#and something is usually exploding at the same time so he just says nothing

[mauveflowers]

Yoojin staring at Song Taewon's tits:

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 3

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

masterlist

The rest of the month bled together in that soft, glowing kind of way—every day bookmarked by the same routine. E in the morning. E during class. E when you were brushing your teeth or pretending to do homework. You talked about everything. Or nothing.

She kept you sharp. Made you laugh when your head was splitting from school noise. Kept you just distracted enough to forget you were tired all the time. And somewhere along the way, you stopped wondering who she was. Because it felt like she already knew you. Not the polished version people saw. You.

You’d stopped counting how many pictures you’d sent. Nothing technically scandalous. But enough to make her say “i’m not strong enough for this” at least three times a week.

You were on your phone, sprawled out in your usual seat in English—last sub of the day, last brain cell left.

You:

im on my last sub rn. talk to u later :(

E:

don’t think about me too much while you’re in class

You smirked.

You:

oh i will. especially us doing unholy things rn

E:

i’m blocking u.

You:

no ur not. u love it

You were still grinning like an idiot when the classroom door slammed open. Everyone scrambled to pretend they weren’t just throwing paper balls or stealing someone’s chair.

Ms. Alvarez was already holding a clipboard, face grim. “Alright, settle down. We’re starting a new graded requirement today—your final literature project. Half of your term grade will come from this. I’m pairing you up.”

Groans some cheers exploded. You barely registered it, still texting E something about being the main character in a forbidden library romance.

Until you heard your name.

“...and Ellie Williams.”

Your head snapped up, blinking.

A few snickers came from behind you, your friends catching it instantly.

One of them patted your shoulder, barely hiding a grin. “Oh, girl. Should we start worrying?”

You rolled your eyes and didn’t bother to answer.

Then a voice you hated piped up. Some guy you’ve never liked, probably trying to be funny.

“Maybe you could just show her your tits and she’ll do the work for you.”

You turned. Instantly.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped. Loud enough for people to hear.

He put his hands up, smirking. “Just suggesting.”

Ms. Alvarez didn’t seem to hear, or maybe she was pretending not to. “You’ll have six weeks. You’ll be required to sit beside your assigned partner during this class for the entire project period.”

Some complaints, some high-fives.

You grabbed your bag, eyes scanning. Ellie was still seated, alone near the front, chin in hand.

You made your way over slowly. She was on her phone, thumb tapping something out fast.

“Hey,” you said, soft and casual.

Her head snapped up. Like, immediately. Her phone vanished into her hoodie pocket so fast it was almost suspicious.

You raised your eyebrows slightly, not saying anything.

“Hey,” she replied, voice a little rough around the edges, like she’d just cleared it.

She blinked once, then moved quickly—grabbing the things from her desk and tucking them into her bag on the floor, her sketchpad sliding in last. Then, without saying anything, she reached out and dragged the desk and chair beside her, pulling them close in one fluid motion. The legs scraped loudly against the tile.

You cleared your throat, lowered into the seat, and placed your bag on top of the desk. One hand stayed tucked in the pocket of your skirt, curled loosely around your phone.

You didn’t say anything else and neither did she.

You both just sat there as Ms. Alvarez started droning about the project.

“This is a character-driven piece. Something with personal stakes. Introspection. Conflict. Subtext. You have six weeks.”

You barely heard her.

You unlocked your phone under the desk.

You:

i just wanna go home now and talk to you

(not being clingy)

You smirked without meaning to, biting the inside of your cheek.

Then waited.

Ms. Alvarez was saying something at the front—project guidelines, probably. But her voice felt like it was coming through a thick wall of static. You just kept your gaze on your screen. Quiet. Expectant.

Still nothing.

She usually replied right away. Even in class. Even with “busy” in her bio.

You stared at the chat a moment longer, thumb hovering over the screen. Not that you were being clingy. Obviously.

You bit your lip and glanced sideways.

Ellie was hunched over her notebook, scrawling notes in the margin like her life depended on it. Her leg bounced under the desk. Her grip on the pen was tight. Too tight. Like it might snap in half if she pressed any harder.

You sighed, leaned back in your seat, and slid your phone back into your pocket.

Your eyes stayed on the front of the room, but you weren’t really listening. Words blurred. The only thing in focus was that weird thrum in your chest. Like something off-key in a song you’ve heard too many times.

After a moment, your eyes drifted back to Ellie.

Her auburn hair was tied loosely at the base of her neck, strands slipping free at the sides and curling against her cheek. Her eyes flicked between the teacher and her notes, sharp and serious, like she was actually locked in.

You stared.

Just for a second too long.

Her brows were pinched in thought. She twirled her pen once, adjusted the way she sat, and pulled her hoodie sleeve down over her hand like she was trying to disappear into it.

You pressed your lips together, fingers tapping soundlessly against your arm as you crossed them tight over your chest, waiting for your phone to buzz.

Ms. Alvarez finally wrapped up her monologue with something about “use your time wisely” and “brainstorming starts now.” Then she sank into her desk like she was already exhausted by all of you.

Ellie cleared her throat, then quietly turned toward you.

She pushed her notebook halfway across the desk, her handwriting a little messy but precise enough to follow. She didn’t look at you at first—just tapped the edge of the page once, offering it like a peace treaty.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk and your chin on your knuckles. Watching her.

She glanced up, finally meeting your eyes. “Do you have anything in mind?”

You did.

Maybe E.

But you didn’t say that, of course.

