon as he started showing remorse, this new guy showed up and all of a sudden there was a buzz around camp about the new guy who would replace him.

The excited gossip about his ex and the new boy had literally started from day one. He saw them going through the camp tour a few times that day. After all, Camp Half-Blood is big. And Luke just happens to have to go to the same areas his ex does at the same time. But every time he spotted them he couldn’t help but glare at the new Athena cabin member. Every time he sent her a smile or made her laugh, Luke curled his fist impossibly tighter. His fists became almost perpetually white as the blossoming romance grew over time.

As for Y/N, she was finally healing. Not happy, but healing and Ben was helping with that as time went on and they got closer. He was perfect. Sweet, smart, a gentleman. But he wasn’t Luke.

They spent many nights getting to know each other. He knew her birthday, all her favorites, and made an effort with all her friends. Hell he even made an effort with Luke—an effort the Hermes boy did not appreciate—because he knew Luke was still important to Y/N. When he asked her out he did so with a pot of her favorite flowers which he had Argus help him get.

He knocked on the door of the Demeter cabin which was opened by Katie. “Hey Katie,” Ben greeted Y/N’s favorite younger sister. “Is Y/N home?”

“Yeah, she is.” The young girl called for her and soon enough the object of Ben’s affection was at the door.

“Hey Ben. What’s up?” she asked.

“I just wanted to give you this,” he smiled, handing her the beautifully potted flower. “I know I’m no demigod child of the plant goddess but…”

“No it’s great,” she smiled at him. But her heart was sinking. It wasn’t because of the gift, the gift was perfect actually. But if Luke had been the one to give it to her, her heart would be soaring. “Thank you.”

“And I just wanted to ask you if you uh- wanted to have dinner with me tonight?” he nervously asked.

“Oh well I’d love to,” she smiled. “But uh we can’t table hop at dinner. It’s against the rules,” she laughed nervously, hoping that would be enough to dissuade him.

“That’s not a problem. I got permission from Chiron to let us have dinner together. We just have to be out of the dining pavilion before everyone else gets there at 7.”

Dread kept filling her. She was in too deep now. And he had asked Chiron, she couldn’t just shoot him down. “Well then I’ll see you at 6 then?”

The biggest smile broke over his face. “See you then.”

The entire time at dinner, Y/N wanted to cry. This is not what she wanted. Ben was not what she wanted. But she kept forcing a happy face, hoping that if she could convince Ben she liked him too, she could convince herself.

When he brought her out to the meadow and kissed her, she wanted to dig herself into the ground and die. It was a sweet kiss but it just felt wrong… like there was no chemistry or passion between them.

She was so frustrated with herself. As she looked into Ben’s eyes she wondered why she couldn’t just love him back. Here was this incredibly caring guy who was more than willing to give her everything she was asking for but she just didn’t feel anything.

But I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain

For Luke, seeing Y/N with Ben made a weird dread fill his chest. To him it wasn’t fair that she just got to move on when she was the one that broke up with him. She should be begging for him back right now. And he hated to admit it but he’d take her back in a heartbeat right now.

So when he found her crying on the beach late one night, he didn’t know what to think. But she was still all he had so he approached. “Hey,” he tried to catch her attention gently.

She looked up at him, quickly wiping the tears from her eyes. “Oh, hey Luke,” she tried to play off her tears. “What are you doing here?”

“Came here to think and then I saw you. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine.” She gave a strained smile that did nothing to hide the puffiness of her eyes or blotchy skin.

It pained Luke to see her like this. Even more so when he knew he was the cause of her tears at one point. “Are you sure?” he asked, sitting next to her but maintaining her space. “We can talk. I promise it’ll just be a friendly conversation.”

She let out the weakest laugh he had ever heard. “I’m fine. You wouldn’t wanna hear about it anyway,” she dismissed even though Luke was the only person she wanted to talk to. He was the only person who could maybe possibly understand. Her siblings were too young and the only other camper their age was Ben.

“Try me,” Luke challenged, scooting the slightest bit closer.

She looked at him for a while before reluctantly speaking. “It’s Ben. I just… he’s such a great guy. He’s nice, and sweet, and such a gentleman but he’s just not…”

“Just not what?” Luke asked a little eagerly. From a distance she had looked blissfully happy and everyone spoke about how well Ben treated her. But hearing that his ex-girlfriend had a problem with the guy she was dating? Luke was a little too eager to hear about that.

