#and second i think he sees himself a little softer than he lets himself look to others

[caitlinsnicket]

bob reynolds relationship headcanons

warnings: none, the filthy stuff is going to be in the other set of headcanons. maybe some angst

a/n: aaa i cant see him anywhere because my body immediatly reacts. its so stupid

masterlist | 🍉 | ko-fi

he doesn't mean to be a creep, and he hopes you don't think he is one, but he can't help but gravitate toward you at all times. he waits anxiously for you in the mornings before the two of you get together, and when you walk into the kitchen for breakfast, he lights up and sticks to your side. the only time he leaves you alone is when you go to the bathroom or go to sleep.

after the two of you become an item, it's difficult to get out of bed since he's a cuddle bug and loves your warmth. he helps you with your chores and activities, joins you in your hobbies, and suggests new things to do together. he knows you also need your alone time, as does he, but being with you feels so nice!

holding hands with him is probably one of the nicest parts of your day. they get clammy sometimes, and he might squeeze too tight, but they're warm and softer than one might think, and because of how happy he looks, it's worth it. the best part is when you feel him brush his thumb over your knuckles, which means he's at ease, and your heart stammers in your chest.

and every now and then, when it's quiet and it's just the two of you and he hasn't let go just yet, you bring your intertwined hands to your mouth and kiss his skin, ignoring bob's breath hitching beside you. you only stop once you've covered every inch of skin you can cover, and when you look at him again, his eyes are glazed and his breath is ragged.

he has a tendency not to look into people's eyes when they're talking to him, which is fine and no one is really bothered by it, but you try to get him more used to it. that's why, whenever the two of you are having a conversation and he's not looking directly at you, you gently pull his face up with your fingers, trying not to linger so the moment doesn't turn awkward (you can still hear him swallowing).

it becomes something like a routine, like saying hello to him in the morning: you push his hair a bit out of his face and brush your hand lightly, just to see him better. he's always elated and starts to purposefully avoid your gaze so you'll hold him more. with time, he learns to just ask for it, closing his eyes and almost purring from your soft touch.

there was one time when he almost stumbled to the ground after you finished touching him. you kept your laugh to yourself but couldn't help a smirk.

he's trying to get used to touch, and hugs between the two of you become a common occurrence. he's still a little rusty, feeling that his limbs are too sharp and long, not soft enough for anything. but you still pull him close, even when he squeezes too tight to the point of pain, or when it gets too hot but he's not ready to let go. you don't mind though, because he always smells like clothes softener and that pear shampoo you bought him.

sometimes you'll be working on something, reading a book, or just scrolling through your phone, and he'll rest his forehead on your shoulder or your arm—really anywhere he can reach. he won't linger for long (again, he doesn't want to bother you), just enough to ground himself and feel your warmth. sometimes you'll hold him to you a second longer, your hand threading softly through his hair.

once the whole asking for permission to touch you every five seconds is resolved, he seeks you out more often for it. he still hesitates a lot and sometimes will give up on whole conversations because he feels like he fumbled it, but with enough reassurance, not only does he get more comfortable with being affectionate, but he also starts to feel better with everything else. touch soothes him.

and like a laser pointer to a cat, if he's starting to spiral or finds that he can't focus, touching him anywhere his skin is exposed makes his brain shut down for a second, and then he starts to come back to himself. it works for everyone, but he only blushes if it was you who had to calm him.

when the two of you start sleeping in the same bed, you try to get up before him (it's not that hard. he either falls asleep right away and can only be woken up by shaking, or can't sleep at all). you take that moment of quiet, where he can't get too much into his head, to trace his features with your fingers. your touch feather-light, following the line of his nose and eyebrows, down to his cheeks and lips. by the time you get there, he's stirring awake and unconsciously kisses the pads of your fingers while mumbling good morning. sleepy bob is your favorite bob.

after the first few times you touch his hair, it becomes your favorite thing to do, not just because of his reactions (from mewls and whimpers to full-body shivers and giggles), but also because it was unbelievably soft and curly, and you just started doing it out of nowhere for your own enjoyment. you do it if he's crying, which either makes him cry even harder or stop after a while. and when he's calm and content, it puts a blush on his face, but he manages to keep looking into your eyes.

he starts kissing your cheek one day, testing the waters. of course, he was extremely awkward and managed to bump heads with you the first few times, but once you saw him coming, you put your face out in his direction so there are no more accidents. imagine his face when you start kissing him back, before leaving for a mission or thanking him for bringing you a cup of water. it's the highlight of his day.

when the two of you go to sleep in your room, he likes to hold your hand and face you, or for you to spoon him. it keeps him grounded, in the moment, and also because he just likes to be held (especially by you). in the morning, when the two of you start to stir awake, he rolls in your direction until his head is tucked in your neck and his arms are circling your waist. if he could stay like this forever, he would.

the getting-to-bed routine also includes kissing his shoulders before he lies down, and he loves it so much. sometimes he stands perfectly still while you brush your teeth, waiting for you to get into bed and kiss his shoulder before he finally rests. he does the same to you in the mornings, pulling you back to him to kiss your shoulder blade and wish you a good morning. he's a sucker for casual affection.

his hair was already soft when you met him, but after you started taking care of it (washing it thoroughly at least once a week, massaging it gently), it felt like silk. he sometimes asks you to wash it but apologizes profusely for inconveniencing you. the whole process is relaxing for both of you, and the gift of touching his hair makes it all worth it for both of you.

[kakashisacademia]

pairing: hooker Toji Fushiguro x you | warnings: paid sex

summary; you’re a shy sweet girl until you book Toji one day for an hour and he ruins you completely

ೃ⁀➷ Break For The Man You Paid For

“You sure about this, sweetheart?” His voice is low, rough. And worse, almost bored. Like he’s just confirming an order at a takeout window. He’s leaning against your doorframe in a dark jacket, arms crossed, eyes dragging over your body like you’re a price tag.

You nod barely. You can’t even look him in the eyes. “Y-Yes. I… I want to.”

He smirks. “Alright. Let’s see the money.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you hand him the envelope. He takes it without a word, flips through the bills, and raises a brow when he sees the tip tucked in. “Didn’t say you had to pay me extra.”

“I… I just thought, um, you should have it,” you mumble. “Since… you’re doing this.”

Toji lets out a quiet, humorless chuckle. “Doing you, you mean.”

You freeze. He sees it. Sees the flush rise in your cheeks, the way your thighs press together a little.

He jerks his chin. “Lead the way, then. Time’s ticking.”

You nod again, turning to walk toward your bedroom, and he follows, his eyes locked on the sway of your hips in your too-soft, too-cute little dress.

You sit on the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap. Toji shrugs off his jacket and sets it on your chair like this is any other job.

“You ever done this before?” he asks, voice low as he kicks off his boots.

Your eyes flick to his and then back to your lap. “No. I’ve never…”

“Figured.” He pauses, gaze dark. “You nervous?”

You nod. “Y-Yeah.”

He hums. “You should be.”

And then he steps between your knees, tilts your chin up with a single finger. “You paid me to fuck you, sweetheart,” he says, voice calm and heavy. “So unless you’ve changed your mind, I’m gonna give you what you paid for.”

Your breath catches. And god, that look in his eyes like he doesn’t care, like you’re just another client, but there’s a flicker, just a flicker, of something sharper. Like he’s already guessing how you’ll sound when you break.

He steps back then and already stripping in a slow, methodical way. Shirt off, scars on display, pants dropping low on his hips before he slides them off. You can’t help but stare. His body is… terrifying. Thick muscle. Power. And that heavy cock he rolls the condom onto without ceremony.

You undress then too, hands shaking, the urge to hide thickens. God, this is a mistake, you think over and over again when you sit back down. And it only gets worse.

He doesn’t ask what you like. Doesn’t touch you first. He just kneels on the bed, grips your hips, and pulls you toward the center like you’re nothing more than a pillow to fuck.

You gasp, arms fluttering a little as you adjust. “W-Wait… just, um-”

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he mutters. “Unless you want me to.”

Your face burns. He leans over you, knee spreading your thighs apart, positioning himself with practiced ease. You feel the thick press of him, blunt and unrelenting, against your entrance.

“Try to relax,” he says, flat. “Won’t take long.”

He pushes in. Your breath stutters, more from the stretch than the pain. He’s big. So much bigger than you expected. And he’s not slow about it either, just steady, deep, filling.

You grip the sheets. He watches your face as you squirm. Not out of concern, but curiosity. Like he’s trying to decide if you’re enjoying it or regretting everything.

“You’re tight,” he mutters. “Thought you said you wanted this.”

“I- I do,” you whisper. “It’s just-”

He stills. There’s a second. Just one. Where something shifts in his eyes. A flicker of… not tenderness, but awareness. Maybe even guilt. He exhales, low.

Then, he says softer. “You ever had a guy inside you before?”

You hesitate. Then nod. “Only once. It was years ago.”

That explains it. Toji braces himself on one arm and slowly rocks his hips, less force this time, more glide. Watching your lashes flutter, the way your lips part in surprise.

“Feels good?” he asks, voice still flat, but quieter now.

You nod. You’re trying. So hard to enjoy it. But your face is flushed, lips bitten pink, thighs trembling like you’re trying not to embarrass yourself.

And Toji, bored, cold Toji, watches it all.

“…You’re cute,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You blink up at him.

“I mean,” he continues, fucking you with lazy, deep strokes, “for a shy little thing who paid for dick like it’s takeout.”

Your face burns. But your body clenches, just a little, and he feels it.

He smirks. “Oh. So that does do something for you.”

His hips roll slow, deep. Not lazy now, intentional.

Your hands clutch the sheets, chest heaving, mouth parted in the softest moan. He can feel you pulsing around him, every little squeeze sending heat right to his spine.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice darker now, no longer bored. “You’re soaked.”

You whimper, turning your face away in embarrassment.

“Don’t hide,” he growls, hand catching your chin and turning you back. “I wanna see.”

Your lip trembles. And it shouldn’t affect him. You’re a client. This is a job. But the way you look at him like he’s something more, like he’s the first man who’s ever really touched you… fuck, it does something to him.

“You want me to make you feel good?” he asks, voice low and rough against your cheek.

You nod.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“…Yes. Please.”

His hand slides down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rough and warm, not gentle, but good. Your body jolts, breath catching.

“You this sensitive from just a few strokes?” he murmurs. “Fuckin’ hell, baby. You were made to be fucked.”

You choke on a moan. He thrusts deeper now, fingers circling your clit, watching your expression twist with pleasure you’re too shy to admit.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you like it.”

“I… I like it.”

“Say you like being used.”

Your breath hitches. You hesitate. “I like being used.”

And that’s it. Toji’s control starts to crack. His rhythm picks up, harder now, more intense. Your body bounces beneath him, thighs shaking, eyes glossy with overwhelmed pleasure.

He leans down, mouth hot at your ear. “Still shy, princess?” he taunts. “Even while you’re clenching around me like you’re about to cum?”

You let out a soft, desperate noise. So close you’re shaking. And that makes him grin.

“You gonna cum for the cock you paid for?” he growls. “Gonna soak it like a good little client?”

Toji can feel the way your walls flutter, the way your legs tighten, your hips bucking just slightly against the force of his thrusts. You’re panting now, clutching the sheets like they’ll save you, like if you just focus hard enough, you won’t cum. But that’s not gonna fly.

“Uh-uh,” he growls, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand. “Don’t you fucking dare hold back on me.”

Your eyes go wide. “I…I can’t… Toji!”

“You will.” His hips slam into yours harder, deeper. “You think I came all this way for you to hold that pretty little orgasm in?”

You shake your head, trembling.

“Paid good money, didn’t you?” His voice is hot against your ear. “So cum, sweetheart. Soak my cock. Make it worth my time.”

Your back arches, the force of him, his filthy voice, his control. All of it tears through you.

You break. You cry out, legs locking around his waist, body spasming under him as the orgasm crashes through you so hard it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. It’s loud. It’s messy. And worst of all, it’s so much better than you ever expected.

Toji watches you fall apart with a dark, satisfied grin.

“Fuck,” he mutters, thrusting through the aftershocks as your pussy clenches helplessly around him. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You whimper, tears at the corners of your eyes, face hot and flushed. And he’s still hard. Still moving. Still inside you, deep and full and relentless.

“Cute thing like you should get used to cumming for me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips across your jaw. “You think this is over?”

You blink up at him, dazed. He gives your thighs a squeeze, grinding his hips just right.

“It’s a flat rate, sweetheart,” he smirks. “I don’t stop till the hour’s up.”

Your eyes widen. You’re still shaking. Still dazed from your first orgasm, thighs sticky and trembling, lips parted in soft, shattered whimpers.

Toji doesn’t give her a break. He grabs her waist, flips her like she weighs nothing, and drags her up onto all fours. Her body is limp, pliant, already wrecked.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he grunts, kneeling behind her, cock still thick and hard, glistening with her slick. “You wanted the full hour, right?”

You try to protest, whimpering. “I…I need a second.”

But his chest is suddenly pressed to your back, hot and heavy, making you arch. His hand slides around your front, palm wide against your belly, holding you in place.

“You’ll be fine,” he breathes against your ear. “Just keep that pretty little pussy open for me.”

And then he slams into you again. You cry out, voice raw, high-pitched, barely human. The angle is deeper. Devastating. Like he’s reshaping you from the inside out.

His hand moves. Rough fingers sliding up, curling under your jaw and suddenly he’s got you by the throat. Not choking. Not cruel. Just holding. Like he owns you now.

You whimper, hips rocking back into him without thinking.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, voice a dark growl. “Look at you.”

His pace is filthy. Brutal. Skin slapping. Your body jerking forward with every thrust, eyes rolling.

“Your sweet little act’s slipping, baby,” he snarls, lips brushing your temple. “Didn’t think you’d beg for it like this.”

You try to form words, but they melt on your tongue.

“Thought you’d be quiet. Thought you’d be polite.” His grip on your throat tightens, just enough to make your heart stutter. “But now you’re moaning like a goddamn porn star.”

“Toji, pl-please.”

“Yeah?” he snarls. “Beg again. Beg like you’re gonna pay me to own you.”

Your body convulses. Another orgasm crashing through you before you even realize it’s coming. Your legs collapse. He holds you up, still thrusting, not letting you fall, not letting you hide.

“You gonna remember this?” he growls. “Next time you’re wet and lonely and thinkin’ about booking a nice, quiet boy to fuck you gentle?”His hand curls tighter around your neck. “You’ll think about me.”

Your body’s gone limp beneath him. Eyes glassy, lips trembling, drool at the corner of your mouth. You’re barely upright, shaking with every thrust, every drag of his cock splitting you wide open from behind.

But Toji isn’t done. Not even close. He fists your hair and pulls you up against his chest, dragging your back flush to his soaked torso, your knees barely supporting you. Your breath stutters, weak and ragged.

“That’s it,” he breathes at your ear, voice low, dangerous, almost giddy in its cruelty. “That’s the face I wanted.”

You can’t speak. You just moan, open-mouthed and broken. His hand catches your jaw, turns your face toward the mirror across the room.

“Look at you,” he growls. “Fucked stupid. Paid me to break you, and now you don’t even know what day it is.”

You stare. You see yourself. Red faced, hair a mess, mouth hanging open, tits bouncing with every hard, punishing thrust. Your thighs are glistening, your eyes wet, your body marked where his hands gripped too tight.

And Toji behind you looks feral. Chest heaving. Muscles flexed. That usual bored smirk nowhere to be found. He looks hungry.

“See what you do to me?” he hisses, snapping his hips hard. “You see what you fucking unlocked, sweetheart?”

You whimper, nodding helplessly.

“You thought this was just business,” he growls. “But look at me. Look at how fuckin’ hard I still am after making you cum twice. Look at how I can’t stop.”

You let out a strangled moan as another orgasm builds, your body clenching down on him involuntarily.

“That’s it,” he breathes, voice dark and reverent. “Let it hit you. Fall apart. I want you gone, baby. I want you wrecked. Ruined. Cryin’.”

He grips your throat again, thumb brushing your spit-slick lips.

“Cum,” he growls, voice low and guttural, hips pounding into you so deep you feel it in your ribs. “Fucking cum for me.”

And you do. It hits you so hard you scream. Legs give out. Vision goes white. Your body folds in on itself and he catches you. Hand in your hair, cock still inside you, eyes locked on your twitching reflection like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

And all he can say, voice wrecked and chest heaving, “Fuck.” And then he comes, hard. His groan long and croaked as he fills the condom.

The shower’s warm. Steam curling around you, hands braced to the tile, trying to keep from sliding down. Toji’s behind you, his massive palm gently guiding water down your back. It should feel awkward. Transactional.

But instead, it feels… safe. And quiet.

You’re trembling, flushed from heat and adrenaline, and the only thing you can whisper, soft and confused, “…But the hour’s up?”

He goes still behind you. Then a low, short laugh like you just asked if the sky is blue.

“The fuck’s your point?”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s not even looking at you. He just grabs the body wash and starts rubbing it into his chest like he belongs there, like this is nothing.

“I just…” You blink. “I thought you’d leave.”

He snorts. “What, you got somewhere to be?”

You flush deeper. “No…”

“Good.” He reaches around you, hand brushing your waist not sexual, just familiar. Steady. “Me neither.”

Your heart thuds painfully. Then quieter, almost shy, you murmur, “You didn’t have to stay…”

And his eyes finally meet yours. There’s no grin now. No smirk. Just a slow blink, a shrug of his broad shoulders.

“I wanted to.”

That’s it. No flirt. No seduction. Just truth.

And suddenly, you’re really trembling. Not from the sex, not from the heat, but from how seen you feel. How safe. How real this moment has become. Toji notices.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping close, crowding you into the warm tile with his chest. “I’m not goin’ anywhere yet. So relax.”

His hand curls gently under your jaw, tilts your face up to him. “You’re not just another lay,” he mutters, eyes softer now. “I don’t do this. I don’t stay. So don’t look at me like that.”

You whisper. “Like what?”

“…Like I’m something good.”

You smile anyway.

And even though he curses under his breath, even though he turns away and grabs the shampoo like it never happened his hand stays on your waist.

She falls asleep on his chest after the shower. Just like that. Naked, boneless, her cheek smushed into his pec like it’s her damn pillow. Her fingers curl softly against his ribs. Her breath is warm. Even in sleep, she clings.

Toji’s staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him. He should leave. He should have left hours ago. Fuck, he should’ve never stayed in the first place.

But here he is. Flat on his back. Smelling like her shampoo. Spent. With a soft little thing drooling on his chest and wearing his damn heart like it’s hers now.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. He should move. Should shove her off. Should say something. But all he can do is stare at the ceiling fan spinning above them and think, ‘fuck. I’m so screwed’.

Because he’s been with women. Dozens. All shapes, all types. Loud ones. Wild ones. Girls who knew what they wanted and weren’t shy about it.

But this one? She was quiet. Sweet. Nervous. She whispered, not moaned. She looked at him like he mattered.

And now after he fucked her out so hard she could barely stand, she just… trusted him. Fell asleep like he wasn’t the coldest, meanest son of a bitch alive.

His arm moves before he can stop it, sliding around her waist, holding her a little closer. His fingers press against her soft hip, just to feel her warmth. Her realness. She sighs, content in her sleep, and burrows in deeper.

And Toji, the fucker who’s broken bones and walked away from love like it was nothing, feels something shift behind his ribs.

His heart stutters. Catches. And for the first time in a long, long time… he whispers something soft, like it hurts.

“…What the hell are you doing to me, sweetheart.”

No answer. Just the hum of the fan, the warmth of her breath, and the quiet ache of something he might not survive. But he stays.

And when morning comes he’ll still be there.

[theonottsbxtch]

FOGGY MEMORIES PT 2 | MV1

an: hello party people we're back with the long awaited pt 2, sorry it took this long and hopefully the next part won't take this long. i just have so many ideas and so little time atm :(

wc: 5.7k

part one

GETTING OUT WAS IMPOSSIBLE

Or at least, it should have been.

Max had spent years operating under the agency’s iron grip, slipping between missions like a ghost, but never disappearing on his own terms. That wasn’t how it worked.

Agents didn’t leave. Not without clearance. Not without orders.

And yet, as the clock edged closer to seventeen hundred, Max knew, he had to go.

The piece of paper burned against his skin, tucked safely beneath his tactical vest, its weight heavier than it should have been.

This was reckless. Dangerous.

But he had no choice.

Slipping past security required precision.

He timed it perfectly.

The changing of the watch. The overlap in shift rotations. A blind spot in the cameras he’d memorised long ago, not because he’d ever planned on escaping, but because he didn’t like being watched either.

He moved like he was meant to be there, weaving through corridors, head down, posture relaxed. He passed two guards, neither gave him a second glance.

Then he was at the outer gates.

The clearance terminal glowed softly in the dim light, waiting for authentication.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a keycard he wasn’t supposed to have, and swiped it.

A second’s hesitation.

Then—

Access granted.

The gate slid open just enough for him to slip through.

And then he was gone.

By the time he reached the city, his pulse had settled into something even, but his mind hadn’t.

Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to cut his losses, to forget this before he made a mistake he couldn’t undo.

But then he thought of her.

The way she had looked at him, the way she had said "You already know."

The way she had known things he didn’t.

And he kept walking.

Towards the address.

Towards the answers.

The address led him to an old, disused train yard on the outskirts of the city. Rusted tracks stretched out beneath the dim evening light, the air thick with the scent of damp metal and oil. It was quiet. Too quiet.