Instead, you reached over and plucked the pen from her hand. Your fingers brushed for just a second—warm

You lowered your eyes and started scribbling into the corner of her notes.

Fantasy. Coming-of-age. Drama. Romance. Sapphic.

You underlined the last one.

When you slid the notebook back, she tilted her head at it. Just slightly. Her eyes skimmed the list, and then her lips twitched—barely noticeable. But it was there.

“Sapphic,” she repeated, like she was tasting the word.

You shrugged, eyes flicking up. “Just a suggestion.”

She looked at you again. Not judgmental. Not even surprised.

You raised your eyebrows at her—challenging, almost daring her to say something.

Ellie leaned back slightly. Her voice dropped just a little. “Are you sure?” she asked, voice low and husky. “I mean… you’ve got a reputation.”

You didn’t bother hiding the eye roll that followed.

With one hand, you slid the notebook back across the desk toward her. “You can suggest what you think,” you said flatly. Calm. Measured.

She picked up the pen again and wrote underneath:

Agreed.

You raised your eyebrows again.

That’s it? She just… agreed?

“No suggestions?” you asked, skeptical. “Nothing on your mind? You just agreed we write a sapphic book?”

Ellie didn’t even look up. “Nope,” she said, the pen already back in her hand, sketching something random in the corner of the page. A shape. A line. A loop.

You narrowed your eyes at her, gaze flicking over her blank expression. “Well,” you muttered, scanning her with a mock offense, “I expected something much more from you. I mean, you’re the nerd here.”

That earned a glance—sideways, brief. The corner of her mouth tugged, like she was fighting off a smirk.

“Well, I also didn’t expect you to suggest writing a sapphic book,” she replied, dry.

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

Ellie shrugged. “You’ve got a reputation, remember?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just let out a breathy scoff, leaning forward on your elbows again, voice low but pointed. “I just told our classmate to shut the fuck up because he said I could show you my tits and you’d do the work for me. Do you think I care about reputation?”

That caught her.

Ellie blinked, startled for a beat, then let out a short breath—half laugh, half disbelief. “Jesus,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to yours. “Didn’t know you were like that even in personal.”

You frowned. “Huh? Like what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just glanced down at the notes again, something unreadable twitching in her expression.

You scoffed softly and leaned back, arms folding across your chest again. Your eyes darted to Ms. Alvarez, who was now busy at her desk, rifling through a drawer.

“And oh, please,” you said, dry. “It’s not like Ms. Alvarez isn’t gay either.”

Ellie looked at you, blinking.

“That’s why she has no husband at her age,” you went on, tone casual like you were talking about the weather. “She likes girls. And the rumors, Ellie—you’ve heard them. She won’t mind reading a sapphic piece.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching.

“I bet she’ll like it very much.”

Ellie stared at you for a moment longer and looked away.

But not before you caught it—that flicker of a smirk, barely there.

She shook her head once, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Unbelievable,” and went back to scribbling.

Ellie tapped her pen a few times against the edge of the desk, then tilted her head slightly.

“So,” she said. “What’s it gonna be? Angsty? Enemies to lovers?”

You squinted at her, lips already twitching. Then, without saying a word, you reached out—snatching her notebook and pen in one smooth motion.

Ellie blinked, caught off guard.

You scribbled one word in bold, all caps:

SMUT.

Then slid it back to her with a raised brow and the kind of smug grin you only pulled when you were being very annoying on purpose.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Smut?” she repeated, slow, confused. “How… it’s not appropriate, I think.”

You bit back a laugh. “Of course it’s not,” you scoffed. “I’m just fucking with you.”

She stared at the word a second longer.

You plucked the notebook back and crossed out SMUT with a dramatic scribble, then started writing again beneath it.

“Anyway, I think something like friends to lovers or whatever,” you said, voice a little more thoughtful now. “It’s the easiest for me to write.”

You kept jotting down rough plot beats, loose ideas—nothing concrete yet. Just bullet points. Your handwriting was starting to drift sideways, slanted and lazy.

When you glanced up again, Ellie was watching you.

Her chin rested in her hand, elbow propped against the desk, eyes steady on your face like she was studying something. Like she was seeing a new side of you. Quiet. Focused.

There was something unguarded about her in that moment. Something soft around the edges. Like maybe—for just a second—she forgot to keep her usual walls up.

You paused, blinking. “What?”

She didn’t answer nor move.

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh,” you said slowly, tilting your head to mirror her. “You’re interested in writing that smut?”

That seemed to break the spell.

Ellie blinked, straightened slightly. “No,” she muttered, her voice low and curt as she grabbed the notebook back from you.

You watched her quietly as she flipped to a clean page and started jotting something down like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t just been staring at you for maybe… kind of a long time.

Her pen scratched against the paper. Her face calm again. Composed. But her ears were slightly pink.

“You’re red,” you said, your voice teasing, a smirk tugging at the edge of your lips.

Ellie didn’t look up. “It’s warm in here.”

You raised a brow. “Right. Sure it is.”

She clicked her pen once—sharp, deliberate—then turned to you with a look so flat it could’ve been carved from stone.

“Better red than desperate for plot-driven foreplay,” she said, completely deadpan.

Your mouth fell open.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, scandalized. “You are thinking about the smut.”

Ellie didn’t respond. Just returned to her notes like nothing happened, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

You grinned, triumphant.

You watched her for another beat, amused. “You didn’t deny it.”