“He’s not you!” She finally admitted. She didn’t miss the way Luke seemed to brighten. “He does nice things for me and he’s so sweet and into me but I’m just feeling nothing at all. It’s like there’s no passion between us.”

“Well you were right. We were toxic but we also had a lot of passion,” Luke tried to lighten the mood. “Look, I don’t mean to sweep in on your most vulnerable moment but I’ve been thinking since the breakup and this is the first time you’ve even looked at me so. I know I treated you like shit and was so possessive. I’m ready to actually commit to you and be your boyfriend instead of just slipping into it because we were already making out when we were younger. I want to give you everything the old me couldn’t or wouldn’t because watching you slip through my fingers was the most painful thing I've ever done. Besides, with more effort I think we could make this work because you don’t fight like we did unless you’re in love. People who don’t love each other just let it fade. They don’t fight.”

She looked like she was in severe pain. “Gods, why couldn’t you have said this three months ago?” Her lips were immediately on his. Luke was a little taken aback but kissed her back, glad to have her in his arms once again.

A few moments later they were promising each other eternity with all the passion in the world. “Forever?” he asked through labored breaths, his fingers intertwined with her hair.

“Forever,” she agreed.

The next day Luke was waiting anxiously in the Hermes cabin. Y/N was ending things with Ben but he was still nervous. What if she decided she wanted to stick with the safer option? He didn’t think he’d be able to handle it if she went back to him after last night.

His thoughts were only quieted when the door opened and he found her standing there. He stood up anxiously but hesitated, still slightly wary that she’d tell him she changed her mind. But she walked towards him, immediately falling into his arms. “Forever?” he asked.

“Forever,” she agreed.

Relieved, Luke pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Forever,” he confirmed for himself.

Masterlist

#percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #pjo x reader #pjo tv show #pjo series #the lighting thief #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #x reader #Spotify

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s-4pphics · 6 months ago

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A/N: me vs writing what i’m supposed to aka moth aka vampire possession aka anyway here’s post santa barbara angst don’t ask questions im not really sure LOL

“You’re back.”

Determined hands freeze in the dirt, the freshly watered daisies glistening under the beaming sun rays. Your soiled fingers halt all movement at the soft acknowledgment from behind. A sigh leaves your lips.

“… I am.”

An exhausted one, and it’s not from your strenuous labor in the garden. Your body refuses to turn, but holes burn in your spine, leaving behind lasered streaks of green.

“Can you look at me?” Ellie pleads gently. The softest you’ve heard her be in months.

What she doesn’t know is that you’ve been back. For a week actually, hiding out in other people’s homes throughout Jackson, assisting in places where Ellie’s least likely to go. The garden in particular; Pollen makes her sneeze.

Time is vital and interesting; Dina left her and Ellie’s farmhouse with her son when you fled Jackson. She sought you out, but you weren’t there. You spent most of your time alone, walking, running, killing what you had to. Searched for peace, internal and external. The sight of the waterfall was worth the months-long trip. Your home is different now. Eerily quiet. The kids you helped teached to read don't play outside or laugh as often anymore. You hardly see Tommy or Maria around. Jesse is dead. Joel is dead. Dina isolates with JJ. Hugs him like she’ll die if she lets go.

Ellie’s forever changed. The town’s forever changed, and you’ve finally accepted that it’s for the worse.

“Is listening not enough?”

Cordiality is beyond you. Spite is evident. Even the flowers can feel it.

You tried to be patient, to coddle, to mourn and aid and tend. Sacrifice your own wellbeing for the sake of hers. You tried, Dina tried, Tommy didn’t but he did at the same time. Oddly, destructively, but in his own way. You blame him and don’t. Hate him and don’t. He’s violently and permanently scorned, but so are you. So is Ellie. She says nothing from behind you. You rise with a pop in your knees and an upturned lip.

When you face Ellie, your knees wobble. Scarred: emotionally, physically, mentally. Permanently. Her eyes are more breakable than glass, the shattered hand that displays defeat hid shamefully behind her back. But her cheeks are fuller, no longer the hollow vacancies they were before she left. Maria was always on her back about finishing her meals.

Grief is complicated. Hurt. Anger. The flowers wilt. Listening isn’t enough, and neither is sacrifice.

Ellie’s nose always twitches when she thinks. Your heart gives a sporadic pulse, but not enough to revive the shell you're trapped in.

“I don’t want an apology from you.”