Max kept his movements careful, scanning his surroundings as he approached the meeting point. A warehouse, half-collapsed, its walls lined with shattered windows and creeping vines.

He didn’t go inside. Instead, he stopped just short of the entrance, leaning back against a rusted container, arms folded, waiting.

He wasn’t stupid. She would come when she was ready.

And she did.

The blade pressed against his throat before he even heard her move.

Max exhaled through his nose, not tensing, not resisting. "You really need to stop greeting me like this."

A small, almost amused hum came from behind him. "I’ll consider it."

The knife lingered a second longer, then it was gone.

He turned just in time to see her step back, watching him with the same unreadable gaze as before.

She was different in the light. Still sharp, still composed, but softer around the edges, less shadow, more real.

But that didn’t mean she trusted him.

"Strip."

Max blinked. "What?"

She crossed her arms. "Take it off."

"Excuse me?"

She arched a brow, unimpressed. "Your gear. Your shirt. I need to be sure you’re not wired."

Max clenched his jaw. "You think I’m working for Christian?"

"I think Christian would have noticed you sneaking out. And if he did, he’d send you here for answers under his terms, not yours."

He didn’t argue. Because she was right.

But that didn’t mean he liked it.

Still, he sighed, rolling his shoulders before reluctantly pulling off his tactical vest, unzipping his jacket and shrugging it off.

When he reached for the hem of his shirt, he hesitated, just a second.

Her eyes didn’t waver.

Christ.

Scowling, he pulled it over his head, letting the cold air bite against his skin.

She stepped closer.

Max forced himself to stay still as her fingers brushed lightly over his ribs, over his collarbone, checking for any hidden wires or devices. It was methodical. Clinical.

But his skin still burned where she touched.

She must have felt the way his pulse jumped slightly beneath her fingertips, because her eyes flicked up to his. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity.

Then she stepped back, satisfied.

"Alright," she said simply.

Max exhaled, running a hand through his hair before pulling his shirt back on, shaking his head. "If you wanted me undressed, you could have just asked."

She huffed a quiet laugh. "Don’t push it."

He smirked, just a little. Then it faded.

Because now there was nothing left in the way.

No excuses. No distractions.

Just the questions burning in his skull.

He met her gaze.

"Who are you?"

She didn’t answer straight away.

Instead, she stepped closer, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving his.

Max held his ground, but something in his chest tightened, his breath coming shallower as the space between them disappeared.

Then—

Her hand came up, fingers light as they brushed against his cheek, a gentle caress that sent something sharp and electric tearing through him.

He froze.

"You look just as you did before," she murmured, her thumb tracing lightly along his cheekbone.

And then—

Pain.

A sudden, brutal onslaught of memories, crashing into him like a freight train, fracturing something deep in his skull.

Not the sterile, clinical flashes he’d had before.

These were different.

More intimate. More real.

A quiet moment in dim candlelight, their bodies exhausted from training, her fingers in his hair, a whispered joke between them, his own laughter soft and unfamiliar.

The feel of her back pressed against his, both of them moving in perfect unison, breathless and exhilarated after taking down their targets in perfect synchronisation.

The way she had once looked at him, not as an opponent, not as a stranger, but as something else entirely.

And then—

A promise.

One neither of them had kept.

Max gasped, staggering back a step, his breath ragged, his hands coming up to clutch his head as if that could stop it.

The memories flickered, blurred at the edges, slipping through his fingers like water. He couldn’t shape them exactly, couldn’t hold onto them before they disappeared into the void again.

But they were there.

And so was she.

Watching him.

Waiting.

Max swallowed, his voice hoarse when he finally managed to speak.

"What did they do to us?"

Her expression softened, just for a moment. Then she exhaled, shaking her head.

"What did they do to you, my love?"

Max’s stomach lurched.

The words were a gut punch, sending another ripple of wrongness through his already fractured mind. He knew that phrase. Knew the warmth in her voice, the weight of it, the way it curled around him like something familiar.

But it didn’t belong to this life.

It didn’t belong to him.

Did it?

He shook his head, throat tight. "Stop. Just, stop playing with me and tell me the truth."

She inhaled slowly, watching him carefully, then—

"You were born in the Netherlands, Max. That’s where we were raised. In an orphanage."

The world tilted slightly. His pulse roared in his ears.

"You’re lying."

She didn’t even flinch. "I was four when I got there. You were already there when I arrived, you were three. You used to follow me around, always getting into trouble, always dragging me into it. But you never let anyone hurt me. Not even the caretakers."

His breath came shorter now, fingers twitching at his sides. "No."

"Growing up, that turned into something else. A promise. That whatever happened, we’d stick together."

Flashes hit him again.

A tiny hand gripping his wrist. A voice, young and defiant, telling him to run.

"You’re lying," he whispered, but even he didn’t believe it now.

"You taught me how to fight before we even knew what a real fight was," she continued, voice steady. "We trained together. Always together. And then they took you, at 15."

Max’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. "Who?"

Her eyes darkened. "Them."

Something curdled in his stomach.

Then—

"The Netherlands?" His voice cracked slightly around the word. It felt foreign in his mouth, unfamiliar. He should remember it. If it were true, if any of this were true, then it should mean something.

But it was blank.

Erased.

She nodded. "It’s where you’re from."

His hands curled into fists. "Then why don’t I remember it?"

A ghost of a smile, sad, knowing. "Because they made you forget. And Christian—" She hesitated, just for a second. Then she met his eyes again, unwavering. "Christian never taught you Dutch or German, did he?"

Max stilled.

She tilted her head slightly. "You knew them already. But he taught you the useful languages instead, didn’t he?"

The floor beneath him might as well have cracked in two.

Because she was right.

Christian had taught him French. Spanish. Mandarin. Arabic.

All useful. All efficient.

But never Dutch. Never German. Never anything personal.

Max swallowed hard, his heart thudding against his ribs. "Who the hell am I?"

She stepped closer again, slow and deliberate, and for some reason, Max let her.

Her hand came up, gentler this time, fingertips just ghosting the side of his face. He didn’t pull away.

"You’re my Max," she said softly.

His chest tightened painfully.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know how to be that.

His. Hers.

Not Christian’s. Not the agency’s.

Just hers.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

His voice came hoarse. "How did you find me?"

Her expression flickered, something raw and weary crossing her features. "I’ve been searching for you ever since they took you."

Max swallowed, his throat dry. "Since I was fifteen?"

She nodded.

His mind whirred, working the numbers. "Fourteen years ago."

A long, exhausted exhale. Then—

"I got recruited by Austrian Intelligence."

His brows pulled together, confusion flashing across his face. "What?"

"They always knew my ulterior motive," she continued. "I was never just theirs. I worked for them, trained under them, but I never stopped looking for you."

Max stared at her, disoriented, the pieces still loose in his mind, still fighting against the block that had been drilled into him.

But one thing was clear.

This wasn’t a coincidence.

This wasn’t just another mission.

This was his life. His real life.

And she was the only person who knew the truth.

Max let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair, fingers gripping the strands as if he could somehow ground himself.

"You’re telling me," he said slowly, forcing the words out, "that while I was being trained to be a weapon, while I was following their orders, you were out there, looking for me?"

Her eyes softened, something achingly familiar in them. "Every second."

His throat tightened. He wasn’t sure why, but the weight of it, of her, was pressing down on his chest, making it harder to breathe.

She had spent fourteen years searching.

And he had spent fourteen years forgetting.

His fists clenched. "Why me?"

A ghost of a smile, small, barely there. "You know why."

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that he didn’t know anything, that this entire thing was impossible.

But the memories were clawing at him again.

Flashes of laughter in the dark. The feel of small fingers intertwined with his own. A whispered promise, spoken with the kind of certainty only they could have had.

A promise to never leave each other behind.

His stomach turned violently. "I don’t— I don’t know what to do with this."

She stepped closer, her presence steady, unwavering. "Yes, you do."

Max swallowed hard, pulse hammering. "So what next?"

She held his gaze.

And then—

"We run."

Max stared at her, his pulse thundering in his ears. "Run?"

She nodded, eyes sharp. "They’ll never let you go, Max. You know that, don’t you?"

He did.

Even before this, before her, he’d always known, deep down, that there was no retirement from this life. No clean exit. The agency didn’t train operatives just to let them walk away.

And yet, hearing it now, in this context, sent a cold dread curling in his stomach.

He swallowed hard. "Tell me everything."

She took a breath. "You were taken when you were fifteen. We always knew something was off at the orphanage, the people who came in and out, the way they watched us, the tests they made us do. But we were kids, we didn’t understand."

Max’s jaw tightened. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, something scratched at the surface. The distant echo of fluorescent lights. A man’s voice, clinical, detached. "He’s showing promise. We’ll take this one."

She continued. "When they took you, I fought. I tried to stop them. But I was just a sixteen year old girl, Max. They took you, and I couldn’t do anything."

His chest ached.

Sixteen. Alone. And she’d had no idea where he’d gone.

He clenched his fists. "And then?"

"I spent years looking. When I turned eighteen, Austrian Intelligence found me. I knew what they were when they approached, I knew what they wanted. But I didn’t care. I let them train me. I played their game. Because I knew it would get me closer to you."

Max exhaled slowly, trying to process it.

She had spent years searching, training, infiltrating, just to find him.

And all that time, he had been under Christian’s wing. Being shaped into the agency’s perfect operative. Forgetting.

He ran a hand down his face. "Fourteen years."

She nodded.

And for a moment, they just stood there. The weight of everything between them pressing down like a vice.

Then—

A slow, mocking clap.

Max’s blood ran cold.

The sound was deliberate, echoing through the abandoned train yard. Casual. Amused.

And then—

"Such a cute, bittersweet reunion."

Max turned sharply, already knowing who it was before his eyes landed on him.

Christian.

Standing a few metres away, gun in hand, aimed directly at her.

Christian sighed, shaking his head with the kind of disappointment a father might have for a reckless son. "Max," he said, almost pitying. "You should have known better."

Max didn’t move. His whole body was coiled tight, his mind screaming at him to think, to act, to do something. But Christian’s gun was still pointed at her, and that was enough to keep him rooted to the spot.

She was still. Calm. But Max could see the sharp calculation in her eyes. She was measuring the distance, considering her odds.

Christian smiled slightly, as if he knew. "I’ve got to say, I’m impressed. I knew there were gaps in the wipe, I’ve always known. But I didn’t think you’d really go looking for them. And I certainly didn’t think she’d be foolish enough to hand them back to you."

Max clenched his fists. "Why?" His voice was low, tight. "Why take me?"

Christian exhaled, almost looking bored. "Come on, Max. You were always meant for more than that orphanage. You were built for this life. You proved that the moment we took you in."

The words sent a cold shiver down Max’s spine. "Took me in," he echoed bitterly.

"Yes. Took you in. Made you. And look how well you turned out." Christian shifted slightly, tilting his head. "It’s a pity, really. If I’d known back then how attached you two were, if I’d known she’d spend fourteen whole years chasing you, I might’ve taken both of you."

Max’s breath caught in his throat.

Next to him, she stiffened ever so slightly, her jaw tightening.

Christian smirked. "Would’ve saved us all this trouble. But alas—"

His grip on the gun shifted slightly.

"Not that it matters. You’ll be coming back one way or another."

Max forced himself to stay still, his mind working frantically. "And if I don’t?"

Christian’s smirk widened. "You will." He tapped his temple. "You think we’d really let one of our most valuable operatives walk around without a failsafe?"

Max’s stomach twisted.

No.

No, he would’ve known. Wouldn’t he?

Christian hummed. "We know exactly where you are at all times, Max. And when we need you to stop thinking so hard—" His smirk sharpened. "Well. We have ways of dealing with that too."

Max felt sick.

There was a tracker in him.

A leash he hadn’t even known about.

He took a step back, his heart hammering. "What did you—"

A sharp hiss.

Christian’s words cut off, mid-sentence, mid-smirk, as a tranquilliser dart buried itself in his neck.

His eyes widened, shock flashing across his face. He stumbled slightly, swaying as his body locked up, his limbs turning sluggish.

Max barely had time to react before he hit the ground.

She exhaled sharply, muttering under her breath, "For fuck’s sake, Charles."

Max barely had time to register the name before she tilted her head back, looking up. Instinctively, he followed her gaze.

Perched on the rusting steel beams above them, a figure crouched with all the ease of someone who belonged in places they shouldn’t be. Brunette, lean but athletic, eyes glinting with amusement. He twirled a tranquilliser gun between his fingers, looking far too pleased with himself.

"I didn’t need saving," she called up.

"Yeah, you did," he called back, grinning, a french accent in his voice.

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he jumped.

Max tensed, fully expecting him to plummet to his death, but instead, the man twisted mid-air, landing gracefully in a crouch, like a damn cat.

He straightened, dusting himself off, before flashing a reckless, lopsided grin. "You’re welcome, by the way."

Max just stared. "Who the hell—"

The man extended a hand, all confidence. "Charles. Pleasure to finally meet you, mate."

Max didn’t shake it. "Right. And who exactly are you?"

Charles didn’t look remotely put off. If anything, he seemed delighted. He turned to her, jerking a thumb at Max. "He always this grumpy, or is it just me?"

She sighed. "Charles."

"What?" He grinned. "I’ve heard so much about this one, you can’t blame me for being a bit excited."

Max’s brows furrowed. "Heard?"

Charles smirked. "The Italians and Austrians are allies. We work together. And let me tell you, mate—" He clapped Max on the shoulder, far too familiar. "She talks about you all the time."

Max glanced at her. She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "Charles."

Charles just waggled his eyebrows. "You’re welcome for the save, by the way. Again."

Charles rocked back on his heels, looking far too relaxed for someone who had just tranquillised a high-ranking operative. "By the way," he said casually, inspecting his nails, "I ran out of horse tranquilliser, so he’ll be up and awake in less than an hour. We should probably get going before he starts shooting."

Max scowled, rubbing a hand down his face. "You use horse tranquilliser?"

Charles shrugged. "What can I say? Some people can take it."

Max opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Charles reached for his hand.

Max instinctively snatched it back. "What the fuck are you—"

Charles grabbed it again, this time tighter, and dug his thumb into his wrist, pressing down with precise, practised pressure.

Max tensed. "Oi—"

Charles smirked as he felt what he was looking for. "Ah," he drawled. "There’s the beauty."

Max’s stomach twisted. "What?"

Charles lifted his gaze, grinning. "Tracker. It’s in your wrist. Probably buried deep, but it’s there."

Max yanked his hand back, skin crawling at the implication. He clenched his jaw. "And you knew that how?"

Charles waggled his eyebrows. "Because I’m good at my job, sweetheart."

She groaned. "Charles."

He flashed her an easy grin. "What? That really was a heartwarming reunion. I almost shed a tear."

She shot him a glare. "I will shoot you."

"Wouldn’t be the first time," he quipped, then clapped his hands together. "Alright, lovebirds. Let’s move before Sleeping Beauty over there wakes up and starts ruining our evening."

They moved fast.

Max had been on the run before, had been on missions where staying ahead of the enemy was the only thing that mattered, but this was different. This time, he wasn’t just running. He was defecting.

Charles led the way, navigating the dark streets with an ease that suggested he’d done this a hundred times before. She was close behind him, her movements sharp and deliberate, scanning their surroundings constantly. Max stayed quiet, processing, recalibrating.

The tracker.

It was still inside him.

They needed to get it out, fast.

After a long, tense journey, they reached a nondescript building tucked away in the backstreets of the city. Max barely had time to catch his breath before Charles was shoving open a heavy steel door, leading them down a set of stairs into what looked like an underground medical facility.

Inside, a man was bent over a cluttered desk, rifling through medical equipment. He was older, mid-forties, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

"Freddie!" Charles called, grinning.

The man didn’t even look up. "I told you," he said flatly, "that is not my name."

"Dr Frederick," she corrected, shooting Charles a glare.

Charles waved a hand dismissively. "Details."

Dr Frederick finally glanced up, his gaze flicking between them. "What do you want?"

Charles clapped a hand on Max’s shoulder. "This one’s got a little problem with his wrist. Thought you might be able to help."

Dr Frederick adjusted his glasses. "No."

Charles groaned dramatically. "Freddie, please."

"It is not my name."

"But you’re so good at this stuff."

Dr Frederick gave him a deadpan look. "No."

Charles sighed, turning to Max. "See, this is the problem with the French. So much passion, so little willingness to help an old friend."

"Charles," Dr Frederick warned.

"Freddie," Charles countered, grinning. "Look, all I’m asking for is a little favour. A tiny bit of surgery. A minuscule extraction. Barely worth mentioning, really."

Dr Frederick pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are insufferable."

"And yet," Charles said smugly, "you love me anyway."

Dr Frederick exhaled heavily, muttering something under his breath in Italian. Then, after a long pause, he finally said, "Fine. Sit."

Charles grinned victoriously. "I knew you couldn’t resist me."

Dr Frederick ignored him, turning to Max instead. "Give me your wrist."

Max sat stiffly on the medical table, jaw clenched as Dr Frederick adjusted the surgical instruments. The small underground clinic smelled of antiseptic and old paper, and the hum of a fluorescent light buzzed somewhere overhead.

"This will hurt," Frederick said bluntly, not offering any unnecessary comfort.

"Great," Max muttered. "Looking forward to it."

Frederick didn’t acknowledge the sarcasm. Instead, he snapped on a pair of gloves and took Max’s wrist, pressing two fingers along the underside until he found what he was looking for.

"It’s deep," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Not standard placement. They didn’t want you finding it by accident."

Charles leaned against a counter, arms crossed, grinning like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week. "Must feel great knowing you’ve been microchipped like a lost pet."

"Shut up, Charles," she and Max said at the same time.

Charles just smirked.

Frederick ignored them all, pressing a needle into Max’s skin. "Local anaesthetic," he said shortly. "I would offer general, but I assume you don’t have the time for that luxury."

Max barely had time to respond before the numbness spread, dulling the pain as Frederick made a precise incision.

He worked quickly, hands steady, eyes sharp behind his glasses. Max had been trained to handle pain, but even with the numbing agent, he felt the pressure, the unnatural tugging under his skin. He clenched his jaw, watching as Frederick extracted a small, black fragment of metal no bigger than a grain of rice.

The tracker.

It sat in the doctor’s palm, glinting under the sterile light.

"There it is," Frederick said, unimpressed.

"Well, that’s underwhelming," Charles remarked.

Frederick shot him a look. "Take it. Do whatever you want with it. Just get it away from here."

Charles took the chip between two fingers, inspecting it. "Oh, I’ve got ideas." He winked at her, then shoved the chip into his pocket and stretched. "Right, I’ll go drop this somewhere suitably inconvenient. Try not to get yourselves killed while I’m gone."

Max rolled his eyes. "Get out, Charles."

"Miss me already?" Charles grinned, then slipped out the door before anyone could respond.

The second he was gone, the tension shifted.

Frederick turned to Max, inspecting his stitched-up wrist. "It will hold, but don’t be reckless."

Max flexed his fingers, testing it. "No promises."

She sighed, then looked at Max. "We need a plan."

He nodded, already thinking. "Christian knows I’m gone. Even without the tracker, he’ll assume I’ve gone rogue. We don’t have long before they start closing in."

She folded her arms. "Then we hit first. Before they’re ready."

Max met her gaze, feeling the weight of everything between them, the past, the present, the war they were about to start.

"Alright," he said. "Let’s do it."

Without another thought she leaned over the makeshift surgical table and grabbed a map.

They spread out the battered old map across the metal table in Frederick’s back room, the edges curling with damp and age. She pointed to a marked facility near the Alps, tapping her finger twice on the paper.

“This is where the data Christian’s been collecting ends up. Not at HQ. Not at any of the supposed satellite sites. Here. Quiet. Off-grid. Guarded like hell.”

Max leaned over, brow furrowed. “And what’s there? Storage?”

She shook her head. “No. Processing. They’re not just collecting information, they’re rewriting it. It’s how they do the memory wipes.”

Max’s stomach twisted. “So that’s where they took me.”

She nodded once. “And every other little kid that was like us.”

Frederick hovered behind them, arms crossed, reluctant but clearly invested now. “It’s not a place you walk out of. You realise that, yes?”

Max didn’t look away from the map. “We’re not planning to walk. We’re planning to burn it down.”

She gave a small, humourless smile. “That’s the spirit.”

Frederick huffed. “You're both mad. And doomed.”

Max looked up at him. “Probably. But if they’re rewriting people, weaponising kids and erasing their lives, then someone’s got to stop it.”

The room fell quiet for a moment. Then she reached into her jacket, pulled out a small flash drive, and slid it across the table.

“I’ve been gathering fragments of what I could. Locations. Transit logs. Staff names. It’s all encrypted, but someone like you,” she nodded at Frederick “can help us crack it.”

He looked at the drive like it was radioactive. “You just want to drag me deeper in, don’t you?”

“You’re already in,” Max said quietly. “You helped remove the chip. There’s no going back.”

Frederick groaned under his breath, rubbing his temples. “I hate all of you.”

She smirked. “That’s fair.”

Max stood, rolling his shoulders. “Right then. We need supplies. Weapons. A route in.”

“I know a guy,” she said. “He’s German. Paranoid as hell, but he owes me a favour. We’ll need to go through the mountains to find him.”

“And me?” Frederick said, still frowning.

“You stay here,” Max replied. “Crack the drive. Send us everything you find.”