Ellie didn’t look up, but her pen paused. “I’m ignoring you.”

You leaned over, voice lower now. “You’re failing miserably.”

That got you a side glance. Brief. Sharp. But not annoyed. More like she was trying not to smile and losing the battle entirely.

You tapped her notebook with your nail. “So, what is this groundbreaking lesbian epic we’re writing?”

“Plot ideas,” she said, clearing her throat. “Since you keep distracting me.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Am I allowed to see, or are you gonna bite me if I try?”

Without a word, she tilted the notebook your way.

You leaned closer.

There was a character with too many feelings and a bad temper. Another one with trust issues and what looked like “shitty taste in people” scribbled in parentheses.

You frowned, eyes skimming back over the notes. “‘Shitty taste in people’?”

Ellie didn't say anything at first, just twirled her pen between her fingers, like maybe if she spun it fast enough, she wouldn’t have to answer. But eventually, she shrugged.

“Some people keep going back to things that hurt them. It’s realistic.”

You stared at her for a beat. The way she said it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t dramatic either—just honest, like she’d written that trait from experience, not imagination.

You leaned back a little. “Nope.”

Ellie blinked. “What?”

“Nope,” you repeated, already reaching for the notebook. “Too depressing. I’m not writing about heartbreak or sad girls with commitment issues. I’ve got enough of that in real life.”

She didn’t stop you as you turned to a fresh page, clicking your own pen open with purpose. “Let’s try this again.”

You started scribbling, words forming in fast, slanted loops.

Two characters. Childhood friends who lost touch. One returns unexpectedly. Maybe there’s a stupid school festival involved. Maybe someone’s in denial. Maybe they’re both idiots, and it takes a whole novella of almosts before anything actually happens.

You glanced sideways to find Ellie watching your hand move. She didn’t interrupt. Just kept staring like she was trying to match the rhythm of your pen to the shape of your thoughts.

You paused, tapped the page. “This is better.”

Ellie tilted her head. “Friends to lovers?”

You nodded. “Less depressing. More yearning.”

“Yearning is depressing.”

“It’s a good ache.”

She was quiet for a second, then let out a tiny exhale—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s write something stupid and soft.”

Ellie took the pen from your hand without asking and leaned over the notebook again, brow furrowed in thought. You didn’t say anything. Just watched her as she wrote—quiet, focused, occasionally pausing to tap the pen against her chin. The sunlight from the classroom windows had shifted, painting her in a late afternoon haze of gold and orange. It softened the sharp lines of her face, caught in the ends of her lashes and the auburn strands slipping from her hoodie.

She looked like a photograph that could blur if you stared too long.

The bell finally rang, loud and abrupt. Ms. Alvarez raised her voice over the sudden scrape of chairs and chattering students, tossing out reminders about deadlines and word count minimums. Nobody listened.

Ellie shut the notebook with a quiet thud and began gathering her things, slipping the sketchpad into her bag and adjusting the strap of her guitar case. You stood, grabbing your own bag from the desk and sliding your phone from your skirt pocket out of habit.

Your fingers unlocked the screen before you could stop them, eyes drifting to your last message to E. Still no reply. You stared at it for a moment longer than you meant to. The bubble of words just sitting there. Unseen. Unanswered.

You let out a breath, sharp and quiet, then turned to Ellie just as she slung the guitar over her shoulder.

“By the way,” you said, holding your phone out toward her, “I need your number.”

She glanced at you, nodded, and took your phone without a word. Her fingers moved fast, thumb flying across the screen before she handed it back and silently offered her own. You typed yours in, quick and neat, and gave it back with a nod.

The room was already half-empty, filled with leftover noise and footsteps in the hall.

You walked out, phone back in your hand, your thumb instinctively brushing over the screen. You opened your messages again.

Still nothing.

Your eyes stayed on it as you moved with the current of students spilling into the hallway—sunlight flickering across lockers and tile. You didn’t notice when Ellie fell in step beside you until she asked, casually, like it was nothing.

“You waiting for someone to text you back?” Ellie said as she walked past, not even slowing down.

You blinked, glanced up—but she was already a few steps ahead, her guitar slung over her back, hoodie pulled up.

You didn’t answer. Just looked down at your phone again, just as a message from E lit up your screen.

Your chest tightened with that familiar tug—the kind you only ever felt with her.

tag list:

@eclipcee8 @darkdanixoxo @chappellroankisser @senjukawaragitr @saverdelrey @appleofmyii @wzcoffeefloomo @fatbootymuncher @oneinameliann @ilahrawr @spiderx18 @vampirq @mioluvzsevika @ff4mi @ggutpunch @ellies-dinosaur @butchchase @bambiaches @velvetinkbym @rhian88 @azxteria @yxsmina @zaunite-516 @sweetshrew @eriiwaiii2 @bluminescent-moon @elliespotion @mascspleasegetmepregnant @dykeissih @babydoll-ivory @summerdaysout @tiedinbows @eilishfike @vixenkii

[hollyoongs]

𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐒𝐎... 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓? 𝗟𝗘𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗨𝗡𝗚 (TBR: JULY 5TH)

prólogo you were raised behind bulletproof glasss, luxury and polished speeches that got you bored every single time. The daughter of the President—the nation's sweetheart. Always elegant, charitable, untouched by scandal. A clear symbol of peace in a city rotting from the inside out. But the most wanted man alive that watched you through the tv doesn't buy the act.

elenco joker!heeseung and daughter's president fem!reader

género smut with plot

antes de leer since it's something new I'm trying, the normal kinks I write will get heavier as I implemented: the use of knife play, heavy choking, exhibitionism, heavy humiliation, blood play. If you don't like this type of story, then calmly leave as you wait for other stories in my page

# palabras +800 (est. +10k)

Your head was starting to hurt; flashbulbs exploded in rhythmic bursts, as if they wanted to drown the room in white.