She shakes her head, “I know.”

“Then why are we talking?”

Another twitch of her nose. She searches for something. “I—“

But then she flinches away from you, a bent arm coming up to cover her nose and mouth when she sneezes. A painful jerk thrums through your chest, but still not enough.

“Bless you.”

One more sneeze, but softer. A bit squeaky. Remnant of when you first met her at 13 and she followed you out to the greenhouse to watch you water the orange trees.

“Thanks.”

You nod stiffly. When she doesn’t say anything, you move to leave. Your work is done and she knows you’re back; There’s no point in being alone with her.

Ellie doesn’t follow, but she does speak.

“I’m trying.”

You pause, one foot in front of the other. A doe learning how to walk for the first time.

“I’m trying to be normal. I’m trying to be okay but it’s not working.” Her voice trembles.

You weren’t expecting a confession. Normal. An interesting use of the word. No one feels that anymore.

“It probably won’t for a long time.” You state, just as quietly as she, “But if you stop trying, you’ll rot from the inside. If that’s what you want, then fine. But if not… That's all you can do now.”

“Will we ever be okay?”

‘We’ means many. ‘We’ means two. Your back’s to Ellie, but you can see her. Unmoving, but frantic. Her mind cranks at a million miles a minute. You feel her eyes on you. Too familiar.

You’re not sure how to answer, so you don’t. You take one last look at her before you walk away.

Flowers never look the same the next day.

#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams angst #ellie williams #ellie williams tlou #ellie williams x you #ellie the last of us #ellie williams au #lesbian #works 𖧧࣪

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parfaitblogs · 4 months ago

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loml ❀ s. reid x reader

in which even six years apart isn’t too much time for spencer to come see you.

pairing: ex!spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst/comfort sort of tags: that freaky shit (soul crushing angst). a lot of nothing. approximately the time morgan left the bau (it's mentioned). spoilers for 5x9 (‘100’) if you haven't watched it yet... fade to black. word count: 1.2k a/n: heyyyy… enjoy my the contents of my sad brain lol. this can kinda be a waiting room pt. 2 if you squint. i’m super sick right now so here’s a draft i wasn’t going to post until august (although it’s july 31 so is it technically august?) because i have no energy to write rn. whoops. enjoyy

Your mother once told you she doesn't think you can be just friends with some people.

They're either there to be in your life forever, souls so deeply woven together that you have to be more than friends. Or they're fleeting, and your lives will line up for a short enough period of time that they'll impact you, and then you'll never see them again.

You wished Spencer Reid was the latter.

Not at first. No, at first he was the man you were going to marry. You were certain of it. Discussing your wedding with your friends because it was going to happen, and you were picturing him at the altar. You had fantasised what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life so many times, dedicating so many hours to the concept of it, that when you lost it, you mourned the loss of it as much as you mourned the relationship.

But Spencer Reid was the former. Unfortunately so. Losing so many years to a man you didn't even speak to anymore, because you just can't get over it. Can't get over how you could give someone so much of you, and they will still throw it all away for a narrative they've made up in their mind. Can't get over the narrative he made up of you.

It was justifiable, you supposed. His boss had just lost his (ex) wife because of the job. It was tough for everyone on the team. You didn't think it was so bad he would freak out as much as he did, though.

Because in his mind you were next. He was going to lose you as well. And even that stupidly large brain of his couldn't see how ridiculous that sounded. He refused to listen to you when all he could hear was the screaming in his head of you being next, and the statistics of female abductions. Statistics that were no different between the day before the incident, and the day he broke up with you. They were just louder to him.

An achingly long amount of time had passed from the last time you spoke to him. A pathetic meeting you had requested two months after the breakup, because your life was falling apart and maybe seeing him would make it better.

It didn't.

You wondered if you'd still be shedding tears over him if you hadn't met him that night.

You heard your name, and so your head lifted from your lap. Right, you thought, bitterly. He was here. In your apartment. The same one he used to sleep at, for days on end.

You knew triggers like the back of your hand. They were usually things that made sense. Loud noises, blood, anniversaries. Could you justify your trigger being a whole person?

You hadn't known he was a trigger until that evening, when he had showed up at your apartment door with a bouquet of flowers that you didn't really want, and an insultingly pretty smile. You had broken down, right there in your doorway, crumpling to the floor in a hyperventilating, miserable heap.

He had held you, and frustratingly so, it helped. He didn't speak when he had done it, until you were calmer and were muttering apologies to him, embarrassment replacing the upset.