Frederick muttered something that sounded suspiciously like bloody lunatics and how mac wasn’t his boss, but nodded all the same.

She folded the map, tucked it into her coat, then looked up at Max.

“You ready?”

He looked down at the fresh bandage on his wrist, then back at her, at the woman who had somehow ripped open the cracks in everything he thought he knew.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s finish what they started.”

The mountains loomed ahead, jagged against a sky bruised with early morning clouds. Their boots crunched over frostbitten ground as they trudged through narrow, twisting paths. Max hadn’t realised how much he’d come to rely on tech, drones, trackers, satellite feeds. Now, they were ghosts slipping through silence, guided only by memory and instinct.

She walked just ahead of him, wrapped in layers, her face half-shielded by a scarf. Even like this, she moved like she belonged to the shadows, alert, deliberate, never wasting a step.

“Remind me again,” Max said, breathing into his gloves, “why your paranoid German friend lives halfway up a mountain with no phone reception?”

“Because,” she said without turning, “he likes goats and hates people. You two might get on.”

They reached a stone cabin just as the sun broke weakly over the ridge. Smoke curled from the chimney, someone was home. She knocked once, then again in a strange rhythm. A pause. Then a scraping of metal bolts and the door opened a crack.

A rifle appeared before the face did.

She didn’t even flinch. “Nice to see you too, Nico.”

The barrel lowered slightly. “Thought you were dead.”

“Not yet. This is Max.”

Nico eyed him with a look that said don’t get comfortable. “British?”

“Sort of,” Max muttered.

With a grumble, Nico stepped aside. “Come in before the cold does worse than Christian ever could.”

Inside, the place was cluttered and warm, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and engine oil. Max kept his hands visible, noting the various weapons strewn across shelves and walls.

She got straight to it. “We need gear. Access tech. C4, comms, entry tools. Enough to storm a ghost facility buried in concrete and bad memories.”

Nico raised a brow. “And why, may I ask, would I ever help with that?”

“Because you owe me,” she said simply. “Prague. Eight years ago. You’d be dead if I hadn’t taken that bullet.”

He stared at her for a long time. Then muttered, “I strongly dislike you.”

She smiled. “Still not my problem.”

It took them three days to plan. Nico was paranoid, but meticulous. He handed Max blueprints, schematics, equipment lists. They worked late into the night, checking routes, escape plans, failsafes.

And on the second night, when Nico had gone to sleep, it was just her and Max sat near the fire, the weight of everything suspended for a while.

“You alright?” she asked softly, watching the flames flicker across his face.

He nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Just… this is a lot to process. You, all of this. I don’t know who I am without them, and I hate that.”

She reached out, fingers brushing his hand. “You’re still you. The part they couldn’t reach. The part that found its way back to me.”

He looked at her then, really looked. The flames danced in her eyes, but it was the honesty there that undid him. Something shifted in his chest, cracked open.

He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering. “I think I’ve always known you.”

Her breath caught. Then she leaned in, slow, deliberate, giving him the chance to stop it.

He didn’t.

Their lips met gently at first, uncertain, like rediscovering something precious. Then it deepened, years of lost time catching fire between them. Her hands tangled in his jacket, his fingers at the nape of her neck. The kiss was quiet, but it said everything — I missed you. I remember. I’m yours.

When they pulled apart, her forehead rested against his.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” she whispered, “we face it together.”

He nodded, his voice thick. “Together.”

The facility sat like a scar carved into the mountain, brutalist and grey, half-swallowed by snow and rock. From the ridge above, they watched the rotation of the patrols, three-man units, every eight minutes, armed to the teeth.

Max adjusted his earpiece, one of Nico’s designs, untraceable, short-range.

“Everyone in position?” he asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Charles’ voice crackled in his ear. “Nico’s already moaning about the cold. Might shoot him just for warmth.”

“Piss off,” came Nico’s accented reply. “I’ve been up since four planting explosives. You want a warm seat, you can sit on the detonator.”

Max smirked faintly, but his focus didn’t waver. He turned to her, crouched beside him, dressed in black from head to boot, rifle resting against her shoulder.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

She didn’t hesitate. “This is what we came for.”

Max leaned in, brushing his fingers against hers. “Just… don’t get yourself killed.”

She met his gaze, soft and fierce all at once. “You either.”

Then, too quick to overthink, he kissed her. It was rougher this time, urgent and breathless, the kind of kiss you give someone when you don’t know what the next hour holds. She clutched the front of his jacket, grounding herself in him, like for a moment the mission didn’t matter. Just them. Just this.

When they broke apart, she was already moving. “Let’s finish it.”

Chaos erupted within minutes of infiltration. Charles cut the lights with a grin in his voice, “Happy blackout, boys”, and the entire west wing went dark. Nico triggered the first explosion on a far wall, drawing the guards out like moths to a flame.

She and Max moved fast, ghosting through corridors, silent and lethal. Data cores, servers, security feeds, they planted charges on every last one.

In the heart of it all, Max found the processing room. The machines still buzzed, humming with stolen memories, rows of them, patient files, fragments of lives rewritten and buried. His own name flickered across a screen. Deleted. Rewritten. A lie.

He slammed the drive in. Copied what he could. Burned the rest.

Then he heard her.

A muffled shout through his earpiece. Gunfire.

Max’s blood ran cold.

He took off running, boots slamming down corridors slick with smoke and debris. Around the corner, through the shattered doorway, he found her, pinned by a soldier twice her size, blade at her side, one arm limp and bleeding.

She looked up, and for a moment, even in pain, she smiled. “Took you long enough.”

Max lunged. Took the bastard down with brutal efficiency, two hits and he didn’t get back up. Then he dropped to her side, hands already reaching for her.

“You’re hurt.”

She winced. “Just the arm. Got cocky.”

“You’re not allowed to die. Not after everything.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Then came the sound, heavy boots, radio chatter. Reinforcements.

Max’s breath caught. “They’re coming.”

She reached up, bloody fingers curling into his jacket. “Listen to me—”

A shadow moved behind the glass.

Gunfire cracked.

Blood splattered.

Her body jolted, eyes wide, and everything blurred.

Max caught her before she hit the ground.

“No—”

Then on the other side through of his earpiece he heard Charles, “Max, they’ve got me— Fuck” Charles’ voice crackled through the comms, ending in a sharp grunt.

The room was red.

And then—

Static.

End of comms.

PART THREE...

taglist: @angelluv16 @evalynkillgrave @fergalaxy @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @amyelevenn

[alltimecharlo]

absolutely obsessed with the way you write bratty omega mack. and will being the only person who can calm him down!!!

i would loveeee more of this trope if you’re willing! mack being sad about something and being a brat as a defense mechanism and will being able to break those walls down and steady him

awh yes of course anon!!! fic under the cut :))🩵

Mack is in a mood.

Will clocks it the second he walks into the locker room. He knows Mack by now—knows the way he snaps gum when he’s trying not to sulk, the way he gets quieter and more biting with his chirps, the way he glares at his phone like it personally offended him. Will doesn’t need to ask. He knows.

Something’s wrong.

The guys don’t seem to notice, not really. Eky tries to joke with him and gets a raised eyebrow and a sharp, "You think you’re funny?" for his troubles. Toff tosses him a protein bar and Mack just lets it hit the floor. Brat.

Will watches all this from across the room, tying his skates slowly.

"You gonna pick that up, or are you waiting for someone to feed it to you?" he calls, lazy-like.

Mack doesn’t look at him, but Will sees the flicker of a smile. Barely there. It disappears quick.

“Fuck off,” Mack says.

But it’s softer. For Will, it always is.

They hit the ice and Mack’s playing like he’s got something to prove, elbows high and skating fast and furious. He overhandles the puck, doesn’t pass when he should, and gets into a shoving match in front of the net that earns him a full-throated warning from Coach.

Will skates past him on the bench. Leans in and murmurs, "Keep it up and he’s gonna staple your ass to the bleachers."

Mack mutters, "Whatever."

Will bumps his shoulder. "Use your words, omega."

Mack stiffens. Glares at him. But there’s no real heat in it.

After practice, Mack practically bolts to the showers and Will lets him. Knows better than to chase when he’s like this. Let him stew a little. Let him simmer.

Will waits until most of the guys are gone before slipping into the back hallway that leads to the changing stalls. He doesn’t knock. He just pushes open the door to the stall he knows is Mack’s, shuts it behind him, and leans back against it.

Mack is sitting on the bench, towel around his hips, arms crossed. His damp hair is flopped into his eyes.

“You gonna make this a regular thing?” Mack asks flatly.

Will raises an eyebrow. "You gonna stop acting like a little shit?"

Mack doesn't respond.

Will steps closer. Drops into a crouch so he’s eye level. “Hey.”

Mack doesn’t look at him.

Will leans in a little more. "Talk to me."

"Why? So you can tell me I’m being dramatic?"

Will studies him. The tense set of his jaw. The faint pink of his eyes like he’s been blinking back tears. The way his fingers are digging into his own arms like he’s trying to keep himself from unraveling.

He says, gently, "Mack."

Mack finally looks at him. Will sees it all then. The hurt. The fear. The frustration.

"Got a call from my agent this morning," Mack mutters. "Some...stuff about next year."

Will tilts his head. "Stuff like what?"

Mack shrugs. "Like, people wondering if I’m not living up to expectations."

Will frowns. "That’s bullshit."

Mack gives him a thin smile. "Yeah, well. It’s what they’re saying."

Will moves without thinking. Slides up onto the bench beside him and pulls him into his arms. Mack resists, stiff for all of three seconds, and then he’s melting against Will with a shaky exhale.

"They don’t know shit," Will murmurs into his hair. "You’re the best player on this team."

"Don’t patronize me."

"Not. I mean it. You’re the guy I watch every shift. The guy I trust to be where I need him. You think I’d be scoring this much if I didn’t have you?"

Mack huffs a weak laugh. “So it’s all about your stat line.”

Will grins. "Exactly. Gotta keep myself relevant."

They sit like that for a moment. Close. Quiet.

Then Mack says, softly, "I hate that you can see through me."

"I love that I can."

Mack flushes. Pushes lightly at Will’s chest. Will doesn’t move.

"I mean it," Will says, all serious now. "You get mean when you’re scared. You get bratty when you’re sad. And I’m gonna be here either way, okay? Every time."

Mack looks at him like he wants to argue. But then he just deflates.

"Okay."

Will kisses his temple.

Mack grumbles. "Sappy."

Will laughs. "You love it."

Mack mumbles, "Maybe."

And when Will pulls him in closer, Mack lets him.

♡

[boy222god]

Stuck on You.

"I still want you." | What's done is done, but feelings will always linger

➥ word count: 910 ✧ angst

Hollis's eyes noticed you before you even knew of his existence in the same room.

You were tucked into the edge of it— backlit, half-obscured, laughing with your whole face like the dull aching was something that never existed in your world. That smile, the one that folded near your eyes and softened the corners of your mouth; he used to chase that look like salvation. Though, when furthering the idea a bit longer than he should have, Hollis could still say he would... If you let him. The way the light caught in your hair made you look untouchable. Almost ethereal. As if you'd been dipped in something gold and warm, only to be pulled away from him again.

Everything about you looked divine and that was an issue. THE issue.

He should've left the second he laid eyes on you. Should've turned on his heel, found something stronger to drink, pretended the city you both shared hadn't forced you to become a ghost that would continuously haunt him. But instead, he stayed— arms folded, chest hollow, gaze locked like his ribs might collapse under the weight of rushing memories.

Someone bumped his shoulder as they passed. He didn't blink nor make the efforts to even make a sound to show displeasure in the lack of manners.

You still hadn't seen him. Not yet.

Something Hollis made note of a long time ago that you were good at doing— pretending him or anyone who brought dissatisfaction never existed. Complete strangers again. Although, with Hollis, he wondered how you could. Pretend that you never curled into him just to feel safe, never murmured his name like it meant something sacred in the dark.

And you laughed again.

Louder this time.

Like the air was lighter now that he wasn't apart of it.

God, he hated how it tore such a raw wound within...

"She's gonna kill you if you keep looking at her like that," Came the sound of Nate's voice, dry and quiet beside Hollis.

At first, he didn't answer. Continuing his burning gaze towards your direction, as if doing so could possibly make you notice or maybe, just maybe, freeze the lame afterparty's mid-breathe.

"She doesn't know," Nate added, a little softer now, "You can't hold her responsible for something you never said out loud."

"That's what makes it worse." Hollis muttered. A bitter truth that had been tucked so perfectly behind clenched teeth. Because you were never aware of how many versions of yourself that he had met in countless dreams. No clue that he still thinks of the way your voice dipped whenever you would say his name— like it was a secret yet a sin within one. Or that you lived in every space between every song, every silence that graced him, every stretch of time he tried to fill with anything that wasn't you nor tied to you.

"Then tell her."

Hollis wouldn't. He never does. He just... Waits. Not for hope, but for a crack in your facade. Something to suggest that you too do remember the moments shared in the past. And maybe, he did it out of ego. Pride? Something he wasn't entirely sure of or simply didn't want to acknowledge fully. Regardless, for a moment, he thinks the universe flinches.

Your soft gaze flickers across the room, landing on him. Barely. A glance. A pinprick of recognition. Maybe not. He tells himself it meant something just to stay upright.

Though, he did notice your smile wavering; almost imperceptibly. And then you're gone again. Swallowed whole by someone else's story.

Later, he finds you in the kitchen.

Half a drink in hand. Head bobbing slightly to the thud of music leaking from the living room. You looked... Peaceful. As if there wasn't a single part of you bracing to see him.

So unlike the version of you that used to trace the veins in his wrist with your thumb just to feel his pulse. Sometimes that lone, delicate finger of yours would find itself near his lips to which you never hesitated to trace the outline of that as well before leaning in to share such a kiss that he always found left him in shambles. That version is gone. He's aware. Still, he speaks:

"You always look like you're somewhere else."

You turn— a flicker of surprise at the sound of his voice. Once recognizing who was speaking, your facial expression eased into one of aiming to be careful. The one you wear like armor when it comes to him.

"Hollis."

His name, on your lips. Unsoft. Unrecognizable. It lands like a bruise.

"I still think about you." He shares. Not fragile nor forced. Just... Tired. "Still want you. And I can admit that it's exhausting."

Something shifts behind your eyes. Not enough to reach his attention. Not enough to undo anything that could patch what happened in the past up. But it's there— that slow, ghosting ache he used to read like a scripture on your skin.

You murmur, "I didn't know.". Almost like regret. Almost.

Hollis nods once, like that's enough even though you're aware it isn't

Before he can speak again, someone calls your name and like always... You go.

Disappearing into noise and warmth and everything that isn't him.

As for Hollis?

He stays in place— aching in all the places your absence now lives. Hoping, foolishly, you'd turn back.

But you don't.

You never do.

© boy222god 2025 all rights reserved - please do not repost my work on other platforms or translate.

[nachosforfree]

Worm

[mariasont]

hey girlie, first of all absolutely adore all of your hotchie fics no one writes him as well as you do!! second of all i am dying to read bimbo!assistant! x hotch smuuuutt (only if ur comfortable, pls ignore if not!!) i feel like that would be the only time hotch would have her completely and utterly speechless (idk why but i literally cannot get hotch w a breeding kink out of my goddamn mind!!!!!!) anyways hope ur having a fab day, and thank u for feeding us over the last few days 😘

Space Between Distraction & Indulgence - A.H

summary: bimbo!assistant!reader want’s aaron’s attention. aaron wants to finish his case notes. too bad for him, you always get what you want

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit stuff going on here, fingering, p in v, no condom (bc we trust hotch is responsible but you shouldn’t be), dirty talk, hotch is a boob man sorry not sorry, after care with a side of psychoanalysis bc he can’t help himself

wc: 6k (got a little carried away my b)

a/n: thank u sm for requesting ugh!!!! u all r going to give me a god complex if you keep talking about how i write hotch LOLOL i love u sm hope u like the fic!!

Saturdays with Aaron had a way of making time feel like something slippery and golden, something you could almost touch before it vanished between your fingers. The mornings stretched long and languid, a lazy kind of indulgence that should have felt endless, but somehow, with him, it never was.

You woke up late. Very late. The kind of late that made you blink at the clock in mild disbelief before flopping back against the pillows. And then there was the warmth. Not just the heat of the blankets, but something deeper, something winding low in your belly.

Oh. Right. The dream. You swallowed, biting your lip as if that might make the memory dissipate. It wasn't outright filthy, but it had been suggestive enough. Annoying. Frustrating. Embarrassing. It was the kind of thing that made you wish Aaron was still in bed.

He wasn't, of course. That would require Aaron Hotchner to do something reckless and irresponsible, like relax. If he wasn't keeping the country from total collapse, he was finding something equally as urgent to fix, probably buried in reports right now, coffee in hand, eyes scanning the page like national security depended on it. And maybe it did. You didn't know.

What you did know was that you'd been circling him all afternoon, orbiting like some needy little planet trapped in his gravitational pull, and he still hadn't acknowledged you. A small part of you, one you didn't want to name, had hoped he'd notice you by now. That he'd glance up, see you, reach for you. But he hadn't. And that was okay. Really. You weren't needy. You weren't desperate.

But you noticed him. You always noticed him. And this version of him, the weekend version, was particularly hard to ignore. The casual clothes, casual for him, anyway, stomped all over your ability to think straight (not that you had much to concentrate on in the first place).

The grey crewneck he had on stretched across his shoulders, molding to the shape of him like it had been made for him. His jeans, worn in all the right places, settled on his hips in a way that made you feel like a pervert just by looking.

Even his hair had you practically drooling. Not messy, of course — Aaron Hotchner didn't do messy — but it was softer than usual, a little mussed, like he'd dragged his fingers through it one too many times without bothering to fix it.

It made him look almost touchable, like someone who should have been stretched out next to you on the couch, letting you mess it up even more, not hunched over a pile of paperwork like the case files were going to disappear if he blinked.

His forearms flexed every time he turned a page, his muscles shifting subtly every time he moved. You didn't even realize how blatantly you were staring until his fingers skimmed up to his jaw, scratching absently at the stubble there. Because now all you could think about was how it would feel under your fingertips, under your lips, under — okay. Enough.

The magazine in your lap was technically open, fingers flipping through glossy pages filled with designer gowns and scandalous headlines. Normally, you'd be all over it, sipping coffee as you devoured the who wore what and who was caught with who. But today, you weren't really reading, you were just holding it, turning pages for the sake of it. Something to occupy your hands while you definitely didn't stare at Aaron.

He had started keeping these around after you mentioned, offhandedly, how much you loved them. You hadn't even meant it as a suggestion, but the next time you visited, there it was, sitting on the coffee table like it had always been there.

He hadn't spared you so much as a glance since you walked in, not even when you'd practically drifted past his desk, close enough that he should've felt you there. He had mumbled a good morning, sure, but his eyes never left the page, his attention locked onto whatever was in that file.

You sigh, loudly. Pointedly. The kind of exaggerated little huff that normally earns you at least a glance, maybe even a what's the matter, sweetheart? There was no reaction today. He just flipped another page, one hand smoothing over the text, the other tapping against the desk like you were completely invisible.

You toss the magazine onto the table, just a little too hard. Then you stretch out on the couch, shifting just enough that his button-down rides up, baring more of your thighs than should be considered decent. The air against your skin makes you hyperaware of what isn't there, only your favorite panties. The tiniest scrap of fabric between you and absolute obscenity. If he so much as glanced in your direction, he'd have the perfect view. But he doesn't.

You sigh again, softer this time, just enough to sound absentminded, like you're not trying to get his attention (even though you absolutely are). As you push yourself off the couch, you stretch a little, giving yourself an extra moment to watch him. You make your way toward him, steps slow, letting the hem of his shirt brush against the tops of your thighs as you move. His fingers flex against the page.

You settle against the edge of his desk, bracing yourself on your elbows, making a very intentional point of pressing your tits together. It's the kind of thing that should be subtle, just a natural consequence of your posture.

Months of Aaron have taught you more than just the way he takes his coffee or how he organizes his files. You've studied him, memorized him even. And one thing has become crystal clear:

He's absolutely a boob man.

You realized it gradually, the subtle stiffening of his posture whenever you leaned a little too close in the office, the way his fingers flexed when your blouse had just a bit too much give.

Then, when you started dating, it became even clearer. His hands never just grabbed, they claimed, like he was making up for all the times he couldn't touch.

His voice would go low, reverent, when he murmured, so pretty, sweetheart, his thumb brushing over your skin like he needed to feel it. And your bras, he had thoughts about those, much to your surprise. Which ones were his favorite. Which ones he hated because they got in the way.

But it wasn't until months later, when he had you spread out beneath him, his mouth hot and urgent against your skin, that he admitted it. His voice was rough, breathless, his grip tightening as he groaned, been trying so fucking hard not to look at these for years. And then, just to prove it, his mouth sealed over you like he had years to make up for.

"Do you need anything? Water? Coffee? Maybe lunch?"

His eyes lift — quick, practiced, almost indifferent.

Almost.

Because before they settle back down, they pause, just for a fraction of a second, right there. Right at the collar of his button-down, where the top buttons are hanging loose, where your skin is warm and soft and practically begging for attention.

But then, before you can revel in it, he's already looking back down. "No, I'm fine, sweetheart."

You bite your lip, actually contemplating throwing his stupid case file out the window. He's either knows what you're trying to accomplish and ignoring you on purpose or he's just that focused. You weren't sure which was worse.