You stood at the podium with your smile rehearsed, shoulders straight and perfectly neat hair, giving the press and your father exactly what they came for after his speech.

"As always," you start off, "I'm so glad that my father is deeply compromised with this beautiful country as well as the overwhelming support of the citizens. Our mission remains the same—to restore peace, safety, and hope to those countries. Because we deserve it."

The room clapped, and you did a small bow, your eyes flicking over the sea of suits and cameras as you tried not to linger. You delivered answers to foreign policy, crime spikes, and rumored threats the government was trying to exterminate.

"Miss, if I may?" Your voice turned slightly toward the man standing near the front row. You recognized him as Park Jongseong, from Belift News.

"Yes, Mister Park?"

"Any comment on the Joker's latest stunt? Twenty officers are dead in District 7, and he left a note—addressed to you."

The air shifted, the room hushed, and whispers started to get obvious as they waited for an answer.

Nonetheless, your soft smile didn't drop. "The man you're referring to is a domestic terrorist, not a celebrity. My family and this administration refuse to dignify his theatrics with personal attention."

"So you're saying it wasn't meant for you?"

Then it was the fucking bait.

You could feel yourself getting warmer, fingers curled slightly around the edges of the podium. Your jaw tightened—barely showing any emotion. You let out a small chuckle.

"I'm saying that lunatics crave attention. And this clown in particular doesn't deserve mine." Your response earned several murmurs from the room—some approval, some unease. Your gaze travelled across the room, and that's when you saw him.

It was a second, maybe even less, to the man at the far back slouched in a dark coat. No press badge hanging around his neck or a notepad and pen in his hands. He was simply smiling, right at you.

You held your poise, gave the usual thank-you, and stepped down from the podium. But even as your security ushered you away, even as the applause resumed and the questions dissolved behind you, your mind buzzed.

By the time you made it down the long hall with the tapping noise of your shiny clean heels as background noise, your nerves were like a roller coaster. You entered your dressing room and shut the door behind you, dead silence as you rested your body against the door, shutting your eyes.

"You got shook."

Your heart dropped at the voice of Heeseung; he stepped out from the shadows, twirling a small knife between his fingers like it weighed nothing. His smile was as practiced as yours, no soul in it.

"Just once," he said, gaze raking down your body, "but I saw it."

A genuine smile left your lips as you walked to him; you pressed your body against his, arms draping around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Baby!" you whispered. Heeseung raised a brow, that eerie grin still carved into his face. "Are you playing nice now, sweetheart?"

"I've missed you." His hand found your waist, casual with the slightest touch of tenderness.

"You just told a room full of reporters I was nothing."

The knife in his hand went behind you, dipping lower, tracing the curve of your spine through your tailored blouse, not a single cut in it, although he wanted to do it. You knew it.

Your lips brushed his jaw. "Didn't say I didn't think about you, Daddy." After you said that, his lips took dominance over yours. Rough and needy, as if he didn't fuck the life out of you a couple hours before.

"You know I hate lies, sweetheart."

His words were murmured into your mouth as his tongue swept past your lips like he owned the air you breathed. You gasped into the kiss but didn’t pull away.

You never did. Not from him.

Not when his fingers clutched at your hips like his life depended on it. Not when that damn knife was still ghosting over your spine to remind you that he could cut if he wanted. That he might, if you said the wrong thing.

“That wasn’t a lie,” you whispered against his lips. “Just politics.”

He laughed—a sharp and quiet one. “You think I care about politics? You think I give a single fuck what you say behind a podium when I can still taste your cunt on my tongue from this morning?”

You let out a moan when a smack landed on your clothed pussy, hating that he could hear it. Hated that it gave him satisfaction.

Because it did. His grin widened.

“Thought so.” He shoved you against the vanity table, and it rattled under the impact. Somewhere, a compact case hit the floor and cracked open.

You didn't care, putting more focus on how your nails sank into his back and the way his hands shoved your skirt up with no regard for modesty.

You moaned for a monster, letting yourself be ruined... again.

─── TY CONCEPT PHOTOS FOR THIS! had to cut the teaser up a little bc it was getting LONG long, but I'M actually really excited for this one, hope you all bounce up for this one tho

𓄴 TAGLIST (OPEN): @hoonprksung @ziiao @rikimuraaaa @enhxlvr @jngwonu @deobitifull @isagistar @immelissaaa @rosepetals09 @sofiafromvenus @goldendwann @ivyleyun @chvconn3 @iilyri @nshmrarki @jungwoneez @meiskra @filmnings @minniejenseo @fancypeacepersona @sqaerl @stercul1a @mrsjohnnysuh @iveivory @prttygrl-world @heejakeyy07whtv @armybomb-infires @jaylaxies

[leathfaic]

Ghost thinks he's cracked the code when he gifts Johnny an ultra complicated lego set for Christmas. Something to keep his hands and mind busy for a while.

He's watching, with terror and awe as Soap burns through a 1000+ pieces in an hour, with half a bottle of whiskey in him - drinking more while he's at it. He smiles the whole way through, though - and Ghost gets a tipsy peck on his cheek. Which might or might not have made the whole endeavour worth it.