At which he shushed you. You listened.

"Why are you here?" you broke the silence that followed his calling of your name, voice shaky.

He exhaled audibly. "I wanted to see you."

"No, Spencer," you sniffled. "You don't get to come over with flowers just because you wanted to see me. Why are you here?"

He fell silent, and you wished you could crawl into his brain to see what he was thinking. You presumed a million things.

"Morgan left," he said, quietly, and you felt your mouth go dry.

"Oh."

Then; your eyebrows furrowed. Because did he really have no one to go to? You stared back at him for a few seconds, and for a moment, you let yourself forget about the weight between you two. Staring into his eyes was an easy way to forget that, apparently. It was comforting for you, but perhaps uncomfortable for him.

Because he cleared his throat, and adjusted his position on the couch. "I didn't know where to go. And you said if I needed anything, you would be there and—"

"—People say that as a courtesy, Spencer," you breathed out.

"I know," he said, quickly. "But I really needed someone, and I genuinely didn't know where else to go."

You couldn't slam the door in his face even if you wanted to. Because now you were registering more than just your own emotions. The red rimming his eyes, the dusting of pink on his nose and above his lips.

So, you nodded your head. "Okay. Come here," you said, opening your arms, and took him in between them. Albeit hesitantly. On both ends.

This time he broke down, and you let him. His face pressed into the crook of your neck, your fingers entangled in his curls, scratching at his scalp in the best soothing motion you could.

He cried until he had dehydrated his body, and your arms had begun to cramp from the position they were in. When he pulled back, your heart cracked a little more at the sight, his face wet with tears that stuck his hair to his cheeks, that you cleaned up.

"I miss you."

You froze. He did as well, but for an entirely different reason. At the idea that he had said it. Not you. Him. The words decorated the air and hung there for minutes as you fell silent.

Finally; "You don't mean that."

"Yes I do," his response was quick, as if expecting you to deny him of his own feelings.

"You're upset, and I'm comforting you. You miss Morgan. Not me. Transference," you mumbled, hands dropping from his face.

"This isn't transference."

"Spencer."

You were right. You knew it in the way his shoulders sagged in defeat, and his lips parted as if to say something, only to clamp shut in mental defiance.

"Maybe," he finally said, quietly. "But I do still miss you."

"It's been five years," you answered. He nodded his head in agreement. You exhaled. "I miss you too, Spencer."

He lips twitched, but never reached a smile. "You aren't seeing anyone, then?" he asked.

"You can deduce that, I'm sure."

You were right, he could, and he nodded his head, lips reaching a smile, albeit sadly. "Yeah. Me neither."

"I also figured," you said. "You would've gone to your girlfriend if you had one."

"I would've," he nodded his head, laughing a breathy, awkward laugh. "Instead I went to my ex-girlfriend."

"You did." More uncomfortable silence, before you let out a sigh. Again. "Movie?"

"What?"

"Do you want to watch a movie?" you say the full sentence, a little slower than what was probably necessary. You knew him well enough to know that he hated talking about his feelings, he was an awful communicator. Had been, your brain screams at you. He could've changed.

It seemed he hadn't, because he nodded his head, a smaller, more genuine smile painted his lips. "Yeah. Okay."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly ♡

#lia’s fics ♡#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer x reader #spencer x self insert #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid hurt/comfort

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daycourtofficial · 8 months ago

Text

Forever is the sweetest con

Cassian x reader, Azriel x reader

Summary: based on this request - the war with Hybern claimed the life of your husband. Reeling with grief, you discover that you’re pregnant. His brother and your friend, Azriel, begins spending more and more time with you, finding solace in each other amidst your shared grief.

Author’s note: sadness, sadness, sadness, this one took me ages to write bc it’s so fucking sad 😭 I’m not super happy with this bc I was mostly trying to meet the deadline so this might feel disjointed bc I had to kinda skip around a lot. Also I didn’t tag this as Cassian x reader in tags bc it felt too painful to do that

Word count: 3k

Warnings: character death, unexpected pregnancy, honestly just sadness

“I’m Cassian.”

A large, handsome male greeted you as you were shelving some new books away. His large outstretched hand reached towards you, waiting in the air for a moment as you set the stack of books in your arms down. Your hand gets lost in the warmth of his, telling him your own name.

He smiles at it, repeating it, testing it on his tongue.