You shove off the desk, but you don't step away. Instead, you step closer. Your hands find his shoulders first, sliding down to his chest as you lean into him, pressing against his back. The shift is immediate. He goes still, his spine going ramrod straight, like his brain has just caught up to what's happening.

Your shirt is paper-thin, your nipples are pressed right against him, and unless he's suddenly gone completely numb, he feels it.

You sink against him, letting your chin rest on his shoulder, breathing him in. Gods, he smells good. Clean, sharp, like something expensive.

You recognized it as the cologne you bought him. The one you picked, the one you dabbed on his wrist in the middle of a department store and grinned, telling him, This. This smells like you. This is the one.

Your fingers skim over his collar, your nails just barely catching against the heat of his skin.

"What are you working on?" You let the question drip from your lips, your voice all honey, sweet, but not innocent.

Aaron hums low in his throat. "Case notes."

"That's boring. Is there anything I can do to help? Your assistant is very willing to be of service."

His fingers pause and your stomach flips. But then, before you can savor it, he moves. His hand finds yours, lifting it with patience. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, featherlight, frustratingly  chaste, before setting your hand back down like you're some good little thing that's been successfully pacified. And then you catch it, the tiniest twitch of his lips.

"Thank you, honey, but I've got it under control."

You make a noise, half scoff, half petulant whine, and shift your chin against his shoulder, angling yourself just enough to shoot him a pointed glare.

"You always say that. What's the point of having such a capable assistant if you're not going to use her?"

"Hmm. So that's what you want? For me to use you?"

"I don't know. Is that an option?"

Aaron's laugh is low, the kind that rumbles through his chest without much warning. It's never loud, it doesn't have to be, but it still manages to send your stomach into a ridiculous free-fall.

"There's just some stuff I need to finish up."

You groan, letting your forehead drop to his shoulder, arms squeezing around him like you can physically hold his attention. Like you can will it away from the pages in front of him and back to you where it belongs.

"Is that your way of telling me I just have to sit here and be patient?"

Aaron's pen doesn't pause. "Mhm."

You huff. "And you think I'll be able to do that?"

His answer is immediate. Too immediate.

"You've survived this long," he says, and you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice. "I think you'll manage."

"Fine," you say after a moment, stepping around the chair before sinking into his lap, giving him plenty of time to stop you, but he doesn't. He never does.

You shift until you're settled, one leg draped over his, chest brushing his. His breath stutters — just a little, just enough to tell you that he feels you. His fingers flex against the desk, pressing harder into the wood, tension rolling through his back as he goes perfectly still beneath you, like he's waiting to see what you'll do next.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you hum, arms draping easily over his shoulders as you sink against him. Your cheek brushes his, lips just close enough that if he turned his head, just a little, you'd be right there. "You said you had to finish working. Don't let me stop you."

A slow inhale, a slight tilt of his head, then his pen moves again, like nothing's changed. Like you haven't changed anything.

You exhale against his skin, hiding your smirk in the crook of his neck, fingers idly tracing slow, featherlight circles along the nape of it.

He's humoring you, and that's fine.

You let him pretend for a while, content to exist in the space between distraction and indulgence. You shift in his lap, weight pressing into his just enough.

His body reacts before he does, muscles tightening, his breath slowing like he's thinking too hard about not reacting.

"Sit still."

"I am still," you reply, the words light on your tongue, but the slow curve of your hips tells another story.

"Sweetheart."

You lean in, close enough that your noses brush, your forehead pressing to his as your lips part ever so slightly. "What? I'm not doing anything."

Aaron's breath comes out sharp, ragged, the sound scraping its way from his throat like he's been holding onto it for too long.

His chest pushes against yours, every inhale pressing you closer, every exhale heating the space between you. He leans back, just enough to create the smallest sliver of distance.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, savoring the friction that sends a shudder through you, tightening every muscle in your body with anticipation. The feeling sparks through you, sharp and intoxicating, sending heat pooling in your stomach.

His gaze drops, heavy-lidded, to where your bodies fit together, the rise and fall of your breath syncing with his.

His hands land on your hips, thumbs pressing in, not enough to stop you, just enough to remind you he could if he wanted to. When his eyes meet yours again, there's no rush, no immediate reaction. You knew exactly what it meant and what usually followed, he was just waiting for the moment you tip the scales too far.

"Do you want to tell me what exactly it is you're trying to do?" he asks, his voice low, the kind of tone that makes you forget your own name for a second.

You push against him again, grinding just enough to feel the press of him, the heat of him, and god. Your fingers curl into his shirt, and suddenly, you can't remember what your original plan was.

You shift forward, your body molding to his, your breath fanning against his skin as your lips brush his ear.

"I'm just feel a little... overlooked." Your fingers tighten where they rest, nails digging in to make sure he feels it. "Is it so bad that I want your attention?"

His grip tightens, harder this time, his fingers digging into your hips with a kind of warning you'd be stupid to ignore. The heat of his palms seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt, scorching into your skin like a brand.

"You have my attention." You don't believe him. Not really. You press your lips into a pout, brow furrowing just slightly. "But if you keep moving like that, I might now be so nice about it."

Your hips shift, an instinctive little squirm, testing to see if you can push past his hold. You can't. "I can't help it."

"You can't help it?" he repeats, almost thoughtful, like he's turning the idea over in his mind. "I think you can. You just don't want to."

You want to argue, you really do, but nothing comes out, only a sharp inhale that never quite makes it into words. Because he's right. He knows he's right.

The little noise that escapes your throat is purely instinctual, frustrated but breathy, like your body is already conceding before your mind catches up.

"I told you to stop," he murmurs. He mirrors you, crowding in, his breath skimming your ear. His palm presses into the small of your back, slotting you back into place. "But you don't listen, do you?"

You shake your head without even meaning to, the deafening roar of your pulse making it impossible to think clearly.

"No, you don't," he murmurs, his tone dipping lower, turning darker, more intimate. His hands flex as if to remind you of the control he holds. Then his lips graze your jaw, his breath fanning over your skin. "You push. You test the boundaries. And then you pretend to be shocked when I hold you to them."

His fingers slide down, dragging over your thigh with an almost excruciating slowness. He pauses to squeeze there.

"First, you sprawled out on the couch —" his thumb sweeps over your skin, "like you didn't know exactly how that would look."

Your breath stutters, catches, knots itself into something tangled and messy as his hand moves, sliding higher, pressing firmer, stopping just shy of where the ache blooms.

His eyes darken, the heat behind them smoldering with something deep, something that settles like fire in the pit of your stomach.

"Then you leaned over my desk, practically shoving these —" His hand moves before the words fully land, cupping the curve of your breast. His thumb rolls over your nipple. "— right in my face."

Your breath catches, your hips lifting, your thighs parting like you're meant to be touched. Like you need him there. But he doesn't give in. He just moves lower, slow and taunting, until his palm covers the heat between your legs, pressing lightly over the thin fabric of your panties.

His fingers flex, testing. Feeling.

"And now this," he murmurs, and gods, his voice, his voice, is like a razor wrapped in velvet, smooth and cutting all at once. "You squirm and pout like you don't know exactly what you're doing. But I know better, don't I?"

Suddenly, you don't feel like you know what you're doing. Like you're the one pulling at a thread you don't quite understand, but it's already too late to stop.

A shiver rolls through you, bone-deep, leaving your muscles lax, your body melting into his like you were always meant to be here.

"I'm sorry," you murmur so quietly, you're not even sure if he hears it. "I just... I wanted you to notice me."

Aaron's hum is low, deep, almost amused. His thumb finds your jaw, sweeping along the curve of it as he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Oh, I noticed you. I always notice you. In fact, you're all I ever notice." His hand slips away from where you want it most. "But if this is the only way you know how to ask for my attention, sweetheart, then I think we have a problem."

His hands settle on your hips, demanding, guiding you over the hard line of his cock, forcing you to take the friction, to feel every inch of him through the layers still between you.

The friction is blinding, sending heat licking up your spine, setting every nerve in your body on fire. Your legs tremble, a sharp, choked sound escaping before you can stop it, and you clutch at his shoulders, nails sinking deep into muscle as pleasure coils tight and insistent in your belly.

"Aaron," his name slips from your lips, high and uneven, like it costs something to say it. Your head bows, forehead pressing into his shoulder, hands trembling against his chest. "I wasn't trying to be bad. I just... I didn't know what else to do."

"No, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You didn't think, did you? And now look where that's gotten you."

His words should sting, but they don't, not when his hands are so gentle, smoothing down your spine like he's soothing something raw inside you. And then his voice, warm and promising, settles over you, "But I'll take care of you now."

And gods, you need him to. He's so hard, the thick length of him pressing against you through denim and cotton, teasing, tormenting. Everything burns — your skin, your stomach, that deep, pulsing ache between your thighs. Your head swims, feverish, your mind caught between more and please and I can't take this. But he knows. Of course, he knows.

"Do you feel that?"

"Yes."

"Good. If you want to keep going, you'll take care of it. Go ahead."

Your hands move with the kind of urgency that betrays just how badly you need this, need him. Your fingers trail down, brushing over the tight muscles of his stomach, and it's almost enough to make you dizzy, just touching him, just knowing what's waiting for you beneath layers of fabric.

The button of his jeans fumbles beneath your fingers before finally popping open. And then you're pulling him free. He's thick in your hand, burning hot against your palm, and something about that, about feeling him like this, for you, makes something feral sink its teeth into you.

And then he finds you.

His fingers slip under your panties, gliding through the obscene slickness there, and you don't mean to react so violently, don't mean to moan so loud, but it rips out of you before you can stop it.

"Oh, honey," Aaron murmurs, almost thoughtful, like he's just now realizing the full extent of your undoing. "I didn't realize you'd gotten this worked up."

Like it's an observation. Like it's fascinating.

His fingers push, stretching you open, teasing just the right spot, and you jerk against him with a sharp, strangled moan. Your grip around him tightens, your strokes turning sloppy, uneven, desperate.

"Aaron —" His name tumbles out high and needy, your head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut.

"I didn't mean to —" Your voice shakes, a hitched little gasp tangled between syllables. "I just —" Your breath stutters, heat climbing, overwhelming. "I didn't know what to do."

"You don't have to know what to do." His fingers slow just enough to let you catch his breath as he murmurs. "You just have to let me take over. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

Your nod is frantic, almost mindless, as his words echo in your ears.

"Please."

His fingers thrust deeper, and the shock of it rips a gasp from your lips, straight into his kiss. It's messy, frantic, all clashing mouths and stolen air, your breaths coming too fast to match his, like you're afraid if you let him go for even a second, he'll pull away.

Your grip on him tightens without thinking, your fingers flexing around his cock, but the sensation barely registers now, drowned out by the wetness pooling between your thighs, the slick drag of his fingers against your walls.

You can't keep up. You're chasing something that feels just out of reach, your hands leaving his cock, fumbling for something solid, something real. They find his face, fingertips brushing over the rough stubble of his jaw, trying to find yourself in him, in the way he's ruining you.

You kiss him like you can tell him everything that way, like he might understand the ache better through lips and tongues and the way your body trembles under his hands.

And then — he stops. His fingers slip free, and the sound you make is a whine, a protest, your hips tilting, seeking, trying to drag him back in. But he doesn't move, doesn't give you what you need, just smirks against your lips like he enjoys watching you squirm.

"You're so impatient," he murmurs against your lips.

But before you can protest, before you can tell him that yes, yes, you am impatient, please just give it to me, his hands tighten on your hips. And then — oh.

He lifts you, positioning you just right, and then, lowers you down.

The head of his cock pushes inside, and your breath catches, lips parting in a broken gasp. The stretch is devastating, inch by inch forcing your body to open, to yield to him. He's so deep, impossibly deep, and for a second, you forget how to breathe, how to think, your only thought being how does he even fit?

It feels endless, your thighs shaking against his as he takes his time, forcing you to feel every slow, torturous inch. Your body clenches around him, your nails dragging over his scalp as you bury your face against his neck.

"Breathe," he murmurs, voice thick, lips grazing your temple. "That's it. Let me take care of you. You just have to let me in, sweetheart."

"Okay, okay," you whisper, voice shaky as you bury your face against his neck, arms wrapping tighter around him.

His other hand moves, dragging up your spine before wrapping around your waist. And then — he presses deeper.

The air leaves your lungs in a sharp, punched-out gasp. He doesn't stop, doesn't let you breathe, just sinks in, stretching you open until he's fully seated inside you. Until there's nowhere left to go.

"That's it," he groans, voice tight, his mouth ghosting along your jaw. "So tight. So warm. Fuck, sweetheart, you know this is what you were made for, don't you?"

You try to think of something, something teasing, something bratty, something that might tip him over the edge, but your body betrays you, trembling around him, squeezing down so tight you feel him shudder.

"God, you're tight," he mutters, his fingers pressing into your hips, hard enough to leave bruises. "I can feel every little tremble, every squeeze. You feel that, sweetheart? How perfectly you fit around me?"

"It's like you don't want to let me go. Is that what you want, honey? To keep me right here?"

Your body clenches down instinctively, like you're answering him without meaning to, and his breath catches for just a second before his lips curve against your skin. You nod, frantic, a little dazed, a little wrecked, and his chuckle is pure sin.

"Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

He pulls back just enough to create the kind of unbearable friction that makes your breath catch, your body tightening like a bowstring.

"Every little sound you make drives me insane." His breath drags over your cheek, his lips just shy of touching, like he's teasing himself as much as he is you. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"

You try to answer, you really do, but your lungs don't work properly anymore, your body focused on the pleasure threatening to snap at any second. Your fingertips tremble against his shoulders, your thighs quiver, and Aaron knows exactly what that means.

"That's it. I can feel you trembling, sweetheart. You're so close, aren't you?"

His words strike something deep, something primal, and the fire curling between your thighs roars in response. Your head tips back, your breath breaking apart as your hands scramble for purchase, fingers sliding to his face, thumbs brushing over the roughness of his jaw. You pull him into a kiss that's all hunger, all desperation, your lips parting to let him devour you.

He groans into your mouth, a sound that vibrates through your chest, and then his hips snap up into you. The stretch is suffocating, the sheer fullness of him sending sharp pulses of pleasure up your body with every deep thrust.

"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips. "You don't have to hold back. Just let go for me, sweetheart."

It crashes into you harder than you expected, knocking the breath straight from your lungs. Your moan catches halfway, tumbling out in pieces as your body convulses, clenches tight, gripping him in a way that makes him hiss through his teeth.

He thrusts deep, brutal, final, and then he's gone, his head dropping back as a groan tears from his chest.

He fills you in thick, pulsing waves, each pulse making your thighs tighten around him, making you gasp at how deep it settles. The feeling is overwhelming — the heat of him, the weight, the way his cock still twitches inside you, like he’s unwilling to let a single drop go to waste.

You're not sure where your body ends and his begins, your limbs heavy, useless, boneless as you slump against him. Your breath stutters, still uneven, every exhale pushing against his chest as the last waves of pleasure roll through you.

"You take every drop so fucking well," he murmurs. "Meant to keep you full."

His fingers press into your hips, just a little tighter, just enough to make you feel how deep he still is.

"Don’t move yet."

Your breath stutters, the words landing deep, something fluttering tight in your stomach.

"Just a little longer," he murmurs, his hands absently smoothing up and down your spine. His voice drops, lower, rougher — "I want to make sure it sticks."

You shudder, pressing closer, your face tucking against his neck as everything —the fullness, every drop of his cum —settles in.

Aaron exhales, his chest rising beneath you, and suddenly, he shifts. His grip on your hips soften and slide up, like he can feel the way you're trembling against him. 

"Breathe, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You can do that for me, can't you?"

You try, you really do, but when you inhale, it's a stuttering, gasping thing, barely controlled. Your thighs still shake, your body still throbs around him, and you can feel the way he exhales, like he enjoys this, enjoys feeling you like this, soft and trembling in his arms.

"Easy," he murmurs. One hand slides up your spine, cupping the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. "That was a lot."

You nod, or, at least, you think you do. Everything feels floaty, light, warm. Your head feels like it's filled with pink clouds. Your limbs feel soft, useless, like you're some well-loved doll that's been played with for hours.

He tilts your chin up, catching your gaze.

"You okay?" His brow furrows slightly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

You blink slowly at him, lips parting, trying to focus.

"Mhm," you hum, then pause, frowning just slightly. "Wait, no — hold on."

His jaw tenses immediately, but you reach up, poking his cheek with a weak, clumsy finger.

"You didn't kiss me," you mumble, like it's the most important fact in the universe. "You're supposed to kiss me after, 'cause, like, you love me and all that."

His head tilts, just barely shaking, like he's in mild disbelief of you. And okay, fine, maybe you do say a lot of dumb things. But this wasn't dumb. It was valid. It was scientifically proven that post-sex cuddles should include at least one (1) I love you and one (1) kiss, and you were simply holding him accountable.

"Of course I love you," he murmurs, like the answer is so obvious, so unquestionable, that it almost makes you feel silly for asking. And then he kisses you.

It's deep, drawn-out, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. 

You're still in his lap, still tangled in the ridiculous, oversized leather chair, but you don't feel like you're anywhere. Not in his apartment, not even in your own body. Just floating, existing in between his lips and yours.

When you finally pull back, it's not even voluntary — just the sad, unfortunate reality of needing air.

"Wow," you murmur, your fingers lazily brushing over his jaw.

"Wow?"

"Mhm." Your tongue darts out, sweeping over the kiss-swollen curve of your bottom lip, like you're trying to catch what's left of him there, trying to savor it. "Like... I feel very wow."

A smirk tugs at his lips, but his hands don't stop moving, don't stop tracing, don't stop feeling. His fingers smoothed absently over your hips, up your spine, his palms blending into your skin. Like he's checking for something. Like he's making sure you're here with him.

And for a second, you think he's about to kiss you again. He looks like he wants to, his gaze flickers to your lips, his hands flex just slightly, his body leans in just a hair. But then his gaze flickers, his lips part slightly as if he'd just remembered something.

"You said something earlier."

You blink again, brain lagging behind slightly as reality creeps back in, still floating somewhere in bliss. Which you felt was a more pressing topic than whatever he's about to say.

Your face scrunches up immediately, like maybe if you look cute enough, he'd drop it. 

"I said a lot of things earlier," you rush out, voice a little too high, a little too hasty, your hand flapping vaguely in the air. "So many things. A real stream of nonsense, actually. I was just saying words, you know, as one does —"

You shift slightly, suddenly painfully  aware of the position you're in, and he doesn't even blink.

"Aaron," you say, narrowing your eyes. "You're literally still inside me and you want to have a conversation right now?"

"Yes," he says simply, like of course he does, like this is completely reasonable, like you aren't still wrapped around him, skin warm and sticky from what you just did.

His brows furrow slightly, and his head tilts in that very specific way that means he's already pulling apart the words, unraveling them like a thread, and working through them with that brain of his before you can even begin to take it back. 

"You said you felt overlooked," he states plainly, like a fact, which you guessed it was. "If that was something you just said in the moment, we can drop it."

His eyes narrow, studying you like he already knows the answer. "But if you meant it, then I want to understand why."

Your mouth parts, ready to push out something easy, something light, something that won't lead to the very real, very terrifying act of actually admitting things.

He was serious. Not angry or annoyed. Just serious. And concerned.

You exhale, suddenly very invested in dragging your nails lightly over his chest, watching the way they disappear into the fabric of his shirt, how his muscles shift slightly beneath your touch.

"I mean... it's not a thing," you mumble, barely glancing up. "More like a thing-adjacent."

"Sweetheart." The firmness in his voice made your stomach flip. It's not a scolding or a warning, just his way of making you hear him. "I'm not interested in whether you think it's a thing or not. I'm interested in whether it's true."

"I mean, I guess... maybe a little."

His fingers flex, like he's taking that in. He nods once, slowly. "That makes sense."

Your brows furrow. "It does?"

"Yes," he states plainly, like it's obvious. "You pick up on subtle changes, even the ones I don't intend to project. And when I get hyper focused on something, I shut everything else out. Not just you. Everyone."

"It's a defense mechanism. A way to compartmentalize. It doesn't mean I don't notice you. It means my brain assigns the highest level of urgency to the task at hand, and everything else, everything outside of that, is temporarily shut out. When I do that, it makes sense that you would feel like I'm not paying attention to you," he continues. "Because in those moments I'm not."

Your breath catches. He says it so matter-of-factly, so plainly, that it almost doesn't sting at first, it just lands.

His grip tightens ever so slightly where his hands rest on your like he already knows how you're taking it.

"But that doesn't mean I don't want to be paying attention," he murmurs, fingers brushing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. "It doesn't mean you don't exist in the back of my mind, even when I'm caught up in something else."

Aaron leans in a fraction, his eyes holding yours.

"Do you know what I did last night after you fell asleep?" he asks.

You blink. "Uh... sleep?"

He smirks. "Eventually. But first, I checked the thermostat. You always get cold at night, even when you say you won't."

Your face warms. "That's just —,"

"And before I left for work last week, I moved your car closer to the building because I saw you left your umbrella at my place."

"I —,"

"And when I'm out of town, do you know what I do every morning?"

You swallow.

"No."

"I think about what you're having for breakfast," he murmurs. "Not consciously. It's not something I try to do. It just... happens."

"You always eat something sweet," he continues, his thumb brushing over your jaw. "It's usually a pastry or something covered in chocolate. Sometimes cake, if we're being honest."

Your scrunch your nose again and he smiles.

"So, tell me," he murmurs, tilting your chin up. "Does that sound like someone who overlooks you?"