"Thought that might keep you busy a while longer." he admits later, when he's deep into his own cups.

"Ach, dinnae sound so disappointed Ghostie, not'ing in there tha' can explode. Can work fast and sloppy."

Ghost just spent an hour staring at Johnny's hands and the concentration painted on his face. He knows there was nothing sloppy about that assembly. But he has to admit that compared to Soap's usual jobs, this is bound to be rather calming.

His eyes meet Price's over in another corner of the room. And the message, conveyed by a single raised eyebrow is clear. Ghost is not to add explosives to any gifts, even if it would make Soap very happy.

So naturally the next time - at Johnny's birthday - he slaps down a timer and a fully assembled lego set.

"Better get it done in time Johnny. And no cheating."

The way Soap's face lights up at the implication that there might be a bomb in his birthday gift should be concerning. But all it does is make Ghost wish there actually were some.

Johnny is a good sport about properly disassembling the marzipan compromise inside though. And just to prove he can immediately rebuilds the legos into the other figure they can form - taking a shot every time he has to look at the manual.

And when he carries his way too drunk partner to bed, Ghost vows to apply for Christmas leave. Which is something he hasn't done since...well for a long, long time.

Johnny, being the man that he is, never questions why they are going to spend Christmas in the countryside. A small cottage barely worth the name, as far away from other people as you can get on the Isles.

He just takes the chance to kiss Ghost every chance he gets, enjoying the fact that their isolation means he's getting an unprecedented amount of mask-free Simon.

"Got a surprise for you out in the shed, sweetheart." Ghost whispers when he catches Soap from behind while the man is about to open a bottle.

"Sounds like what a serial killer would say to lure ye into the open."

Ghost decides not to ponder that. With the reality of their jobs that answer... more than he's willing to argue right now.

"Should wait with that until you've had the surprise." he says instead, gently taking the bottle from Soap. Who for the first time frowns.

Ghost relents and they bring the scotch to the shed.

When Soap sees what he cooked up, he whistles low, no need to confirm that what he's seeing is the real deal.

It has taken all of Ghost's knowledge about explosives to craft the abomination. The two lego sets combined with a new third one, 6 sets of cables - all the same colour, and of course a live charge inside.

Johnny goes all still. Stalks closer like he's trying to get the drop on the inanimate object.

Watches it from all sides before turning to Ghost, "Do Ah need to follow protocol?"

His voice clearly tells him he hopes he does not have to. Ghost once again feels vindicated in his choice to move them out here, just pressing the bottle back into Soap's hand with a smile.

If this is what takes them both out then it's already worth it for the unhinged grin it gets him. Johnny's feral joy is infectious, and when he finally steps away raising his hands like he's expecting a crowd to cheer, Ghost honestly couldn't tell you how much time had passed.

He doesn't get a chance to ponder it either because the next second he's tackled by a full grown Scot with a half empty bottle of scotch in his hand and taken clean of his feet.

And if he hadn't already convinced this had been worth it, then the way Johnny makes sure to say thank you certainly is.

They do not make it back to the cottage for a good long while.

(This whole thing was inspired by my dear beloved @dismightyman who's singlehandedly holding it down in the Ghoap trenches with me)

[tellingtell5]

Home: 《James Cook, skins x reader 》

James Cook x femreader

Summary: Coming back to the city that watched you grow up? Yeah, that’s never easy — especially when you left things unfinished. And looking him in the eyes again? That hits different. Brings back stuff you tried to bury way deep down.

wc (I never usually mention this, but I think it’s necessary this time): 15k

A/N: Well... here it is. Can’t say I didn’t pour my heart into this story. Honestly, I had no idea it’d turn out like this when I started — but Skins hits close to home, and sadly, some things hit way too deep. I wanted to make it less painful, I swear... but yeah, a few tears might’ve slipped out. I don’t even know what this is — it’s a mess, for sure. Still, I needed to tell this story to ease something in my poor soul. I think this is the idea that’s taken me the longest — the one I’ve written, rewritten, deleted whole chunks of, and left a bunch of stuff on the cutting room floor (let me know if you'd wanna read those bits sometime).

Thanks for reading, for the support, and I hope you enjoy it 💛

You knew. You fucking knew the moment you stepped into your son's room and saw the little plastic bag lying there on the floor like it belonged. That flimsy wrap lit a fire in your chest, rage crawling up your throat like ivy, wrapping 'round your skull 'til it took root in your head.

If you'd been less angry, maybe you'd've sat him down, had the chat, told him again what it does to people. But all you could think of was your dad, shouting in your face, and how that only made you go harder. Made you do it just to spite him.

You thought about waiting, kitchen table drama, the bag in your fingers, trying to make a point with silence. Thought about telling your kid he could've told you, that he should've. That you would've sorted him better than whatever scumbag was dealing to him. But the thought of him not trusting you—of him looking at you like you'd looked at your own dad at that age—that cracked something inside.

So you took it. Stormed out. All logic drowned under the bile rising in your throat, and what bloomed in its place was cold certainty.

You could’ve bet your fucking arm you were right. That if you went to wherever the fuck he was pushing now, he’d be the one holding the bags. He always found a way to come out on top, didn’t he? You’d lost track of him ages ago. Didn’t know if he was locked up, dead, clean—nothing. But somehow, that one thing stayed the same. Cook and trouble—two sides of the same fucked-up coin.