For days, that is the only memory playing in your head. It is what you think of as you lay in your shared bed, his scent still lingering. It is what you think when Feyre picks you up, and her and Mor place you in a bathtub as they clean you. It is what you think of as you stare at the ceiling, hoping it will collapse on you.

It is what you think of as you stand between Rhysand and Azriel at Cassian’s memorial. It is what you think of as they lower the casket into the ground, the citizens of Velaris standing around to pay their respects.

You don’t notice the hundreds of people who come to offer you a silent nod, a gentle prayer over you, their voices carrying gentle choruses of “he was so brave” and “you should be proud”.

You’re too numb for any of this. You’re too numb to recognize the hand Azriel places on your back, or the hand Feyre clasps into your own, squeezing tightly.

All you can think about is how his hand felt in your own the first time you held it - warm, gentle, comforting. And how it felt the last time you held it - cold, lifeless, gone.

Being a war hero came with a cost.

Only Cassian didn’t have to pay it - those he left behind did.

You’re not sure how much time has passed since Cassian died. You’re not sure if the people of Velaris still mourned him, or were simply wearing the traditional colors of their court.

You sat in one of Cassian’s old tunics, piles of clothes scattered on the floor around you. Your back was to the wall, its cool surface warming with your heat.

You hear movement in the house, but you don’t have the energy or ability to care who’s here.

Someone knocks gently before coming into the room, Azriel’s large frame coming through the door to your chambers. He sees the slightly ajar closet door, and shimmies his way in, sitting next to you amidst the pile of clothes on the floor.

He notes that they all seemed to have been pulled right off their hangers, in a fit of rage or desperation perhaps. Shades of black and red litter the floor, and the realization that it was all Cassian’s clothes causes him to take in a deep breath.

You two sit for a while, Azriel’s wings likely cramped in the small space. Mother knows Cassian complained if he spent more than five minutes in your closet.

Azriel just sits in silence, his shadows gently swirling the floor, searching through the piles.

For what, you’re not sure.

You finally speak, the words hard to form. You didn’t speak much these days - your voice a rare sound for your family’s ears.

“He doesn’t need them to be hung up anymore.”

Azriel sighs, shifting closer to you. He gauges you, looking for a reaction before moving a bit closer.

“He never needed them hung up. Before you he mostly just left his clothes strewn about the room. Drove Nuala and Cerridwen mad.”

You look at him, pulled from your trance of that black shirt Cassian wore when the two of you went on vacation in Adriada. The shirt that fit him so well the two of you did not see the beach at all for the five days you were there.

“They’d complain, saying every night he’d pull his clothes that they neatly hung up and the next morning they’d be strewn about his room,” he shrugs, still confused over how Cassian kept track of where everything was.

“Eventually Rhys told them to stop and to let Cassian do what he wants. No idea how he managed to stay neat and tidy with you.”

Your eyes meet his, and he reaches out a hand for you. It’s the first offer of help you’ve accepted in days. You keep his hand in yours for a long time, sitting amongst Cassian’s clothes.

You were sitting on the small balcony of your home, looking out at the expansive night sky above you. Elbows on knees, collapsing in on yourself.

Eyes red rimmed, tear tracks marking your face. You had never felt so helpless or as hopeless as you did now. Your eyes snag on a dark figure, soaring through the skies, its body getting closer and closer.

Azriel had taken to checking on you every three days now. Make sure you were eating, washing, and moving. Honestly if it weren’t for these biweekly check ins, you’re not sure how you would be faring.

The Illyrian descends next to you, a soft landing as he tucks his wings back in and sits next to you. You two sit in silence for a while, the sounds of the night a melody playing for just you two.

Velaris is dark, few fae lights scattered throughout the city aglow. You breathe deeply, taking in the smell of Azriel next to you. You should tell him, but you haven’t been able to tell anyone all week.

It was eating you up - you knew they’d be supportive, you knew they’d love you and help you in anyway they could. But it would still break their hearts just a bit more.

Your internal debate is ended by the overwhelming turn of your stomach, your lunch from earlier wanting to make a quick exit. You hurriedly get up, running towards your bathroom and throwing yourself on your toilet, narrowly reaching it in time.

Azriel ran after you, making quick work of grabbing your hair before you began your second wave of vomiting. The only sounds in the room are your retching and Azriel’s soothing tunes.