Your lips part but nothing comes out. Your heart aches, not the bad kind, but the kind that makes your chest feel too small for everything inside it. Because he's right. He notices everything. Not in the big, showy romance-movie ways but in the little things. In ways that matter.

You inhale a little too hard, blinking quickly, but the stinging in your eyes isn't going anywhere.

Aaron sees it immediately. "Sweetheart."

You shake your head quickly, sniffling.

"I'm not crying," you announce, even though your voice cracks on the last word, which kind of ruins the effect.

He smirks. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," you say firmly, poking his chest. "I just, I feel very loved and now I have to process that."

"Okay," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Do you need time to process, or should I just assume you're going to be attached to me for the foreseeable future?"

"Oh no, you're definitely stuck with me," you declare. "Like, you might need to call someone if you ever actually want me to let go."

His smirk is instant. "You're saying I should alert the authorities?"

You nod sagely. "I mean, that would be the responsible thing to do. But by the time they arrive, I'll have already made a compelling argument about how you should just let it happen."

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I'm sure you would."

taglist: @readergf @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @crouchingapple @navia3000 @aaronlovesava @bakugocanstompme @pansexualhailstorm @averyhotchner @looking1016 @everythinglizzy @sky2nd @alexxavicry @spencerssatchel @candyd1es @storiesofsvu @pleasantgardenwitch @kodzukenmaa @hiireadstuff @dilflover-3 @spennciesslut @phoenix-le-danseur-de-pole @jstcln @just-here-to-read13 @c-losur3 @wondergal2001 @oliver-1270 @ssahotchbabe @savagemickey03 @justanotherbimboslxt @imoonkiss @estragos @khxna @de-duchess @raysmayhem-72 @piinksdoll @justyourusualash @whimsicalpolitical @kcch-ns @cool-light32 @reidfile @sugarbutterbailey @ssamorganhotchner @persephonestears @moonyxstars @spookyysinsanity @proxxyshouse @spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack @imsonotweird @jungchloe @she-wont-miss @duchesz @may-machin99 @historicallyweirdandqueer @in-the-kosmos @lcvealwayss @p13rc3-th3-m4tt13 @babyhoneybyhs @reire11

taglist is closed for now until i can figure out the best way to include more than 50 mentions :(

[solxamber]

Holding Them and Not Letting Go with: First Years

the rest will be in a separate post <3

Others: Housewardens + Jamil ; Vice housewardens + Rollo, Neige

Ace Trappola

Ace bounces into the room, still riding the high of his basketball victory. His grin is wide, and he’s practically glowing with confidence. “Alright, so are we going with Sprite or Coke for this exclusive VIP party?” he asks, digging through the mini fridge with exaggerated flair.

You don’t answer. Instead, you step closer and wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a firm hug.

He freezes for a second before letting out a laugh, his tone teasing. “Wow, I didn’t realize winning a game made me this irresistible.” He turns his head to try and catch your expression, expecting a playful retort, but when you don’t let go or even laugh, his teasing fades.

“Hey,” he says more softly, twisting slightly to look at you. “You good?”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your hands still gripping his jersey. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you say, voice steady but warm. “I just… I love you, Ace. And I’m really, really proud of you.”

For a moment, he’s completely still, blinking at you like he can’t quite process your words. Then he lets out a shaky laugh, his arms coming up to pull you closer. “Don’t get all soft on me now,” he mutters, but there’s a tremor in his voice, and his hold on you is anything but casual.

Ace is the kind of guy who hides behind his jokes and bravado. He’s the loudest in the room, the one always cracking jokes to deflect attention from anything that might feel too serious or too vulnerable.

He plays it cool, like nothing ever really gets to him. But deep down, he’s always wondered if he’s enough—enough to be taken seriously, enough to make someone proud, enough to deserve the kind of unconditional love he’s always quietly craved.

Hearing you say those words, feeling the sincerity in your hug—it’s almost overwhelming. The teasing grin he wears so easily is replaced by something softer, something real.

He buries his face in your shoulder, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks,” he says, the single word carrying more weight than he usually lets on.

In your arms, Ace allows himself to feel it all—the pride, the love, the relief. He might joke about being irresistible or too cool for heartfelt moments, but the truth is, you make him feel like he doesn’t need to be anything other than himself. And that? That’s everything.

Deuce Spade

Deuce sits at his desk, the faint sound of pencil scratches and frustrated sighs filling the room. His brow is furrowed, and his leg bounces anxiously under the table. “Why can’t I get this?” he mutters, flipping through his notes for the hundredth time. “I should know this by now. I have to get this right.”

You watch him for a moment, heart aching at the stress etched into his face. He’s always trying so hard—pushing himself to be the perfect honor student, the model example. You know how much he wants to prove himself, but sometimes, he forgets that it’s okay to lean on others.

Without a word, you walk over and wrap your arms around him. At first, Deuce stiffens in surprise, but the tension melts away almost instantly as he leans into your embrace. “Hey,” he says softly, his voice a little shaky. “What’s this for?”

You don’t answer right away, just holding him tightly. His hands come up to rest on your arms, his grip firm, like he’s drawing strength from you. After a moment, though, he shifts slightly, craning his neck to look at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, concern lacing his voice. “You’ve been holding on for a while…”

You smile, shaking your head gently. “I’m fine. I just… I’m really proud of you, Deuce. I see how hard you work, how much you care about doing your best. I don’t think you hear it enough, but I’m proud of you.”

For a moment, he’s silent, his wide eyes searching yours like he’s trying to make sure you mean it. And then, without warning, he pulls you back into the hug, tighter this time, his arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go.

Deuce has spent so much of his life trying to prove himself—to his mom, to his teachers, to his classmates. He worries constantly about whether he’s good enough, whether he’ll ever live up to the expectations he’s set for himself. Deep down, there’s a part of him that fears he’ll always be that hotheaded troublemaker he used to be, no matter how hard he tries to change.

But in your arms, all of that seems to fade. When you tell him you’re proud of him, it feels like a gift he doesn’t quite deserve, but one he’s so grateful for that it hurts. He doesn’t feel like he has to pretend to be perfect or have it all figured out—not with you.

“You’re… you’re the best,” he mumbles into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

To Deuce, you’re like a miracle—a gift from the Sevens themselves. Someone who sees him for who he is and believes in him even when he’s struggling to believe in himself. And as he holds you close, he silently vows to keep doing his best—not just for himself, but for you, too.

Jack Howl

Jack sets the heavy crate down with ease, brushing his hands on his pants before glancing at you. “Alright, that’s the last one,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “You didn’t have to lift a finger. Told you I’d handle it.”

You smile at him, watching as he dusts himself off, the faintest sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. Jack always insists on doing the hard work, carrying the weight—literally and figuratively. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t ask for help, just powers through with quiet determination.

Before he can turn back to the next task, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. He stiffens slightly, caught off guard, but then his arms come up to hold you in return.

“What’s this for?” he asks, his voice soft but curious.

You don’t answer right away, simply holding him tighter. Jack stays quiet, but you can feel his tail wagging behind him, a faint swish against the ground. When you don’t let go, though, he starts to shift slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, concern evident in his tone. His ears flick nervously, his golden eyes scanning your face.

You smile up at him, shaking your head lightly. “I’m fine, Jack. I just… I just love you, and I’m really glad to have you in my life. You’re always looking out for me, always working so hard. I don’t think I say it enough, but I really appreciate you.”

For a moment, Jack just looks at you, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he pulls you back into the hug, his grip firm and grounding. He doesn’t say anything, but his tail betrays him, wagging faster now, practically spinning like a motor.

Jack isn’t used to hearing things like that. He’s always been the dependable one, the one people rely on but rarely the one people go out of their way to thank. There’s a part of him that wonders if he’s only valued for his strength, for what he can do rather than who he is. It’s a quiet insecurity, one he keeps buried deep, but it’s there all the same.

But when you hold him like this, when you tell him how much he means to you, it feels like a weight has been lifted. You don’t just see him as the reliable guy who carries the heavy stuff or takes care of the hard work. You see him—Jack, with all his flaws and strengths, and you love him anyway.

His tail thumps against the ground now, a silent giveaway to how much your words mean to him. He doesn’t need to say anything; the way he holds you, the way his tail wags furiously, tells you everything.

In your arms, Jack feels something he’s not sure he’s ever felt before—completely understood and appreciated for who he is, not just what he can do. And for him, that’s more than enough.

Epel Felmier

The two of you were walking back to Ramshackle, Epel chatting animatedly about something funny that had happened during class. His hands were moving as he spoke, when a sudden whistling sound cut through the air.

You didn’t even have time to react before Epel’s hand shot out, summoning a precise burst of magic that sent the incoming magift disc flying back in the direction it came. It hit its mark with a loud clang before tumbling harmlessly to the ground.

“Idiots need to watch where they’re aiming,” he muttered, brushing it off like it was nothing. Then, without missing a beat, he reached for your hand, his grip firm yet casual as he led you back toward your dorm.

The moment you stepped inside, you turned to him, your arms wrapping around him tightly. He let out a small, surprised “Whoa,” his hands instinctively coming up to hold you back.

“Hey, what’s this for?” he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and a bit of embarrassment. He hugged you back anyway, his fingers lightly rubbing your back, but when you didn’t pull away, his expression shifted to concern.

“You alright?” he asked, leaning back just enough to look at your face. “Did that disc scare ya? I didn’t think—”

“I’m fine,” you interrupted softly, squeezing him tighter. “I just love you, Epel. And that was so cool. You were so quick, and you didn’t even hesitate. I’m… I’m really lucky to have you.”

Epel blinked, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to process your words. Then, as your words sank in, his cheeks flushed a deep pink, and his lips curled into a small, bashful smile.

“You think… I’m cool?” he asked, his voice almost timid, as if he didn’t quite believe it.

“I know you are,” you said, your tone firm and sincere.

Something in him seemed to shift at that. Epel pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you tightly now, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder.

He’d spent so much of his life feeling like he had to prove himself—to his family, to his classmates, even to himself. Being underestimated because of his height or his face had always left a bitter taste in his mouth, pushing him to work harder, fight stronger, and shout louder just to be taken seriously.

But in this moment, none of that mattered. You didn’t see him as fragile or weak, didn’t treat him like someone who needed to prove anything. You saw him for who he was, and you loved him for it.

The warmth in his chest spread to his face as he buried it against your neck, his arms tightening just a little more. He didn’t say anything for a moment, letting the silence speak for him.

When he finally did speak, his voice was quiet but steady. “I’m lucky to have you too, y’know. More’n I deserve.”

You smiled, holding him just as tightly, letting your presence remind him that he was already more than enough. For the first time in a long time, Epel felt like he didn’t need to prove a thing. You thought he was cool, and that was all he needed to hear.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek was mid-sentence, his voice rising in animated fervor.

“And that’s why this tale of heroism directly correlates to Lord Malleus's own virtues! Truly, how could anyone miss the resemblance? Why, if they merely paid attention—”

You didn’t let him finish. Stepping forward, you wrapped your arms around him tightly, pressing your cheek against his chest.

Sebek froze instantly, the words dying in his throat. “Wha—? What are you doing?!” His voice pitched higher, equal parts flustered and confused.

His arms hovered awkwardly for a moment before he tentatively settled them around you, his usual composure crumbling. “Are you hurt? Is something wrong? Speak to me at once!”

When you didn’t respond immediately, Sebek’s grip tightened slightly, and he pulled back just enough to inspect you, his eyes scanning your face with concern. “What has happened? Are you unwell?”

You smiled softly at him, your fingers curling into his uniform as you leaned back into his chest. “I’m fine, Sebek. Really. I just love you.”

Sebek blinked, his mouth opening and closing as your words sank in. He seemed at a rare loss for words as you continued, “I love how passionate you are, how much you care about the things and people you love. It makes me love you even more.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his lips pressed together tightly. Then, without warning, he hugged you back gently, yet firmly, his arms encircling you as though he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

“...I see,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual.

Sebek had spent so much of his life trying to live up to expectations—his own, his family’s, even the ones he imagined Malleus might have for him. He had always been painfully aware of his mixed heritage and the silent whispers it inspired, of the way his fiery temper and unwavering loyalty often set him apart from others.

Yet with you, none of that seemed to matter. You didn’t judge him for his intensity or his quirks; you embraced them, cherished them, even. And in moments like this, when he felt your arms around him and heard your steady words of love, he was reminded that he didn’t need to prove himself to you.

You saw him—not just as a knight or a servant, but as Sebek.

“I…” His voice wavered for a moment before he steadied it. “I love you as well.”

The words were simple, but the way his arms tightened around you spoke volumes. For all his loud proclamations and larger-than-life demeanor, Sebek’s love was quiet and steadfast, an anchor that held firm against any storm.

And as he rested his chin atop your head, silently committing this moment to memory, he realized something: as long as he had you, everything else seemed just a little less important.

Masterlist

[daryltwdixon]

Joel Miller x Reader drabble

Fluffy Jackson!Joel, age gap mentioned but not specified, angsty Joel thinking he doesn't deserve you I'm gonna vom I'm so emotional about Joel Miller this morning. Yeah it’s a little corny idc. Lightly inspired by Sabrina Carpenter's Slim Pickins

You never cared much for the boys in Jackson.

It wasn’t that they were all bad—not really. Some were decent enough, kind in that overeager way that made it clear they wanted to be seen as something more than just survivors. The younger ones, the ones your age, all had something to prove. Like they thought the end of the world meant they had to carve out their place in it with their fists, their bravado, their talk of patrols and takedown counts.

You weren’t interested.

You wanted someone steady. Someone who didn’t feel the need to boast, who didn’t make survival a contest, who wasn’t fumbling to figure out who they were even after all these years.

And that’s why your eyes always found Joel Miller.

He never tried to be charming. Never played the fool. Never talked just to hear himself speak. Matter of fact, you hardly heard him speak at all unless Ellie or Tommy were around. In any other conversation you managed to overhear, he was polite but always a man of few words. 

He was older, rough around the edges, sharp where others were soft. He was the kind of man who knew how to build things, how to keep them standing. You admired that. Admired the way his hands were always busy, fixing things, sharpening knives, reinforcing weak spots in the town’s defenses. Admired the way he looked after Ellie without making a show of it, the way he always sat with his back to a wall, eyes scanning like he could predict trouble before it came knocking.

The only problem was getting him to see what had been so obvious to you from the start.

Joel had been stubborn.

The first time you flirted with him—really flirted—he’d just blinked at you, like he thought he misheard. The second time, he’d scoffed, muttered something about "findin’ someone your own damn age." The third time… Well, that one had been his mistake.

Because you’d caught him looking.

It was just a flicker, just a second. But it was real. You’d seen it in the way his eyes lingered, the way his jaw tensed like he was biting down a thought he didn’t want to have. That was when you knew.

It was only a matter of time.

And now—now he was here.

Warm and solid beneath you, his arm heavy around your waist, his fingers tracing absentminded circles against your bare skin. The room smelled like both of you, like sweat and shared warmth and something slow-burning, something that had taken its time getting here. You were tangled up in each other, bare bodies draped together in the low morning light, catching your breath as the quiet hum of Jackson began to wake up just beyond the window.

“Tell me somethin’,” he muttered.

“Anything,” you murmured, your lips pressing gently into the warmth of his neck.

He sighed, the sound more exasperated than anything, his head turning on the pillow to look at you. His big eyes were so full of tenderness, but something flickered in them—a hesitation, a question he’d been holding onto longer than he wanted to admit.

“Why me?”

You stared at him for a long moment before a smirk twitched on your lips, and you ran your fingers through his graying curls, watching the way his eyes fluttered at the feeling.

“Haven’t you heard?” you teased, voice laced with playfulness, “It’s the end of the world, Mr. Miller. It’s slim pickin’s around here.”

Joel huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head, rolling his eyes like he wasn’t gonna let you get away with that answer.

But before he could grumble something about being an old man, you slid your hand down, fingers trailing over his chest, slow and sure, until you could feel the steady thump-thump of his heart beneath your palm.

"Good thing," you murmured, voice softer now, "you’re exactly the man I want."

Joel exhaled, long and slow.

And maybe, maybe that should have been enough to satisfy him.

But it wasn’t.

Because you knew he had lived too many years and lost too many things to believe in easy answers. He had spent too much time walking through hell to believe he had come out on the other side deserving of this.

His fingers curled against your hip, like he was testing it. The weight of you against him, the warmth of you in his bed. Maybe still half-convinced that this was something he’d wake up from.

You sighed, nudging your nose against his jaw. “Joel.”

He hummed, but it was barely a sound, like he didn’t quite trust himself to speak.

So you tried again. Softer this time. “Do you really think I would ever want anyone else?”

He didn’t answer.

You traced your fingers along his chest, slow and thoughtful, your mind drifting somewhere neither of you had ever dared to go before.

“I wonder sometimes,” you admitted, “what it would’ve been like. If we’d met before.”

Joel hesitated, his brows furrowing as he looked at you, eyes scanning your face. 

You let the thought settle between you, warm and quiet.

“Think about it,” you mused, your voice dipping into something thoughtful, something wistful. “Would we have even met? In a normal world?”

You could see the flicker of something behind his eyes. A life that could have been. A life that was gone before either of you had a chance to claim it.

“I was just a kid in Texas when everything happened,” you murmured. “Would’ve grown up, maybe gone to college, gotten some easy job that didn’t mean anything. You would’ve still been…” you swallowed, “you.”

A father. Maybe a husband at some point. A man with a life already built.

“Maybe I would’ve walked past you somewhere,” you continued. “At a store. A gas station. Maybe you would’ve held a door open for me, and I wouldn’t have thought twice about it.”

Joel’s fingers tightened against you like he was grounding himself in this moment. His voice was steady when he spoke. No hesitation, no doubt.

“I would’ve noticed you.”

You lifted your eyes to meet his, breath caught in your throat as your hand slid higher, up to the side of his face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. “Would you?”

Joel exhaled softly, leaning into your touch without thinking, his eyes tracing over your face like he was memorizing every piece of you.

“‘Course I would’ve,” he murmured. “Doesn’t matter when or where. Could’ve been another life, another world—" his thumb stroked absently along your waist, voice dipping into something quiet, something certain—"I still would’ve found you.”

The words settled into you, warm and heavy, threading through your ribs, curling tight around your heart.

Then, suddenly, he was smiling—just a little—as his hand came up to your face, cupping your jaw, his thumb sweeping along your cheek.

“Maybe in a normal world, I’d be the one pesterin’ you instead of the other way around.”

You laughed, tilting your chin up as you leaned closer. “I only ‘pestered’ ‘cause you’re too damn stubborn.”

Joel huffed softly, shaking his head like you were trouble, like you’d gotten under his skin in a way he’d never be able to shake.

But he pulled you closer, his fingers curled beneath your chin, tilting your face up just enough. His gaze flickered over you—your eyes, your lips—like he was taking his time, like he wanted to make sure you were committed to his memory.

And then he kissed you, slow and deep, breathing you in. Like a promise. Like an answer to a question neither of you had to ask.

His hand moved to the back of your head, lacing into your hair, the other tracing a slow path down your spine, pulling you against him until there was no space left between you. You sighed into him, melting, your fingers tangling into his hair as he deepened the kiss, as he drank you in like you were something precious, something he never wanted to lose.

When you finally parted, just barely, your forehead resting against his, his breath was warm against your lips.

“See?” you murmured, softer this time, “Slim pickin’s or not, I still would’ve found my way to you, Joel Miller.”

He exhaled, low and content, pressing one last lingering kiss to your lips before murmuring against them—

“I know.”

And this time, he did believe you.

[lymtw]

Talk To Me

"Come here," Toji says, at the sight of the involuntary pout that works wonders to express your internal, dispirited mood. His attention is divided very unevenly between you and the movie playing on the TV, you holding the greater part of his focus. He's watching you for his own peace of mind, hoping that every time you take a break from the movie, to check your phone, you'll spare him a look. You've been quieter than he knows you to be, and you're not sitting even remotely close to him. He's on one side of the couch and you're on the other side.

A few seconds pass since Toji spoke up, and he wonders if you even heard him in the first place, because you didn't respond. He passes on repeating himself when you shift your eyes from the TV to meet his gaze, and though your gloominess isn't because of him, you can't offer him any sort of indication that you're good.

"Sorry, i'm not in the mood to take my clothes off, Toji," you say, your voice a gentle, pitiful excuse for sound. If your voice could be seen, it would be similar to the tragic way that grass blades slowly try to stand up, after being stepped on. If the sound of your voice could be felt, it would be the void-like, almost nauseating feeling in your stomach, that comes with ignored hunger. You sound detached from the bright person Toji knows, and clearly, you're not okay.

"I'm not asking you to undress yourself. I want you to come to me," Toji responds. "You're sitting so far over there, away from me, like I did something to you. For being the most reasonable person I know, this isn't fair, at all." His eyes stay on you as he awaits your response, but he is only met with the sight of you looking down at your hands.

"Be fair. You didn't help me get better at communicating, just to turn the tables on me like this." His tone is sharper, out of urgency. He wants to know what he can do for you, but it's hard to do that when you're there, yet, not there. "Just... come here, ma," Toji tries again, his voice a little softer and understanding. "Please. Let's talk about anything." He pats his thigh, directing you to one of the reserved spots he holds for intimate conversations with you.

You know Toji's stubbornness will not leave you alone. It's impossible to hide anything from him once he's onto you, so you stop prolonging the inevitable and silently do as he says.