You could've messaged. Maybe said, "I’m back. For me da, not for you. I had no choice but to crawl back to this shithole we used to call home." Could've told him to stay away. Not to drag your kid down the same pit you'd both rolled around in all those years ago.

Still, you knew there’d be no calm conversation. No sit-down chat. That wasn’t who you were. Not with him. Not ever. The rational, grown-up bit of you—the part that worked, paid bills, packed lunches—started to fade, dissolving like ink in water. The bile crawled higher in your throat and wiped all that sensible shit clean.

There was only one feeling left. Raw, rotting pain. The kind you’d stuffed down for years. The kind that never really healed, just got quiet until it exploded.

You knew exactly where to find him. And when you grabbed your keys and stormed out, there was no hesitation. You didn’t care how far you had to walk, or that it’d been over a decade since you'd wandered those streets. Your legs knew the way. The city hadn’t changed. Not really. Still the same miserable pit you'd clawed your way out of.

The air smelled the same. Damp brick, warm beer, stale piss. And just like that, you weren’t in the present anymore. It hit your spine like a ghost. You could hear your own laugh echo off the walls—too loud, too bright. The joke hadn’t been that funny, but you were happy. So happy, you wanted the whole fuckin’ world to know.

If you closed your eyes, you could feel the gravel crunchin' under your trainers as you ran through those streets. Young, breathless, and high on somethin’ better than drugs—freedom. Escape. The sheer joy of not givin’ a fuck.

You weren’t that girl anymore.

But you were about to see the boy who helped break her.

You saw him from down the road. Laughing, chatting with some teen in a hoodie, handing over something small. And that kid? Gone in a second. Cook’s hand in his back pocket, stuffing away the notes like nothing.

You didn't stop. Didn't even think. You didn’t hesitate. Shoved him hard from behind, caught him off balance so he stumbled forward, proper shocked. Your hands stung — muscle memory from a softer time, from when they used to hold him, trace his jaw like he meant something. You shook that off. Hit him again. Let his curses fly past you.

“Oi! The fuck?”

He turned, spitting fury, mouth curled like he was ready to rip into whoever dared touch him.

“Who the fuck d'you think you are, you stupid bitch?”

Your breath caught when you looked into those blue eyes again—the same ones that once held your whole fuckin' world together. For a moment, you forgot why you'd even come to this shithole. But then it hit you, sharp and cruel: his eyes were the same as your boy's. And he was the reason your kid was off his head on weed, sneakin' around behind your back.

"You fuckin' bastard."

You lunged. Fists clenched, ready to swing until he blacked out. He grabbed your wrists, tried to hold you back, jaw clenching with the effort. But it wasn't just 'cause you were flailin'. No—he was searchin', diggin' through his memory to figure out where the hell he knew this girl from, this girl who was throwin' punches like she wanted to break somethin' permanent.

His first thought was some bird he'd been with lately. Some one-night stand back to start shit. But then your eyes — filled with that same old fury, the same tears — gave you away. That flicker of recognition? It gutted him. He stopped fightin' back. Let your fists land. Took every hit like he deserved 'em.

He was too stunned to move. How long had it been? Fifteen years? Yeah. Quick maths. Fifteen years of missin' you. Of pretendin' he hadn’t been left with a heart cracked open and still bleedin'.

“You’re a proper wanker.”

Your hand had cracked across his face with all the fury you’d pent up for half your bloody life. He staggered a bit, jaw clenched, eyes wide, not from the hit—he could take a hit—but from the sight of you. Standing there like a storm that never passed, breathing like each inhale might rip you apart.

You weren’t hitting him anymore. Just staring. Shaking all over from rage, or something deeper. Trying to find your breath, trying to remember the woman you’d become, the one that had her shit together. But all you could feel was seventeen again. Seventeen, raw and bleeding, back in the streets that never let you heal. The city that had made you.

You looked away. Ran a hand down your face like you could wipe yourself clean of it all. What the fuck were you doing? This wasn’t you. Not anymore. But that version of you, the one this place had carved out with broken glass and sleepless nights, she clawed her way back.

He reached for you, hand brushing your hair like he used to — like he still had the right. You slapped him away.

“Not got nothin’ to say, have you?” You were baring teeth now, a wild thing uncaged. “’Course not. 'Cause you’re a fuckin’ twat, James.”

His eyes widened. James. His name. You said his real name. That hit harder than your fists. Nobody called him that anymore. Not like that. Not with meaning.

“What the fuck am I meant to say?” Now it was him unraveling. Shock turning to fury. The kind born in sleepless nights and stitched-up scars. “What the fuck do I say to the girl who vanishes for fifteen fuckin’ years and shows up swingin’ like some mad bitch, yeah?”

His voice cracked, rough with hurt.

Another slap. And this time, you were crying.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out one of those little plastic baggies—the kind he used to deal in. You hurled it at his face, daring him to say something.

“You high? That what this is?” he mocked, chucking it back. “You want somethin’ stronger? That why you dragged your sorry arse back here?”

He threw it back at you.

“You’re fuckin’ scum. Peddlin’ shite to kids without losin’ a wink of sleep. You’re filth, Cook.”

The name didn’t sit right in your mouth. You’d said it like everyone else did. Not like back then.

“Always been, though, ent I?”

And your heart cracked. Because through all the bravado, all the posturing, you saw it. That pain. Buried deep, still festering. He looked older. Sharper round the edges. But beneath it all, the same lost boy who once made you feel like the world could be more than just surviving.