His other hand gently rubs your back as you feel as if you’re going to die. From embarassment or pain, you’re not sure. He waits for you to say what he already suspects, having noted a subtle shift in your scent when he arrived.

You wipe your mouth, not wanting to say the words aloud. The words that Madja had told you three days ago, the words that caused you to shut down until now.

“I’m pregnant,” you say, head leaning against the toilet seat. “All Cass wanted was to be a dad. Now I’m pregnant and he’s dead.”

A forced laugh comes from you.

“It’s not fair, Az.”

Your words hang in the air, and your friend responds by wrapping his arms around you, and pulling you into his lap. He nuzzles his head into your shoulder, his breath shuddering as he cries softly into your hair.

The two of you lay there, the cool bathroom tile digging imprints into your skin as he holds you, tears streaming from both of you.

Several months along in your pregnancy, and Azriel has essentially moved in with you full time. He takes meticulous care of you and the babe - he goes to your appointments with Madja with you, he goes baby shopping with you, he even put together the crib in your room.

He was your late husband’s brother. He was stepping up, knowing that Cassian would want him to help you. And yet your dreams wouldn’t stop being so perverse.

For the past month, every night without fail you dreamt of Azriel. Every dream was different - some of places you’ve gone before, places you only know of because Azriel described them.

The dreams were weird and disorienting, but you left them there. They were dreams.

About how beautiful he was. About his hands, his wings, his shoulders, his thighs.

Every day you’d wake up full of shame at where your mind takes you against your will.

“Az,” you say, a serious look on your face. “Something’s wrong.”

He looks over to you, glasses perched on his nose. The knife in his hand clatters, landing on the cutting board, a piece of carrot tumbling to the floor as he moves to you quickly.

Your breathing becomes more shallow, and you hold your hands out, reaching for his. Once his fingers reach yours, you bring his hands to your bump.

Just as he’s about to ask what the problem is, he feels a soft thump against his scarred hand. He can’t control the soft laugh that comes from him, and he can’t help but cradle your bump just a little tighter.

He looks back up to you, a mischievous glint in your eye.

“I thought something was wrong.”

You smile, “I know - that’s what makes it fun.”

Almost eight months had passed since Cassian’s death, and you were finally able to hear his name without breaking down. Azriel was the only one you would talk to about him, though.

It felt right to talk about Cassian to Azriel. It felt right to plunge yourself back into the memories of him - his boisterous laugh, his insistence on touching someone at all times, his presence in rooms.

It felt right, and the babe in your belly would kick frequently whenever Azriel spoke to you about Cassian, as if they knew who you were talking about.

It felt so right, and yet so wrong. Every night before bed you replayed the memories of the day, desperately trying to insert Cassian into Azriel’s spot in them.

He never fit perfectly into them, the edges of him not quite the right size.

This was too much.

You were an absolute fool to believe you could do this. To not only birth but to raise your dead husband’s babe. Who let you do this? Who thought this was a good idea?

“Hey.”

Azriel’s voice vibrates through you, pulling you from your thoughts, his large frame behind you. Your back pressed to his chest, his arms helping hold your legs up.

You lean your head against him.

“This was a terrible, terrible idea.”

He smiles, “Cassian never was known for good ideas.”

Your face contorts in agony, a strong cramping pain rippling through you.

Azriel takes the wet cloth from the nurse to his left, holding it on your forehead. “I’m so proud of you. You’re doing so well.”

You scoff, “if I was doing well, the babe would be out by now!”

Azriel takes your jabs, your sarcasm, the intense squeezing of his hand in yours. He’ll take everything you throw at him.

After about eight hours, you were blessed by the cauldron with a beautiful boy, tiny wings clinging to his back as he cried.

Azriel’s presence didn’t stop after the babe, Camden, was born. If anything, he spent more time with you. He delegated much of his work as spymaster to support you, even going so far as helping coordinate schedules for Feyre or Nesta to help you bathe.

In the first few weeks, you were able to move around, but you were utterly exhausted. Not just the physical demands of your babe and recovering from birthing a winged babe, but also the emotional toll this took on you left you unable to care much for yourself.

You had thought being bathed would make you feel like a burden, but Feyre and Nesta did everything to make you feel so loved instead. They lit candles, rubbed your back, and told you how proud of you they were constantly. Their words never failed to make you cry, the task at hand feeling impossible if you thought about it too hard.

Eventually, after weeks of sleepless nights, feeling like nothing more than a cow for milk, you and Azriel were able to settle into a routine.