You turn off the TV, before walking over to him and settling on his lap. You sit there, with a racing heart, because Toji's attention feels like a spotlight on you. His hands interlock at the small of your back and rest there, as he waits for you to say something. Silence invades the moment while you figure out where to start.

"What's wrong?" He asks, when there is no attempt to speak made by you. Immediately, your throat begins to ache, and your eyes start to sting. It's a question known for breaking people, and you're on the brink of becoming another victim. You think you can widen your eyes to keep them dry or blink away the tears, but the outcome doesn't favor you. Toji's hands shift so that they're splayed out on your lower back. They move up and down in soothing motions, as if he's trying to coax your strong emotions out with the comforting gesture. Like a gloomy sky finally giving in to rain, you cave in to vulnerability.

"Baby?" Toji calls, watching as sadness takes over your features. He sighs as he pulls your twinkly-eyed self into his tight embrace. He hates when you cry. The sound and the sight is the equivalent of pouring acid on his heart. It's torture for him to see that his baby, his sweetheart, his love, has been reduced to streams of tears, but he knows that getting it all out is for your own good. This is the 'alcohol in the wound' part of the process. You don't want to do it, but you'll feel better, afterwards. Just like a real physical wound, Toji will make you get it done. Scream if you must, curl into him like you are trying to go through him, he's not going to abandon you.

"Just breathe, sweet girl," he instructs, when he hears the heart wrenching sound of your stuttered breaths. "Breathe. Give me a good one," he says, rubbing your upper back. You inhale, the act still heavily stuttered, before you exhale. "Good. Again." You repeat the process and get the same trembling breath as a result.

"Fuck," you choke out. Your head feels like it's pulsing, your abdomen burns, your chest feels heavy, as if you have chains tightly wrapped around your torso, and your throat aches. It's all so overwhelming, you feel like there's a disastrous storm ruining you from within.

"Sweetheart, please breathe. You're gonna turn blue any minute now." Toji can't hold you any tighter without crushing you, but he wants to, so badly. This is the lowest he's ever seen you and it's killing him. He has never made you this upset. It's hell to even imagine what you must have endured to get to this point.

"You're safe. I have you," he says, bringing a hand up to cradle the back of your head. "I'm here, baby."

Toji's shoulder is damp from your waterfalls of tears and he can feel an excessive amount of heat radiating from your trembling body. Your crying ceases and all that can be heard are sharp, short inhales and puffs of air, as you try to regulate your breathing. Toji continues running his hands over your back, soothing the tired, tense muscles of your shoulder blades.

"We are gonna have to talk about this later, doll. I know that might not sound like the most fun thing to do, but it'll make you feel better. I want you to feel better."

Toji is mindful of your silence. He knows your voice isn't in the best condition to speak after your surge of emotions, and you're probably exhausted, but this isn't a dead end for him. He'll figure out your needs, and he'll take care of you. Anything to bring your happy, smiling face, back.

Toji allows you to pull away from his shoulder, and instantly takes in the sight of your pretty, ruined face. You don't look at him, and he assumes that your appearance is to blame. Your eyes, they're red and puffy, glimmering in the light with your now contained feelings, and you're still sniffing like you need to blow your nose. It's terrible to see you this way, but he would withstand much more than this, if you needed it.

"How does a bath sound, for now? A bath and then some food? You hungry, mama?" He asks, his expression involuntarily soft, as he runs the pads of his thumbs beneath your eyes, attempting to clean you up a little.

"No," you say, quietly, with the fragility that remains of your voice.

"I'm gonna pick up some food while you relax." Toji almost laughs at the subtle roll of your eyes. "That's my bad. I shouldn't have asked in the first place. You need to eat something."

He doesn't want to put you through any more stress, but when he needs to take care of you, during times like this, he knows what you need more than you do. Your reasoning is clouded by your emotions, and you'll let go of yourself, because your thoughts rewind over and over to what's plaguing your mind. Toji knows you'll be glad he did this for you when you feel better.

"Let's get that bath ready," he says, securing your legs around his waist, before he stands up from the couch. Your face is buried in the crook of his neck, and you breathe in his scent, until you reach the bathroom.

Toji flicks the light on and sets you down on the counter. A chaste kiss is pressed to your tearstained cheek, before he lets you go so he can prepare your bath. You turn your head to look at yourself in the mirror and hate the messy sight before you—the product of your meltdown. You turn on the cold water and splash some on your face, hoping to decrease the puffiness of your eyes, even just a little bit, while Toji is busy. You dry your face afterwards and check your appearance in the mirror, again, to clean up any remaining gunk in your eyes.

When you finish, you turn back, just in time to watch Toji rise from his knelt position by the bathtub. He makes his way back to you and stands between your legs, offering you a contemplative look, and a "hm" to go along with it. No words are exchanged when his hand reaches out to gently cup your jaw, allowing him to turn your head in any way he wants. He leans forward to examine you more closely, to check if anything is "broken". He can see you pressing your lips together, trying not to laugh, as he continues to snoop around.

"Oh," he says, like he found a cable that has simply been disconnected. He turns your head a little, and keeps inspecting the problematic area, building up the suspense for you. You couldn't say it, but him finding something scared you a little, considering you had just looked at your reflection and didn't see anything.

"Don't move, doll. I'll get it." His hand rests on your shoulder, the other on your thigh, as he leans in closer and closer, until his body heat coils around you. He presses a kiss to the side of your neck. It's featherlight, almost like a gentle breeze. Another one lands on the same area, then another, and another, until he hears your little laugh, a sound that brought both of you mutual relief. Your relief came from understanding that Toji didn't actually find anything off, while Toji's came from the miracle of him being able to make you laugh, after what went down not that long ago.

"Two seconds, ma," he says, beneath your ear. He pulls away from you and goes back to the now foam covered, sweet smelling bathtub. He leans down to turn the faucet off, and returns to you, afterwards.

"It's all ready for you," he says. A smile curls on his lips when you raise your arms, signaling for him to pull your shirt off. "You wanna keep your bra and underwear on?" He asks, as he pulls the hem of your shirt up. You nod, just before the material goes over your head. He sets it aside and helps you down, off the counter, so you can take your sweatpants off. You pull your phone out of your pocket and set it on the counter. Your fingers hook into the waistband of your sweatpants and tug downwards, until they just slide down your legs and allow you to step out of them.

Toji watches you carefully step over the edge of the tub, one foot sinking through the foam and into the warm water, followed by your other foot. You crouch down, slowly, until you are able to sit down and eventually lay back. You close your eyes once you're in a comfortable position and just let the warm water and the pretty smell work its magic on you.

Toji kneels beside you, and observes you in a more serious manner than before. His gaze lingers on those tired eyes of yours, for longer than any of your other facial features. Your eyelids are still swollen and the bags beneath your eyes are prominent. The longer he stares, the more he thinks back to how you were so distressed, to the point where you forgot how to breathe for a few seconds. It scared him. He didn't get a single word about what was wrong, from you. You couldn't say anything other than that single curse, but even then, you sounded like you were being strangled by your own emotions.

Toji knows this is only a temporary fix— this calm sight of you resting in a bubble bath. Your feelings won't be swept under the rug, because he knows that if it were him going through this exact situation, you wouldn't just give him a hug and call it a day. No, when you take care of his mind and heart, you hold him in your arms and don't let go until he's the one trying to cage himself in your embrace when your arms loosen around him. You keep your voice at an intimate volume as you tell him about your day, because sometimes he isn't immediately ready to talk about what is bothering him, but he still wants to hear you. You cook for him, you give his tired body massages, you shower him with love and affection, and when he's finally ready to tell you what's going on, you listen closely to everything he has to say and you offer him your utmost support. You love and protect him to no end, and he has become shamelessly clingy towards you, because of it.

He wants you to feel as loved as he does. He wants you to know what it's like to experience the same level of care you give him. He may not be able to replicate it to a T, but he's willing to try for you.

"Hey," Toji calls, tenderly running the knuckle of his index finger back and forth, over your cheek. You hum, and blink open your eyes, giving him your attention. "I'm gonna go get us some food. Stay on the phone with me and keep me company until I get back, yeah?"

You nod. "Yeah, okay. Can you bring me my phone, please?"

Toji gets back on his feet and takes one large step towards the counter, retrieving your phone, before taking that same step back to leave it next to you, on the edge of the bathtub.

"Be right back, doll. Pick up the phone as soon as I call, okay?"

"Okay."

His hands grip the edge of the bathtub, to prevent him from falling in, as he leans in to peck your cheek once more. His weight shifts onto one arm so he can bring a hand to your face and rub the kiss into your skin with his thumb.

"Love you, ma."

"Love you, too."

With that, Toji stands up straight and heads towards the door. He takes one last look at your pretty face, before exiting the bathroom and closing the door behind him. He grabs his phone from the couch, his keys from the hook on the wall, and messily slides his shoes on, not bothering to put them on correctly, since he won't be getting out of the car, anyways. He secures the inside of the house, before heading out, and once he's outside, he finds his house key and locks the door. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and makes haste of clicking the phone icon, and then your contact, as he keeps walking to the car. His phone is now against his ear, and he listens as the line rings once... twice...

"Hi, Toji."

"Hi, baby."

[sourpeachsayshi]

minors - ageless - blank blogs dni - cw: daddy kink; daddy!dom; age gap

it was the build up to the moment that did it - the fact that you're with a man who is just so firm, so doting, so caring. kento won't let you lift a finger for a thing. he guards you like you're his to protect. if you could describe kento with just one word, it would be strength. because it was a trait that he carried over in every possible aspect of his life.

and you just couldn't stop fixating on that fact, and how it made your heart and pussy pulse with affection.

you didn't even hear yourself say it when it happened. you were so delirious being loved up with nanami's fingers and mouth working the space between your legs. he kept edging you, and edging you - wanted to see how well you could hold out for him. and when he permitted you to let go of the reigns, the words came out as a soft whimper once your orgasm flooded through your body.

"mmph, uh... thank you, daddy.~"

nanami perked up so fucking fast.

"what did you just call me?"

when the realization hits, you find yourself flushed with heavy embarrassment. your eyes prick with tears, your mouth going dry as you stammer excuses. you don't want him to think you are a freak or something but you're completely tongue tied as you try to explain what motivated you to call him that, stuttering "it's not-not like that..."

but your words carry as much weight as air. and it really doesn't help that your boyfriend is also older than you.

the tips of kento's ears are fucking hot. it's not like he's oblivious to this particular kink - it just wasn't his thing. hell, before you, nanami never really dated women who were younger than him. but you triggered something in him when that word came out of your mouth.

he runs his fingers through his blonde strands, and ponders it for a second before leaning in to kiss your forehead and your lips, and shushes you to quieten down. "it's okay, baby, it's okay," he soothes, "there's no need to be embarrassed. it happens, right?"

his dick is hard, and once he calms you down he is able to slip his cock between your wet folds again. your chest heaves slightly, a little sniffle leaving you as your lashes flutter close to hold back your tears.

nanami's hands are on your pelvis, dragging back and forth over the slope of the curve. "feel better?" he soothes, keeping an even rhythm as he sees your body grow softer with every thrust.

you nod your head, and find the courage to correct yourself. "thank you, kento..."

he bites his bottom lip, and holds back a smile. you're always so polite with him in the bedroom, he thinks it's fucking adorable. he thrusts a little harder, making you whimper to grab your attention. he buries himself deep inside you, halting all his movements. when you notice, you open your eyes to catch his stare, your cheeks stinging.

"come again?" he asks.

"I-I said thank you..." you answer innocently.

"I heard."

you look down at where your bodies connect, furrowing your brows in confusion and attempt to move yourself to get some relief, but kento just grips onto you tightly.

he rolls his hips teasingly, "you don't have to call me by my name. I know you what you want to say..."

there's a lump in your throat instantly. and you part in your lips in surprise as your heat races. "I...I can't..."

"oh, darling," your lover continues, a wicked tone highlighting that devilish smirk, one that's so sinful it looks foreign on that handsome face. he rocks back to drag his length out of you, then pushes in achingly slow. "I heard how it sounded. heard how turned on you were saying it..."

he picks up the pace of his movements, his words relentlessly egging you on. "you're just showing me how grateful you are, right? showing me that you you're happy with how I take care of you..." he offers in a tender voice. "making me proud that my girl is so well behaved..."

you whine, your hand fisting the bed sheet underneath you when you realize what your lover is actually doing. "oh my god..."

he tuts, "m'not asking for your prayers right now, sweetheart..."

the noise that comes out of you is broken as he returns to his original pace, fucking you exactly the way you like.

"please don't stop..."

"who are you asking?"

"you..."

"who?"

he's persuading you with his body and his words, and it makes your toes curl as you feel the title sit on the tip of your tongue.

"you, daddy~" you whine, as your eyes roll to the back of your head.

"use your words..." he scolds light heartedly.

"daddy, please don't stop~ it feels really good..."

"that's my girl," he grunts with desire, his arousal hitting a new peak. he flashes you his pearly whites, watches your body melt into a puddle of lust. "we are going to have so much fun with this, princess..."

[linoxpudding]

Intern (Pt 5)- Lee Know

summary: as the final month of your internship begins, keeping your emotions separate from your professional role becomes harder than ever, with the collaborative concert drawing near, tensions rise—not only on stage but between you and minho, who’s desperate to salvage what's slipping away

pairing: lee know x fem!reader

genre: angst, fluff, humor

word count: 5261 words

a/n: thank you so much for loving this series! I think this might be my most popular one and it honestly means the world, I really hope the wait was worth it! Love you always, my puddings ♡

Intern Series - Part Four

~°~

Your shoes echoed softly against the polished wood floor as you slipped into the staff room. Thankfully, it was empty. The moment the door shut behind you, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours. You stood there in the middle of the room, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, as if you were trying to physically hold all your emotions in. You didn’t even know how your legs even carried you there. Your heart was still hammering in your chest, your pulse deafening in your ears. 

What just happened?

Your chest burned. Not with sadness but with fury. You were angry. No, scratch that, you were livid.

How dare he say those words—so easily, so suddenly—like he hadn’t spent weeks pushing you away. Like he hadn’t left you in that gray zone, hovering between hope and heartbreak, constantly questioning if you were the problem. You’d convinced yourself to move on. To detach. To protect your own heart. And now, after all of it, he wanted to say I love you? Just like that?

After everything. After making you feel like you were the fool for reading too much into the way his eyes lingered, the way he looked at you like you were everything—and then turned cold the moment you stepped a little too close, dismissed you like you were the problem, the one who “flirted too much.” You’d swallowed that hurt. You moved on. You forced yourself to. And now, suddenly, he loves you?

You let out a bitter laugh, pacing the room.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. Slowly, with trembling hands, you grabbed your bag from the shelf where you’d left it earlier that morning. You needed to leave. Now.

*******************

Minho didn’t even realize how long he’d been standing there, his fingers tangled in his hair, his heart hammering in his chest like it wanted to escape his ribs. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and every moment since you’d walked away played on repeat in his head, like a broken record.

I lost her.

The thought echoed in his mind, louder with each passing second.

He didn’t hear the footsteps at first. It wasn’t until Hyunjin’s voice cut through the thick silence that Minho finally snapped back to reality.

“Hyung?”

Minho didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the ground, his body hunched in on itself, trying to hold himself together when everything inside him was falling apart.

“Hyung, what’s going on?” Hyunjin asked again, softer this time, stepping closer. He bent down beside Minho, concern furrowing his brow.

Minho shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “I lost her, Hyunjin... I don’t know what to do.”

Hyunjin’s heart twisted at the sight of his hyung like this, a shell of the confident, playful Minho he’d always known. The way his hyung’s hands gripped his hair tighter as he let out a pained groan, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. It was raw—painful.

“You didn’t lose her yet,” Hyunjin said, his voice firm but gentle as he put a hand on Minho’s shoulder. “I know it feels like you did. But you can still fix this.”

Minho’s face twisted in anguish, his lips trembling as he let out a breathless laugh, but it was hollow, empty. “I don’t know if I can. I... I hurt her, Jinnie. I pushed her away when all I had to do was be honest. And now... now she’s gone. She walked away from me.”

Hyunjin stayed quiet for a moment, taking in Minho’s words. He could see it now—the weight of regret, the desperation in his eyes.

“I don’t think she’s gone,” Hyunjin said carefully. “You’re both stubborn, hyung. You’ve been dancing around each other for so long. You didn’t want to admit it, and neither did she. But I don’t think it’s over. Not yet.”

Minho looked up at Hyunjin then, his eyes searching, hoping, desperate for any kind of reassurance. “But what if it is? What if I ruined it beyond repair? What if she doesn’t want me anymore?”

Hyunjin paused for a moment, then spoke quietly, “You’re not the only one who’s scared, hyung. She’s scared, too. But you’re the one who has to be brave now. Not only for her— but for yourself too. Because if you don’t try, you’ll regret it forever. You know that.”

Minho let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging. Hyunjin’s words hit harder than he expected. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe there was still a chance, but only if he had the courage to act.

Hyunjin stood up, offering his hand to Minho. “You’re going to fix this, hyung. But you have to start with telling her the truth. About everything. And you’ve got to be ready for whatever comes after. Don’t let her slip away without fighting for her.”

Minho’s hand trembled as he took Hyunjin’s, pulling himself up to his feet. His heart still ached, but the words hit something deep inside of him. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

*******************

You barely remembered how you got home. The keys slipped from your fingers twice before you finally managed to unlock the door. The moment you stepped inside, your knees gave out and you slid down against the wall, feeling the weight of everything crash over you.

Your phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Hyunjin kept calling again and again. You pressed your forehead against your knees, willing yourself not to break down, willing yourself not to hope. And when your phone buzzed for the tenth time, you simply reached over, turned it off, and tossed it into a corner.

You couldn't do this. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

The next morning, your body moved on autopilot. You typed a message to your supervisor with trembling fingers, lying easily.

“I have a bad migraine. Won’t be able to work on fittings today. I’ll continue working on the designs remotely.”

A polite response came back almost immediately—“Take care. Focus on feeling better.”

You needed space—space from him, from the suffocating weight of everything. It was already the final month of your internship. Just a few more weeks, and you wouldn’t have to see him again.

You told yourself that over and over like a mantra as you buried yourself in sketches, swatches, sewing patterns. The living room became your sanctuary. You stayed hunched over your work for hours, sketching until your fingers cramped, trying to come up with excuses to tell your supervisor so that you do not have to step anywhere near their dressing rooms. Anywhere near him for the remaining internship period.

One step at a time—you just had to get through this.

The major stage collaboration was coming up, the biggest project of your internship, the one that could launch your career if you gave it your all.

Let the countdown begin.

*******************

48 Hours Before the Concert

You returned to work with your heart armored in ice. 

The company was in chaos. The stylists were rushing, the managers were running, the boys from both groups were rehearsing endlessly. No one had time to notice that you’d disappeared from their orbit—well except for Minho and Hyunjin.

You avoided their practice room like it was a battlefield. Instead, you locked yourself away in the design room, sketching out costumes, adjusting stitching details—anything to keep your hands busy, anything to keep your mind from wandering.

Minho tried to talk to you. At first, you heard his footsteps. You caught glimpses of him hovering by the door. Once, when you dared to glance up, you saw him standing just outside the window, his face tense, uncertain. But you dropped your head back down before he could gather the courage to step inside. You didn’t give him a chance.

Hyunjin also tried texting, looking for you after rehearsals, even poking his head into the design room but couldn’t find you since every time, you made yourself smaller, quieter, easier to miss.

You weren’t ready to face Minho. You weren’t sure if you ever would be. 

At some point, even Hyunjin gave up trying, swept away into the madness of final rehearsals, concept checks, and the insane pressure of the collaboration stage they were preparing.

You thought you were safe. You thought you could make it to the end.

24 Hours Before the Concert

Minho was unraveling. He didn’t even bother pretending anymore. He was searching for you like a man possessed. Between rehearsals, between fittings, between breaks—his eyes flicked around desperately, always hoping to catch a glimpse.

He sent messages—one after another.

Minho: "Can we please talk?" Minho: "Just for a minute. You don’t even have to say anything. Please." Minho: "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Y/N."

You stared at the notifications, feeling your chest clench painfully.

You left them unanswered.

Because you were afraid. Because you didn’t know if you could survive hearing more empty words. Because some wounds weren’t meant to be picked open again.

That night, Minho sat in the darkened practice room, back against the mirror. The others had gone home. He stayed. The blue glow of his phone lit up his face, your unread messages staring back at him like ghosts.

He typed. Deleted. Typed again.

His thumb hovered over the send button for a long time before he finally pressed it.

Minho: "I miss you."

Short. Honest. Bare. You never replied.

12 Hours Before the Concert

The final rehearsal was a whirlwind of noise and energy.

Seventeen and Stray Kids crisscrossed the stage, voices overlapping, last-minute notes flying as everyone tried to perfect every second. Everyone was running around doing their assigned tasks– sound engineers hovered by the sides of the stage, tweaking mic volumes and running emergency checks, stage managers paced with clipboards, calling out timing cues and adjusting placements, stylists were doing last-minute fittings.

You stayed hidden behind the racks of costumes, keeping yourself busy threading last-minute repairs on stage outfits, sketching alterations for the collaboration stages. Minho saw you once—just a glimpse—and started towards you immediately.

You ducked behind a different aisle and disappeared before he could even call your name.

He slumped against the wall, dragging a hand through his hair. His heart ached. He was trying. God, he was trying. But you wouldn’t even look at him. And he knew he deserved it.