“That why you did it, yeah? Fucked off like a slag an’ left me to rot?”

His voice was steel now, colder than you remembered. Void of anything soft. He spat the words like poison.

“Fuckin’ jog back in like nothin’s changed and act like you’re better than me? like we ain’t got history, and try to lecture me? Who the fuck d’you think you are?”

You had no answer. Because deep down, you knew he had every right to be furious. You left. You didn’t look back. You never told him about the baby, about how scared you were. You never gave him the chance. You never planned on seeing any of them again. But the city had a way of dragging you back into its rot.

“Yeah, thought so. Nothin’ to say. You’re mental. Proper fuckin’ mental.”

He flinched, like he might say something else. Like maybe he wanted to tell you he’d missed you every damn day. That you’d wrecked him. That your ghost had never stopped haunting him. Instead, he turned his head, spat blood on the pavement, wiped his lip. Walked past you like a stranger. Your shoulders brushed. For a second, you both stopped.

His warmth stunned you. Like a memory refusing to die.

Then your voice stopped him.

“Stay the fuck away from him.”

He stopped dead, turned slightly, eyebrows pinched in confusion.

“What?”

Now he turned fully, frowning at you like you’d lost your mind.

“What the fuck you on about?”

You let out a dry, bitter laugh and ran a hand through your hair, trying not to scream. The disbelief hit you harder than expected. He hadn’t even looked the kid in the eye when he sold him that shit. If he had, if he’d just looked, he might’ve seen it — those same bloody eyes. His eyes. A mirror he didn’t even recognise

“Unbelievable. You didn’t even look at him when you sold him that crap, did you?”

Something inside you cracked open, a bubble of rage and irony all twisted together, and you laughed — loud, manic. You’d come here full of fire, ready to unload years of anger onto him, but now it just felt… empty. He hadn’t even seen the boy. His own fucking son. You could’ve killed him. “Of course not, 'cause you're a proper fuckin' idiot. Leavin' was the smartest thing I ever did”.

Your words cut through him like glass. You saw it. The way his face twitched, jaw tightened. Like you’d pulled the stitches off wounds he’d buried deep under pints and pills. They’d never healed proper—just got rotten beneath all the filth he’d poured over them.

"Tell your dealer to stop givin' you whatever the fuck you’re on. You’re mad. Proper gone.

"Say what you want," you added, voice low and lethal, "but don’t come near him again. You hear me? Stay the fuck away from my son."

That shut him up. Stone-silent. The bloke who always had some clever line, some cocky deflection—now he was just standin’ there, mouth half-open, tryin’ to make sense of the words you’d just thrown at him like bricks. He just stared at you, stunned, trying to make sense of it. Like he was watching someone he used to know twist into something unrecognisable.

"Your son? You got a kid?"

His mind got flooded with old memories. Playin’ footie in the park, skivin’ off school, sittin’ on rooftops with that loudmouth girl with freckles on her cheeks and too much fire in her gut. He remembered the day she just walked up to him, JJ and Freddie on the school yard like she owned the fuckin’ place and went, “You lot are my mates now. That’s just how it is.”

The other kids didn’t take her in. She didn’t give a toss. She’d just said, “I didn’t wanna be their mate anyway. Got you lot now.” And somehow, that was it. You’d decided, and they didn’t argue. None of ‘em knew where the hell you’d come from, but they’d shrugged and let you stay. Like you were always meant to be there. Part of their broken little trio.

He tried to see that same boldness in the kids he’d sold to lately. Searched their faces for wide eyes and that look—like they’d punch the world in the teeth before lettin’ it touch them. For freckles spattered across skin like someone flung paint at ‘em.

But there was nothin’. Not one face that matched.

"How old is he?"

You saw what he was doing. The mental maths. The way his voice shifted, softer now. But fear gripped you too fast to answer.

"What, you givin' a shit now 'bout how old your customers are, Cook?"

Your name slipped out from those lips that once made you sigh. You own lips trembled, because you’d missed the way he said it, like it tangled up with his very soul.

"Fifteen."

His eyebrows shot up. And you saw it—the maths landin’. Fifteen years. The same amount of time since you’d vanished. Since you’d been... you and him. But he didn’t speak straight away, because things were never that easy. Not with you two.

“Don’t sell to him again, Cook. I fuckin’ mean it. Or you’ll regret it.

He snorted, tried to twist it into a joke, something he could use to deflect. "Yeah? What, his dad gonna come smash me up or somethin’?"

You didn’t flinch. Still knew him too well. Knew he was digging for answers. Knew exactly how his brain worked — like it hadn’t been fifteen years at all.

"No dad, Cook."

He blinked. Again. And then, one by one:

"Prison?"

You shook your head.

"Dead?"

Another no.

"Did a runner?"

You hesitated. Because yeah, there had been a runner. But not your son’s father.

"Freddie’s?"

That caught you off guard. Sharp like a punch to the chest. Your lungs forgot how to work. The ache behind your ribs, the way your heart flipped — fuck, you’d thought all that was buried. You crossed your arms, guarding yourself from the memories. From him. But he saw it. Of course he fucking did.

You remembered being ten, fallin’ in the park, scrapin’ your knees. You tried to hide it, didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to look weak. But Cook had known. He always knew. Told you, “Our bond’s forever, innit? I know when you’re hurt, stupid. Can’t hide nothin’ from me.”