He took care of the babe at night, allowing you decent sleep. He brought Camden to you for his middle of the night feedings. You took care of Camden during the morning through early afternoon while Azriel attended to his duties. The two of you cooked dinner together, Azriel always insisting on washing dishes afterwards.

After a while, it all felt so normal. As if Cassian was never meant to be here for this part.

A few months after your son’s first birthday all Hell broke loose. It was a regular day. The sun still shone as it always does, your son was as beautiful as ever. Azriel was holding Camden in the air, helping him stretch out his wings, when he spoke for the first time.

A soft dada accompanied the little boy’s giggles, followed by Azriel stiffening immediately. You looked to the shadowsinger, and when his eyes met yours, you knew.

As if a golden thread appeared out of thin air, tying a knot from Azriel to you, you could feel him. You pulled an experimental tug in the bond, and he pulled back.

Wide eyes meet each other from across the room, silent except for Camden’s continued giggles. You stare at him bewildered, your expression mirrored back to you on his face.

A high pitched noise starts ringing in your eyes before everything goes black.

“It’s a bit of a cruel joke,” you say. “I want to love him, I want to be with my mate. But what kind of person does that to her deceased husband?”

You had woken up in Rhys’s office twenty minutes ago to your head in Feyre’s lap, her hands gently running through your hair.

You had heard bits of hushed conversation, and you thought you had heard Az, but when you came to, he was nowhere to be seen.

Rhys looks contemplative before saying, “you of all people should know that Cassian would have wanted you to be happy.”

You put your head in your hands, gathering to courage to say your worst thoughts out loud.

“It feels like Cassian died for me. I know he didn’t, but I can’t help but feel like if he had survived, would Azriel still be my mate? He would have let me be with him, yes, but just.”

You sigh, trying to grab the fragmented thoughts in your head and place them together. Rhys lets you, allowing silence to fill the room.

“It would have killed him having to watch me choose Azriel over him. He would have done the respectable thing, he would have stepped back. He would have been happy for us.”

You sigh, “but if it were the other way, if Nesta or Elain were his mate, I’m not sure I could give him up.”

Your words come pouring out quickly before you begin sobbing. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. His hands wrap around your head, and he gently smooths your hair down.

“Feyre and I are immensely happy for you, despite the circumstances. Both of you. I know you might not feel like it, but you made your own family.”

You found Azriel a few hours later in what used to be his room in the townhouse. He hardly stayed here, hardly stayed at any of Rhys’s estates anymore, opting instead for the comfort of the home you two now shared.

“Hi,” you say tentatively, stepping through the door.

“Hi,” he echos back, turning to see you.

“Crazy day,” you say, pulling lightly on the bond. He cracks a smile, but there’s a sadness deep in his gaze that you haven’t seen in months.

He moves towards you, slow and deliberate steps, as if you were a bunny found in the woods easily scared off.

“Do you want this?” He asks, eyes focused on your own.

You nod your head. He nods back.

“I dreamt of you. For months, years even. Since about halfway through my pregnancy, you’ve been in my dreams most nights.”

He watches you speak, letting you say whatever it is you need to. You take a deep breath before continuing.

“I don’t want to forget Cass, and I don’t want you to feel like you’re replacing him. I can love both of you.”

He steps closer, slowly moving towards you until he’s stopped right in front of you, his wings blocking you in.

“It’s unconventional, I understand. And I understand if you don’t want a widow with a child.” You look up towards him, determination in your eyes. “But I am all in.”

He gently cups your cheek, eyes full of conflict. “It won’t be easy,” he muses.

“Nothing about this has been easy, why start now?”

His face slowly moves closer to yours, his lips gentle against your own. His hands still hold you gently, as he kisses you long and slow.

There would be time for passion later, his kiss now is full of the emotions words can’t convey. Adoration, sacrifice, immense grief.

You thought having Azriel kiss you would make you feel like you were betraying Cassian. Instead you feel an overwhelming sense of rightness as your hands cup his jaw back, pouring every ounce of you into him.

You and Azriel look out at your backyard, watching Nyx and Camden run around, play fighting with their swords. The two boys occasionally take short flights, only about a foot or so off the ground.

Azriel wraps his arms around you, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. You close your eyes, letting yourself feel this moment, allowing the sounds of the boys playing and your mate’s breathing to lull you into some form of peace you never thought you’d find again.

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel #azriel fanfic #acotar writing #azriel x y/n

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