That night, he sat alone again. Hyunjin found him there, in the same spot, legs pulled up, forehead resting on his arms.

"Hyung…" Hyunjin said softly.

Minho didn't look up.

"I don’t think she hates you," Hyunjin added after a while, voice low. "She’s hurt. But she doesn’t hate you."

"I hate myself enough for the both of us," Minho murmured.

*******************

Day of the Concert 

You were up before sunrise and rushed to the company, it was going to be a long day. You began helping the senior stylists prepare everything. You kept your head down, blending into the background.

Minho tried to find you again, between makeup, between fittings.

Once, you walked right past him. You felt his eyes—burning, aching—trailing you, but you didn’t turn around.

He watched your retreating figure with a helpless kind of yearning, his heart feeling like it was being squeezed dry.

He typed one last message.

Minho: "If you don’t want to forgive me... I understand. But I love you. I love you, Y/N."

He didn’t expect a reply. He just wanted you to know.

You read his message, but your fingers stayed frozen above the screen. You couldn't trust yourself to reply. Not yet.

Soon after, it was time to leave for the concert venue.

Everyone from your company piled into multiple vans, buzzing with pre-show nerves and excitement. Seventeen would meet you all there, coming straight from their own company.

You slipped into one of the vans early, picking a seat at the very back. You tucked your bag close, phone clutched tightly in your hands. Minho hurried behind you, heart hammering in his chest.

There was a small opening beside you. He didn't even think—he moved to sit there.

He was about to slide into the seat beside you but at the very last second, you shifted, scooting away from the aisle, pressing yourself impossibly closer to the window. Pretending like you needed more space.

Minho froze mid-motion.

He stood there, awkward, shattered, the empty space where you had been just a second ago feeling colder than anything he'd ever known.

His hand tightened around the back of the seat for a second, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. Without a word, he dropped into a seat several rows in front instead, boxed in between Jisung and Seungmin.

The van door slammed shut, the engine rumbled to life—but Minho barely noticed. He barely heard the others laughing, hyping each other up. He barely felt the road vibrating under the tires. All he could feel was you—silent, turned away from him, just a few feet out of reach.

When they finally pulled up behind the venue, staff started piling out. You were the first one to slip off the van, blending into the chaos of bodies and equipment and flashing lights.

Minho lingered for a second in the seat, swallowing thickly as he watched you disappear into the crowd.

He had the urge to call out your name. He almost did. But he bit it back, lowering his head, heart cracking silently in his chest.

*******************

The air backstage crackled with adrenaline—stylists rushing, cords tangling, outfits getting last-minute steamed.

You were helping your supervisor adjust Felix’s jacket, smoothing the sleeves, checking the fit one last time. Your hands worked automatically, your mind floating somewhere far away.

Across the crowded room, Minho kept staring at you longingly. For a second—just a second—he thought maybe you’d let him. Maybe you’d glance at him. But when you shifted away, without even looking at him, it felt like a punch to the gut. Like watching a door slowly, painfully close in his face.

He sat down numbly at the makeup table, the bustling room fading into the background and all he could think was:

"I don’t blame you... but please, just once—look back at me."

Meanwhile, Hyunjin, sitting a few chairs away, was locked in the makeup artist’s grip, a brush sweeping across his cheekbones. But he still tried. He still tried to catch your eyes, frantic and desperate, needing you to see him. You lifted your head, sensing the weight of his stare and all you could offer him was a small, polite smile. Nothing more.

You could tell Hyunjin wanted to call out to you, to jump out of his chair, to explain everything he hadn’t been able to. But the makeup artist was sternly holding his chin still, murmuring warnings about smudging his foundation. He couldn’t move.

And so he watched you quietly, heartbreak pooling in his chest, as you finished adjusting Felix’s jacket...and turned away without another glance.

*******************

1 Hour Before the Concert

You had just grabbed a coffee from the catering area backstage, trying to escape the buzz of frantic preparations. The area was buzzing with energy, crew members darting from one spot to another, but you found a small moment of calm amidst it all. The food table was lined with snacks, coffee, and drinks, where you’d managed to find a brief respite. You were leaning against the counter, sipping your drink slowly, when the door to the room burst open with a loud bang.

Hyunjin stormed inside, his eyes wild and intense, looking like he had been running through the entire venue. His hair was slightly tousled, chest heaving with quick breaths as if he was on a mission.

Before you could even react, he reached for your wrist, gripping it firmly and pulling you out of the room.

“Come with me,” he commanded, urgency lacing his voice.

"Hyunjin—!" you gasped, stumbling after him. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"You’re done hiding!" he snapped, not even slowing down.

He pulled you into an empty band room backstage, and shoved the door shut behind you, trapping you inside. You barely caught your balance, turning to glare at him—but the look on Hyunjin’s face made your heart falter.

He looked furious. And desperate.

"You need to stop running, Y/N," he said, voice sharp, shaking slightly with emotion. "You think you’re protecting yourself? You’re just hurting both of you."

You crossed your arms, biting the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying. "It’s not that simple, Hyunjin—"

"YES, it is!" he cut you off, voice cracking, "You’re mad. You’re hurt. I get it. But Minho hyung—"

His voice broke again and he punched the wall lightly with the side of his fist, breathing hard.

"He’s dying," Hyunjin said, lower now, almost broken. "He’s breaking in front of us. He can't sleep. He can't eat. Every time he sees you, it's like someone rips another piece out of him."

You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting the tears threatening to spill.

"You think you’re the only one hurting?" Hyunjin asked, stepping closer, so close you could feel the sadness vibrating off him. "He’s been tearing himself apart for days, trying to find a way to fix this, and you won’t even LOOK at him."

You shook your head helplessly, voice cracking, "He’s the one who—"

"He knows," Hyunjin cut you off desperately, "He knows he fucked up. He hates himself for it. You think it’s easy for him to stand there and watch you pretend like he doesn’t exist?"

You stared at him, heart pounding, breath shaking.

Hyunjin whispered, “He loves you, Y/N.”

“No, he doesn’t.” you shot back. “He saw Mingyu and got territorial. That’s not the same thing as love.”

Hyunjin’s voice softened a little, but the intensity stayed, "Listen to me. Minho hyung…he’s dying inside. He’s been trying to talk to you for days. He's not playing games. He’s not saying those things because he's jealous of Mingyu or whatever else you think."

You bit your lip, hard. "Then why, Hyunjin? Why now? After everything?"

"Because he’s an idiot who thought he didn’t deserve you," Hyunjin said, voice raw. "He pushed you away because he was scared he’d ruin you. Because he thought you’d be better off without him."

Your heart stuttered painfully.

"And seeing you laugh with Mingyu made him realize exactly what he was about to lose," Hyunjin continued. "Not because of jealousy. Because he saw you happy and he wasn’t the one making you happy anymore."

The lump in your throat grew unbearable.

"He really loves you, Y/N," Hyunjin said simply. "He’s loved you this whole time. He just didn’t know how to believe he was worthy of it."

Your vision blurred.

Then, Hyunjin went on to explain everything — how Minho had been in love with you all along, how he had been miserable every time you avoided him backstage, how he stayed up at night overthinking every glance you refused to give him. How he regretted what he said at that freaking party every single day, hated himself for it, how the weight of it had been crushing him more and more every time you turned away.

Hearing it laid out like that shattered something inside you. It wasn’t just regret in Minho’s lingering stares. It was love — raw, desperate, aching love. And it had always been there, even when you were too hurt to see it.

You felt suffocated. 

"Don’t do this," Hyunjin whispered, almost pleading now, "don’t walk away without hearing him out. If you ever loved him…even a little, give him the chance to explain."

You felt your walls crumbling under the weight of it all. Without another word, you tore past Hyunjin, sprinting down the hall.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. Not until you found him. You tore down the hall, nearly tripping over your own feet, chest heaving, heart racing so hard it hurt.

You didn’t know where you were going—you just knew you had to find him.

*******************

The greenroom was quiet—eerily so. Everyone else was getting hair and makeup in other room, doing last checks, hyping each other up. Minho sat there alone, away from everyone, for a moment. 

Meanwhile, you kept running— the backstage corridors blurred as you rushed past, heart hammering, breath coming in short gasps. Somewhere, you could hear the muffled sounds of last-minute chaos—stylists calling for touch-ups, managers barking out directions, the low hum of excitement—but it all felt far away, like you were underwater.

Finally, after checking room after room, your footsteps faltered in front of a greenroom tucked away from the rest. The door was slightly ajar, and you prayed he was inside. You pushed it open with trembling fingers, and your breath caught painfully in your throat.

There he was. Minho.

Sitting alone on the bench, fully dressed in his final concert outfit, the dark, sleek fabric molding perfectly to his figure. His mic was already clipped to his collar, earpieces in place, as if he were ready to go onstage any second. But he wasn’t moving.

He was hunched forward, elbows resting heavily on his knees, staring blankly at the floor like the world had already ended and he was the only one left to mourn it.

The second he heard the door creak wider, his head snapped up.

He whispered your name, "Y/N..."

So soft. So broken. Like he didn’t believe you were real. It shattered you.

Before you even knew what you were doing, you rushed across the room, and before he could even speak, your hands were cupping his jaw and your lips crashed into his.

Minho stiffened for half a second, completely shocked and then his arms were around you, pulling you flush against him, kissing you back with everything he had. Your fingers tangled in his hair, your lips trembling against his with everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t dared to feel until now. 

When you finally pulled back, panting, you pressed your forehead to his and whispered, “I hate you.”

He laughed, hoarse and teary-eyed. “I know.”

“I hate how long it took you.”

“I hate me too.”

“But I love you.”

Minho stilled.

And then his arms wrapped around you tighter than they ever had. “I love you more,” he murmured. “And I swear I’ll prove it every day from now on.”

You smiled, your eyes full of tears and joy and relief. “You better.”

Minho’s voice was rough, barely a whisper as he spoke. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

You blinked, your chest tightening with all the emotions that had built up. "I know, Minho. Just... show me. Show me you're not going to run away again."

His hand gently cupped your face again, his thumb brushing over your lips softly. “I won’t run. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, he leaned in again, this time more carefully, his lips brushing against yours with a softer, more deliberate motion, like he was savoring the moment, as if this was the first time.

The door slammed open.

"AHHHHHH! MY EYES!" Jisung screamed, dramatically throwing himself against the door frame like he was shielding himself from radiation.

You jolted apart, both of you wide-eyed and breathless.

Felix appeared behind Jisung, peeking into the room with wide, curious eyes.

"Hyung," Felix said, "We need to be on stage in like twenty five minutes." Then he glanced between you two and grinned brightly. "Also, um, HOW did this happen?"

Jisung gasped, "Like LIKE… you were literally at war yesterday! HOW are you kissing now? I need DETAILS!"

"Was it a secret make-up plan?? Did someone blackmail someone? TELL ME EVERYTHING—"

"Channie hyung’s gonna kill us if we’re late!" Felix laughed, tugging on Jisung’s sleeve, but he was also bouncing on his toes, eager for gossip.

"And Y/N, you have to explain later, okay? Like every single detail. Every single one."

Somewhere down the hall, you heard Chan’s voice yelling, "WHERE THE HELL IS EVERYONE?"

Minho groaned under his breath, leaning down to quickly kiss your forehead—just one soft second—and then he grabbed his mic pack and jogged toward the door.

But as he passed you, he whispered under his breath, only for you to hear, "Don’t go anywhere. I’m not letting you slip away again."

You stood there, heart pounding, lips still tingling, while Jisung whined the whole way down the hallway, “Yah! I’m serious! I'm coming for answers after the show!”

And you just laughed, happier than you had been in days.

*******************

The final performance was just moments away. Ten minutes give or take. You stood backstage, heart racing—not from nerves, but from everything that had happened.

Minho adjusted his mic, glancing at you with a silent question in his eyes. You stepped closer, pulling him aside for a moment, fingers gently brushing against his as you whispered, “Earlier, when Mingyu and I were talking… he wasn’t flirting.”

Minho blinked, caught off guard.

“He said he could see something going on between you and me. That he’d back off. And… that maybe I hadn’t noticed it myself yet.”

Minho let out a breathy laugh, hand raking through his hair. “God. I really need to control my damn jealousy.”

You smiled softly, Minho flushed slightly before saying, “He wasn’t wrong, though. About the heart eyes.”

You blushed then gently nudged his arm. “Come on, make peace with him. You two are too handsome to be fighting in the middle of rehearsals.”

Minho rolled his eyes but smiled, nodding. He walked over to Mingyu, who was talking with Joshua by the corner while adjusting his blazer, and you watched from afar as Minho gave a sincere apology. Mingyu accepted it with a grin and a clap on Minho’s shoulder, flashing you a wink behind him. Everything just… settled.

And then, the concert. The adrenaline. The stage lights. The roars of the crowd.

Both the collaboration stages and the groups' individual performances were breathtaking— hours of relentless energy, passion, and magic spilling out onto that stage. The entire venue was electric, a sea of waving lightsticks and screaming fans, every second more exhilarating than the last.

You danced and moved like nothing else mattered. But every time your eyes found Minho’s on stage, there was a knowing smile—one only meant for you.

After the final bow, the cheers still ringing in your ears, you were barely backstage for a minute when Minho grabbed your wrist gently and whispered, “Come with me.”

"Minho," you giggled breathlessly, "where are we even going?!"

"Somewhere no one will find us," he muttered determinedly, glancing around until he spotted a half-open door.

Without warning, he pulled you inside.

“I’ve been waiting all night,” he said, breathless.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t careful.

It was urgent, desperate, his hands cupping your face as if he’d been starving for your lips. Your back hit the wall lightly as you gasped against his mouth, hands sliding under his jacket and gripping his shirt.

His lips moved feverishly over yours, like he was trying to pour every emotion he’d buried into this moment. When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, he whispered against your lips, “You have no idea how crazy I’ve been going… not being able to do this.”

You let out a breathless laugh, tugging him back in. “Then don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

That kiss was everything—the apology, the promise, the confession, and the beginning. All in one.

*******************

The concert had ended, the cheers still echoing faintly in the corridors as everyone bustled around, packing up, high-fiving, celebrating.

Mingyu leaned against the wall near the dressing room door, sipping water and scrolling through his phone when a voice interrupted him.

"You were amazing up there," she said, her tone warm and teasing.

He looked up to see one of the stage crew members—someone he’d briefly chatted with before—smiling at him, her hands tucked behind her back, eyes bright.

Mingyu blinked, a little surprised. “Oh thank you. You too, the transitions were super smooth today.”

She giggled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I did my best. But I was watching you the whole time.”

Mingyu raised a brow, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Oh yeah?”

She stepped a little closer, playfully nudging his arm. “You always smile so much when you perform. It’s contagious.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess that’s a good thing.”

She tilted her head. “You doing anything after this?”

For a second, Mingyu glanced toward the dressing room, where laughter echoed—where his bandmates were chattering.

Then he looked back at her, his smile softening. “Not yet,” he said. “But I could be.”

Her grin widened.

And just like that, maybe Mingyu’s heart started to heal too.

*******************

Minho’s lips trailed kisses along your jaw, his hands framing your face as if he still couldn’t believe this was real. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, breath mingling as you leaned into him, every inch of space between you practically non-existent.

The air was hot, your heart pounding louder than any concert speaker. His forehead rested against yours, breathless as he whispered, “I’m not letting go of you again. Ever.”

You smiled, pulling him back into another kiss — slower this time, but no less intense. The kind that made your knees weak and your brain fuzzy, the kind that left no question about how badly he wanted you — and how badly you wanted him.

Your hands tangled in his hair, his arms locked tightly around your waist, pressing you against the wall.

It was messy and breathless, both of you still slightly shaking from the adrenaline of the concert.

"Missed you," he murmured against your mouth between kisses, voice hoarse.

You were just about to mumble "me too" when a loud knock rattled the door.

Minho froze mid-kiss, groaning against your lips. You stifled a laugh.

“Hyung?” Han’s voice called, too amused for your liking. “Minho hyung, will this continue all night or should we leave snacks outside the door?”

You buried your face in Minho’s chest as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Minho hyung is seriously down bad,” Hyunjin chimed in, voice loud and dramatic.

“Excuse you,” Han called out, raising an eyebrow. “Your bestie Y/N is equally down bad.”

You playfully smacked Minho's chest, laughing into his shirt. “Did your wife just out me like that?”

Minho groaned, forehead dropping against your shoulder in defeat, "Kill me," he muttered. "Right now. Just kill me."

You both heard Han and Hyunjin start bickering again — something about who was more down bad between you and Minho — and you couldn't help but giggle quietly against Minho, your heart feeling so full you thought it might burst.

“YAH!” Minho finally shouted, voice filled with exasperated affection. “You want to die? Leave us alone!”

A pause.

Then shuffling footsteps and exaggerated gagging noises as they walked off. You and Minho looked at each other and were shaking with laughter, tangled in each other and unwilling to part.

You sighed happily, still held close. “We really are that bad, huh?”

Minho leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Maybe. But I’m not sorry.”

Minho tightened his arms around you, swaying you both lazily, “I love you, you know,” he murmured, so gently it melted into your skin.

A big smile broke across your face.

“I love you too, Minho,” you whispered back, like it was the easiest thing in the world — because with him finally, it was.

--------------

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[steddiehyperfixation]

@steddiebingo prompts: lecture + skull rock | 1.2k words | T |

Eddie closes his locker to find Nancy suddenly standing right beside him. “Jesus!” he startles, hand pressed to his chest. He hadn't even heard her approach.

“Sorry.” She has the decency to look apologetic. “I didn't mean to sneak up on you, I just wanted to talk to you for a sec. I hear you and Steve are...together?” She says it carefully, with the inflection of a question, and Eddie has a vague feeling like she's testing him but he has no idea what for.

“Um.” He doesn't know what the right answer is. “Well, I don't know exactly- I mean, kind of? It's not really anything, we've just...made out a couple times.”

Nancy raises her eyebrows. “You just...made out a couple times,” she repeats.

Eddie shrugs, getting a little nervous that he's failing her test. He really cannot get a read on her right now. “Yeah, um, I mean, it was probably just like a one time, two time thing…”

A tiny scrunch flickers across her face and she mutters to herself, “God, is that what I sounded like?”

“What?”

“Nothing, sorry, I just got major deja vu.” She shakes her head and then looks back up at him with those big, serious eyes. “Anyways. Look, you might not think it's anything, but I know Steve and I guarantee you he already thinks you guys are something. So if you only wanted it to be just a one time, two time thing, then you better tell him quick before he gets too deeply attached. He falls fast and he falls hard, don't let him get too serious if you're not.”

She reminds him vaguely of a teacher lecturing some clueless kid, but Eddie feels less chastised and more like he's just been punched in the chest. “Wait, you really think-?”

“He wants something real, he always has,” Nancy continues, “and if you guys haven't talked about it, he's just going to assume that's what you are. He's a hopelessly hopeful romantic, Eddie, he can't help it. He's all in already, I'm sure, so if that's not what you wanted out of whatever you two have got going on, then don't waste his time - don't waste your time. Don't play along and break his heart if you already know you don't feel the same.”

“No, I wouldn't-” Eddie finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, can't do much more than give her a sort of deer-in-headlights stare.

“I'm not judging you,” she reassures him in a slightly softer tone now, clearly misinterpreting something in his expression. “I'm not upset with you. I'm just trying to give a little advice, from my own experience. Just make sure you two are on the same page, alright? That's all I'm saying. For both of your sakes.”

“Right- yeah, thanks,” he stammers. He points his thumb awkwardly over his shoulder. “I, uh, I gotta go…”

He doesn't wait for a response before he turns and hurries down the hall to get outside. A deep breath of fresh air to shake off the weird suffocating feeling Nancy's lecture had given him, and then Eddie's heading straight for the nearest phone. He has to talk to Steve, has to see him.

“Hey, Stevie,” he says the second the other line picks up. “I'm ditching class right now, wanna hang out?”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve agrees immediately, a smile in his voice. “I can meet you at our usual spot in, like, 20 minutes?”

'Our usual spot', aka Skull Rock, the make-out spot--their spot now apparently since that's where it started, since that's where they've met the last three times they've hung out alone, the last three times they've kissed and kissed and not talked. But Eddie can't think of anywhere else to suggest, so he says, “Yeah, sounds good. See you soon.”

He hangs up the phone and heads for Skull Rock.

A short drive and a longer hike and he's leaning against the side of that infamous skull-shaped boulder, watching the surrounding foliage for signs of Steve. He doesn't have to wait long before Steve steps out from the brush in all his gorgeous glory, face lit up in a beautiful smile just at the sight of Eddie.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Steve walks up to him and draws him straight into a kiss, because that's what they do here, at Skull Rock, the make-out spot, their spot. His lips are soft and warm and Eddie melts right into it, draping his arms over Steve's shoulders and kissing back before he remembers that he'd meant to use his mouth for talking instead.

“Wait, Steve.” It takes all Eddie’s willpower to break the kiss and pull back enough to speak. “Is this real to you?”

“Hmm, feels pretty real, but I don’t know, I could be dreaming. I never can tell around you,” Steve flirts easily, voice a smooth murmur as he brushes some of Eddie’s hair out of his face, caressing his cheek. “Might need to pinch me just to be sure.”

“No, I mean-” Eddie ducks out from between Steve and the rock, putting a little more space between them before he can give in to the ever-growing urge to give up on talking and go back to kissing. “Um, Nancy kind of ambushed me in the hall earlier, gave me this whole lecture about how you get attached really quick and how if I only wanted this to be something casual I should tell you fast before you get too serious, because she thinks you're probably already serious and that you want something real,” he provides context in an awkward, nervous rush, not even pausing for a breath, “and I just- I need to know, is that true?”

“Oh.” The previous playful flirtatiousness drains from Steve’s expression and his face falls. “Um.” He shakes his head, more like he's trying to clear his thoughts than anything. “Shit- I’m sorry if she freaked you out. She had absolutely no right to try to speak for me like that. I mean, I really am fine if you just want this to be casual...”

“I don't, I just thought that's what you wanted,” Eddie says. He hasn't been explaining this right. “Because that's all we've been doing - we come here and we make out and that’s it, casual, so this whole time I just assumed that's all it was to you. But then Nancy said all that stuff about you and it gave me this hope I hadn't let myself have before, so can you please just tell me if she was right?” He looks at Steve, eyes big and earnest. “Because I really, really want her to be right.”

Steve just stares at him for a moment, then softens with a sigh. “Yeah,” he admits, a tentative smile tugging at his lips, “she was right. I definitely don't just feel casual about you - it's real; I want real.”

Eddie’s face bursts into a grin. He throws his arms around Steve and pulls him into another kiss. “Then let’s get out of this casual fucking place.” He takes Steve by the hand and starts dragging him away from Skull Rock. “Come on, let me buy you some lunch.”

[sunskisser]

heart | bucky barnes

bucky barnes x reader — ★ — wc 1k

summary: bucky asks you why you love him

tw: hurt/comfort, tears, angst to fluff, bucky is so precious and needs to be protected at all costs 🥹

The rain poured violently outside, hitting the ground in torrents. But the doors muffled it to barely audible thumps. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The repetitive sound ran through your mind like some kind of mantra, too tired to think of much else. Paired with the feeling of Bucky’s hair on your fingertips, it was almost meditative.

You sat curled up on the couch with his head in your lap. You had wanted to get started on your next read, The Hobbit — but Bucky insisted on annotating it before you did, claiming it would help you understand it better. So you let yourself relax while he did.

You’re broken out of your reverie by the soft sound of your name, and look down to see Bucky gazing up at you.

“Yeah?”

“Can we… talk for a bit?”

You think he looks a little nervous, though you’re not sure why. It makes you nervous. “Sure, what’s up?”

He marks the book before closing it, pushing himself up into a sitting position. His tongue juts into the side of his mouth, eyebrows bunching up as he turns to face you.

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a bit. He just stares down at the couch. It’s like you can hear him playing with different responses on the tip of his tongue, frown widening by the second. 

You’re restless, almost dying to ask him what had happened. But you hold back for his sake.

Finally, he sighs and meets your gaze for a split second before diverting it again. “Why do you…” He clears his throat. “Why do you do this?”

You blink. “Do what?”

“Why do you —“ he sighs and runs his hand through his hair. He looks perplexed. “You know, be with me and stuff. Why do you love me?”

There’s a sensation in your heart, a tad bit worse than sinking. It’s like drowning.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

You stay quiet, taking a moment to collect your thoughts. Bucky seems to take it as his sign to continue.

“I’ve done so many awful things, doll, and you know it. I — I’ve hurt people, fuck, I even murdered them. I’m a murderer. And I —“

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“You always say that.” It felt like someone was stabbing you in the heart, right through the little atrium where your heart begins to beat. “You always say it. But it’s not true, it’s not. It’s my fucking fault. I killed those people.”

“Bucky,” you know you sound worried, and that it might freak him out. But you can’t bring yourself to care right now, seeing his head hung between his hands like that. Though it was months ago, he looks as tortured as he did on the day you first met. On the day he had just been saved from Hydra — and it scared you. 

He doesn’t respond.

“Buck,” you try again, softer, hesitantly reaching out to rub his arm. He lets you. “I mean it, you know? I mean it when I say it’s not your fault. You were brainwashed. You wouldn’t have done… any of it, if it were up to you.”

“But that’s just the thing, isn’t it? It wasn’t up to me. Brainwashed or not, I still did it.”

There’s nothing but biting anguish in his voice; self deprecation at the tip of it.

“You didn’t choose to.”

He takes a shuddering inhale, and that’s when you know he’s holding back tears. It wasn’t visible to you. But it’s audible now. “Hey. Hey, babe.”

You scoot closer towards him, hand on his arm drifting round to his back. 

You give the nape of his neck a gentle squeeze, and it seems to be all the reassurance he needs to let go. A strangled sob escapes him.

“Okay. It’s okay, Buck. You can let go, yeah? Just let go,” you say, trying to ignore the dull ache in your heart as you wrap your arm around him. 

Bucky starts to cry, softly at first. Then he starts to shake, pent up sobs coming out like a storm after rain. It’s heartbreaking. He instinctively curls into you, and you hold him.

“You didn’t choose to do it. Any of it,” you murmur again. He pushes his face into your chest, tears and snot and self-hatred and all. You take it as a sign that you’re getting through to him. “You were forced, my love. You didn’t want to do those things —“ you rub his back, hoping it conveys all the love that you need it to, “— so it’s not your fault. It never has been, and it never will be.”

Perhaps you sound a little choked up. Maybe Bucky notices, and that’s why he wraps his arms around you. Or maybe it’s because he loves you, and love is sometimes worth fighting your demons for.

You don’t say anything for a while more; you know he doesn’t need you to. What he needs is for you to hold him in your arms, let him feel safe as he cries. You do exactly that. You’ll do anything for him.

“I love you,” you murmur again after a bit, when his tears have slowed and sniffles are softer. You realised you never really answered his question in the first place. 

“I love you because you’re you, Bucky,” you start. “You’re soft, and sweet, and —“ you’re tearing up now, but you can’t help it. You hug him tighter. “— and you make my coffee just the way I like it. You kiss me and it makes me feel like the most precious thing in the world. You hold me when I cry, and buy me flowers like I’m worth it.”

“You are worth it,” he croaks quietly, voice muffled in your chest.

“I know I am. I know, because you showed me,” you warble, burying your face in his hair. “And I need you to believe the same. You are worth it. You can hate yourself every second of every day, and I will still love you. I’ll always love you.”

Bucky tilts his head upwards slightly to press a wet kiss to your collarbone. His lips graze the skin above your heart. “You really believe what you’re saying, huh?”

“I do,” you whisper, no hesitation. “I love you.”

You feel his hand in your hair, another soft kiss to your heart. “I love you.”

[takes1]

HOORAY I just read ur bokuto x reader p4 it was really cute :3 sorry havent updated in awhile i got busy with life… but i never forget to keep u in mind 🫶 love ur work as always, very memorable writer to me -🐈🐈‍⬛

[final] bokuto teaching inexperienced!reader

only fitting to respond to you for this last one. ughhh ilysm 🥹😭💕💕

warnings. heavy nsfw, minors DNI

details. fem!reader / first time / soft kissy missionary / safe sex / BIG praise kink!bokuto / himbo!bokuto / sweet, dumb!bokuto / inexperienced!reader / possessive!bokuto / f!rec oral / guided handjob / kuroo's sister!reader / 2.3k words / last installment

links. my masterlist. my ao3. more haikyuu. part one here. part two here. part three here. part four. request box

You tilted your head, eyes narrowed a little at the generous, clear bulge in his tiny shorts.

"Can I see it?"

He fisted the sheets in his excitement that you were thinking the same thing, biting his cheek so he didn't shout. Just by the obvious elation on his face, you could tell he was in the process of holding back a million bad responses.

Instead, he let his hands talk, lips crashing against yours all rough and thirsty as he pulled it out. You didn't want his kisses, though-- you grinned as you avoided what you could, so you could see.

Propped up on your elbows, you looked from his vigilant stare, trailing down his sculpted, smooth body down to his cock between your tummies.

It looked heavy.

You quickly learned that it was hot, too, as he guided your palm around it, and used your hand to pump himself. Your heart was racing- it was so weird, and you liked it so much, and he liked it even more.

Bokuto always stood by the idea that 'it always feels/tastes/sounds better when somebody else does it.' The kind of guy to only drink out of other peoples' cups, ask other people to read things out loud to him, massage a part of his shoulder he could get but won't.

While you didn't know what you were doing in the slightest, and he was controlling your pace, even the harsh grip, it still felt 40x better than all the jerking off he usually did.

His tongue got confident, and a bit curious, diving deeper past your teeth. He was just trying in whatever way he could to be inside of you. The weight of his body became more substantial.

You loved feeling his strength falter, his lust heightening, compelling him to get closer.

When he pulled away, he looked a little crazy- like he forgot to smile, or something. It was the nature of his eyes to not look very friendly, but it gave the impression that he was really holding himself back.

"Are- you okay?"

"Just-," He takes a sharp breath, eyes squeezing shut for a second, like he's recalibrating, "Feels really g-ood."

He wasn't prepared in the slightest for the smile you gave him. It was sweet, and prideful, and too cute with his cock in your hand.

That tortured look was back, briefly before he shoved his face in the nook of your shoulder.

"Fuck-! I need you s-o bad," He whined, pitiful, "Are- h-ahh, you ready yet?"

You could try.

With a question like that, asked so sweet, so sugary- you hummed against his hair, not quite understanding what 'ready' meant.

You hardly noticed how he plucked a condom from his shorts, somewhere in the mess of sheets to the left of you- and slid it on between clumsy kisses. Lots of practice must've made the process second nature.

It was difficult, to say the least, adjusting to him. His eagerness was already so spoken for, and you realized too late that you probably did need more time.

Bokuto could feel it too, though.

He could hear it in the thinly-veiled fear, making your voice waver, break, as you asked him to be gentle with you.

"Even if it takes all night," He kissed your nose while you couldn't move away, "I'll wait for ya."

Rough hands, so used to force and recklessness, practiced paying attention through running smooth lines across your skin.

Those hard kisses turned softer, slower, across your jaw and down your throat. He moved at a near imperceptible pace, just to get you accustomed to all of his size.

"Sooo pretty," He whispered to himself, forehead heavy on yours as he closed his eyes, "Fuck..."

The discomfort was just starting to be overshadowed with better, pleasurable, buzz. Your legs were slowly relaxing, a jelly-like feeling that spread from your thighs, squished comfy next to his hips, down to your toes.

Bokuto was capable of deliberate and soft sex. He wasn't always an animal, and he wasn't ignorant to somebody else's needs.

He was just excitable, and stupid. But all he needed was a whisper, a hint, or a reminder sometimes.

You kissed the tip of his nose, a way of telling him you were okay. Your fingers started to rake through his spiky hair, and the little smile on your face waited for him to he open his eyes.

"Shit--," He stole another few kisses from you, "Oh, you're so- mh- you're soo cute."

Between kisses, his tongue lagged, always proceeded by a sharp sigh. Almost like he was struggling to multitask. It made you curious when it started to get more frequent.

"Sh-it--h-ahh--," His curse broke into a shocked whine-- he stalled, deep.

Your higher, cuter sound at how good it felt did nothing to help to bring him down.

You watched him bite his own wrist, a small concern furrowing his brow.

Craving more, and only knowing one way to cheer him up, you rolled your hips up and locked your ankles around him with a squeeze.

"W-ait, waitwaitwait," He seethed, "Ahh- fuck-- stop moving babygirl- stop moving."

The person he looked down at was no longer a shy little nerd, incapable of handling his flirty second nature. Your mouth was curled into a coquettish grin, your pecks soft and affectionate and too much, scattered around his face.

He had to cum so bad that he felt sick. He had to look through you- draw blood to his palm, just to clear his filthy mind.

"Do I really feel that good?" You giggled- beyond flattered by his tortured expression.

There was no beat between the end of your sentence and his hushed response, "Yes."

You knew about vague stereotypes of guys with shitty endurance. You didn't have first-hand experience until you watched his expression shift, swirling, panic and euphoria taking one another over again and again.

He 'ruined' his orgasm by keeping your needs first. He knew you couldn't take what he wanted. His body was like iron, forced motionless, like a statue, except for the rapid, uneven rise and fall of his chest.

It looked like a delicious mix of pained and sexy as he came, almost perfectly still, so he didn't hurt you.

A kind of psychotic, intrusive desire made you tense-- the curious, hungry want to get rid of the condom between you. How much better would that have felt without it?

The sheets groaned, fabric snagging and snapping, under his grip. His body was all flexed up for you to watch. You knew he was trying to keep you in mind, so you didn't try anything too cute until he started relaxing, again.

"Hm-mmph--, fuck--," He groaned, a tremble in his arms as he slowly pulled out.

His exhaustion was short-lived, only manifested in a breathiness in his chuckle.

"Good thing I brought two."

This time you saw him take out a second one- but it wasn't just two. He had a whole row of condoms in his pocket this entire time.

You giggled at how he tore the second one off. What could he have possibly been thinking to bring seven along?

Bokuto harnessed some pornstar-like efficiency, tearing the outside open and pumping the latex onto himself with no waste of energy.

"Y'know," He cocked his head to the side, silly, despite his thumb sliding over your clit, "I've never cum that fast."

"Mmn-h-- Ah- that's- that's good--," You struggled.

A useful thing to know, sure, but it's not like you really cared- he never got soft. It was a non-issue because he was still clearly up for more.

He filled you back up so easy and slow, his thumb prodding stuttery waves of pleasure where there was once pain. He watched it with an air of pride about him. He sat up straighter, focused on where he disappeared into you. He soaked in all your twitching until he got his fill.

Only when he was satisfied did he lean down to his elbows to check on you.

Your had to fill your hands with his perfect muscles, all bouncy and twitchy at how overstimulated you got him. He was huffing, swallowing his groans so he didn't look uncool-- restrained or not, he would've looked just as cute.

He just wanted to fuck you good. For you to remember it well.

"Mmnh-! You're so big-,"

Those giant, fuck-me-harder eyes kept his shoulders tight. His hand was gripping your hip like a vice and bringing you down onto him.

His cock sank deep, a grumbly sound under his quiet, breathy whining-- your breath caught, and you had the brief revelation that you had been missing out on this for so long. How long had they been friends for? Years?

You wanted to make up for all the lost time. You locked your ankles around him for the second time, your hands pulling him back so you could put some hickeys all up and down his thick neck.

Though you had some vague idea that he loved when you hugged him close, you didn't understand the depth in which it turned him on.

It was one of those quick-affirming, sweet and wordless praises that resonated so hard with Bokuto's insatiable need to be validated.

He had to ask. He wanted more, he wanted to hear you.

"That feel good?" His hand cupped your entire jaw, forcing your eyes on his, ever so focused.

Your grip on his forearm was like an ant trying to push over a tree. It would never budge. And when it didn't, it took very little time to realize you actually liked it there. Your reflex did nothing to serve you, but you kept your hand still to prod at the muscle.

The breath you took to answer him was wasted on another moan.

"Ah-h--,"

"I want ya to tell me," His insistence was daunting, but filled with need.

"I--,"

Your nails were digging into his skin, and you were gasping, trying to tell him you were close- but none of it came out properly.

It was all just improper, uncontrollable, unmasked whining.

A bit late, he was witness to your adorable realization that you were cumming. He murmured a small, infatuated, "Aww..."

His lips pressed hard to your temple, and he let you pull him in, offering only the bulk of his shoulder as consolation for his deeper thrusts. It was a taste of what he could give you if only this wasn't your first, if you had been used to him from the start.

An orgasm had never felt so filled out, before. Like it was larger than you, stronger than anything you'd be able to craft on your own, from just your fingers. It was him. His cock, but moreso was his intensity and devotion to getting you there and fucking you all the way through it.

His hand was still cupping the bottom half of your face, but not covering your mouth. God, he wanted the entire world to know how good he made you feel. Especially Kuroo. Fuck that guy for keeping you a secret.

"Good girl, ohh- you did so good," He was slowing, still seeing those last, shallower, mellow waves through with dedication, "Sound sooo pretty."

Those eyes were softer, but still eating you up, savoring you while you were all messy for him.

Were you dating, now? It felt like you had been shot forward about ten years with this guy.

A light buzzing -the muted ring of a phone- was somewhere near you, interrupting your giggly, feel-good vibe. Again, and still just as surprising, Bokuto slowly pulled out of you and made quick work of that second condom.

He patted around the sheets for the source of the sound.

"Oh!"

He let the ringing continue- he had to get his idea out immediately: "That totally reminds me! I should get you a vibrator or something."

Jaw slack, you weren't given the opportunity to respond, before he answered. You lay there, a bit shivery and empty-feeling, as he hugged your thigh over his own.

"Hellooo?"

It was quiet. There was a faint, urgent, tone on the other side.

"Ummmm..."

His fingers tapped against your skin. He was lost in deep thought of how to respond. You were glad you couldn't hear the words being spoken, because you knew it was not going to be a pleasant earful.

"Yeah-... I mean, we were just talking... and... stuff."

Bokuto got droopier. He sank, sitting on his heels, still sitting butt-naked and hugging your thigh. You squeezed one of your blankets to your chest and frowned.

"It's nothing personal, man..."

He held the phone away from his ear as he was verbally berated, a pout making his whole face look cartoonishly sad. It was difficult, on your end, to understand that he could both be super into you and want to stay friends with Tetsurou.

"Would it make it any better iiiif I told you we were dating now?"

Bokuto winced and slid his free hand back and forth over your leg as consolation, for himself.

"Yeahyeahyeah, I gotchu, yeahyeah. Okay'bye," He hung up at the soonest crafted opportunity.

"Soooo," He sighed, distraught, instantly making up any distance between you. He dropped so much weight atop your sore body and covered you like a warm, weighted blanket, that you struggled to get air in your lungs.

"He's... not... happy."

The big dummy on top of you deflated with each word in a dismal decrescendo.

You had to wriggle around to find somewhere to breath from; room for your chest to expand at least a little.

"I thought you knew that?"

Bokuto made a high humming sound, feet kicking in the air, "Mmmmmmyeahhh, kinda, but..."

You freed one arm to wrap around him, so you could play with his hair, "He can't stay mad forever. He'll see that you're not- harmful- I guess, eventually."

He let his brow relax, shoved hard into your shoulder, and took in your new comforting scent.

Part of you couldn't blame your brother for assuming the worst. It took until incredibly recently for you to understand the full scale of Bokuto's fixation.

Despite all his sad body language, he couldn't have been that worried, because he was already back to sly, tongue-centered kisses on your neck.

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𝒇 ! readerㅤ𖥔ㅤ500ㅤㅤ><ㅤ`ㅤ𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇𝗌ㅤ𓈒ㅤ──── cautions 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗒 ㅤㅤ🍀ㅤㅤ𝖠𝖱𝖢𝖧𝗂𝖵𝖤

woonhak always stretches an arm out on the back of your chair, absentmindedly playing with your hair or tracing circles on your shoulder while pretending not to care. if someone else tries to squeeze in between you, he automatically shifts his chair closer to yours—anything to be near you.

he swears he never gets jealous, but the moment another guy gets a little too close to you, his whole demeanor shifts. "oh, that guy?" he says, unimpressed. "he's like 5'7 on a good day." he tries to act indifferent, but he's noticeably more clingy for the rest of the day, standing closer than usual, his shoulder brushing against yours, making sure you laugh at all of his jokes instead.

if someone talks about asking you out in front of him, he lets out a short, sharp laugh before mumbling, "yeah, good luck with that." and when someone actually flirts with you in front of him, he plays it off with fake nonchalance—jaw tightening, but his voice light and teasing. "oh, so you're cheating on me now?" he tilts his head, wearing an exaggerated look of betrayal.

you shove at his arm playfully. "you are so unserious."

"dead serious," he quips, resting his chin on his hand as he watches you. "but hey, do what you want. just don't come crying to me when you realize no one treats you as well as i do."

he teases you relentlessly but goes completely still when you lean your head on his shoulder. he pretends not to care, staring ahead like it’s no big deal, but you can feel how stiff he gets at first. then, slowly, his body relaxes, and after a while, he even tilts his head to rest against yours.

in class, he flicks your forehead when he catches you zoning out or dozing off, playfully scolding you to pay attention—then immediately following it with a quiet, "you okay?" in a softer voice.

he "accidentally" wins a carnival game and tosses you the stuffed animal casually. "i don’t need it," he says, even though you both know he was trying hard to win. but later, when you’re not looking, he grins to himself, satisfied when he sees you still hugging it hours later.

he always finds an excuse to be at your house, lounging on your couch like it’s his second home. he acts like he's there for the snacks, but really, he just loves being around you, in your space.

he grumbles about how you always make him do things, like helping you carry your stuff or waiting for you after class, but the one time you don’t ask for his help, he frowns. "what, you didn’t need me?" and when you say you didn’t want to bother him, he scoffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "idiot. it’s not a bother."

it’s so obvious—everyone sees it. he thinks he hides it well, but every so often, when you're laughing, focused, or just doing anything at all, he gets this soft look in his eyes. it only lasts a second before he snaps out of it, clearing his throat and teasing you about something random. but when jaehyun asks, "dude, do you like them or something?" woonhak just scoffs, looking anywhere but at you.

"who wouldn’t?"

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tags ( boynextdoor ) @coquettejunnie , @hanninova , @chaeneu , @aloe-7 , @en-dream , @rizzkisworld , @cosmicwintr , @mydearyeseo , @ladyaida , @fae-renjun , @slytherinshua , @jjennuine , @kstrucknet , @k-films , @sgz-net