And now, that same look was in his eyes. Like he still saw right through you. All the time and space in the world hadn’t changed that.

You shook your head again.

His voice came quieter now. Less of the bravado.

"...Mine?"

You lifted your face. Eyes red, cheeks wet. And you didn’t have to say a word.

Your name spilled again from his lips like a memory half-sung, cracked at the edges. Like he'd been carryin' it round in his chest all these years, not sayin' it out loud 'cause it hurt too much. It trembled on his tongue, that name, yours, the one he used to whisper when the lights were out and the world had gone quiet. It came out raw. Frayed. Familiar.

Fifteen years. And suddenly it all meant something. Every missed call, every time he’d cursed your name. Every fucked-up thing he’d done since. You’d left, But not just him.

You’d taken him with you.

He saw you again, and for a moment, everything else vanished. All the years, all the scars, all the pretending. Just your eyes. The ones that used to fill his dreams and keep him awake in equal measure. And the pain? The pain came back all at once, rushing through him like a freight train.

His mind, always loud, always chaotic, went still — just a dull roar of memory crashing in waves. Of laughter under streetlights, bruised knees, whispered dares, nights spent hiding from the world in each other’s presence.

"Our bond is forever."

You’d said it when you were six. Like it was gospel. Like it meant something unbreakable. And maybe it had, back then. Back when the world was smaller, and the monsters only lived under the bed. He’d believed you — with the kind of blind, feral devotion only a child can manage. And those words etched themselves deep, carved into bone, into blood.

With time, words started to weigh heavier on your chest. That crew – that mad, messy, beautiful crew – had once seemed unbreakable. Like kids made of velcro, always sticking back together no matter the mess. Their laughs used to warm the whole bloody street. It felt like family. The kind you picked, not the one you were born with. And even though most of them always had a home to crawl back to, arms half open no matter how twisted they came back, for Cook nor you – it had always been different.

He didn’t need to shout to be seen. People noticed him anyway. Especially you. The girl who'd pull him up with one hand, then trip him with the other, only to fall beside him laughing her head off. Always beside him.

But time twisted you. Pain does that. Made you careful, made you distant. Still, you leaned on them – the ones who held you up when you couldn’t float. Everyone carried their own kind of ache. You all tried, in your fucked up little ways, to meet somewhere in the middle – past the shouting and the silences, past the scars that never properly healed. You'd built a bubble. Inside it, you could forget who the world wanted you to be. You could just... be.

But who were you now?

He looked different. Older, sure. Harder around the edges. But when you met his eyes, something clicked. That thread, the one you’d both tied knot after knot in, hadn’t snapped. Not really. You wondered if he felt it too. If that old shed of Freddie’s still stood, would it feel the same? Could you tuck yourself between him and JJ again, let the noise in your head drift off while Freddie went on about his latest trick, JJ pulled coins out your ears, and Cook traced lazy shapes on your legs, spread across his lap?

Now... you weren’t sure where to place it all. You’d unplugged from them so violently. From the only people who’d really seen you at your worst. But in Cook’s eyes – fuck – it was like he remembered too. Like he was back there, where you’d built each other up with the bits that no one else wanted.

"You left."

It wasn’t sharp. Just a fact. A truth too big to hold in.

You nodded. Tears stinging. Heart crumpling in your chest.

"We were a mess, yeah?"

You shook your head, firm.

"Not always," you whispered, your voice barely air. "Not all the time. There were good bits, Cook."

And you both remembered.

°°°

You’d barely turned ten. Still had milk teeth hanging by threads. Just the two of you outside school, sat on the curb. Freddie and JJ had already legged it home – warm dinners waiting, family fussing.

Not you two.

Your legs were scraped from a fall you pretended didn’t hurt, backpack half-open, books spilling like you couldn't be bothered anymore. He sat next to you, legs crossed like a question mark, fiddling with a busted shoelace. Neither of you said anything for a while. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was the kind you only get when someone knows your kind of quiet.

"My dad’s a mess too," you muttered, eyes fixed on a chip in the pavement like it held answers. Voice small, but steady. Not crying. Not asking for pity.

Cook didn’t flinch. Just looked over, his face unreadable. Maybe he already knew. Maybe he saw it in your hunched shoulders or the way you kicked at pebbles like they owed you something.

"He’s working," you said, like you were trying to make it sound okay. "Says we need the money. Said he’d be back in a few days. There’s beans in the cupboard and my uncle’s number stuck on the fridge. But not to call unless I’m really dying or summat."

You laughed then. But it was dry. Hollow. The kind of laugh that tries to keep your throat from closing up. Cook didn’t laugh. Just nodded. Like yeah, that made sense. Like it wasn’t the worst thing he’d heard that week.

You stood up, dusted your trousers, slung that old worn backpack over your shoulder. Reached a hand down.

"Come on. I learned how to work the hob. Not eating tinned crap again. You can stay at mine."

It wasn’t said like an invitation. It was a fact. Like the sky being grey, or Mondays being shite. He took your hand without a word, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was. With him, it always was.

That night you cooked something that vaguely resembled food, even if the noodles were half-crunchy and the sauce came from three different expired packets. You laughed when he made a face. He ate it anyway.

You gave him that hideous purple pyjama set you’d grown out of. He swam in it, looked absolutely ridiculous, and wore it like it was made of gold. Called it his superhero suit. You mocked him mercilessly, but secretly kept the matching top buried under your pillow. Just in case.

It became a thing. Not just staying over, but staying close. He’d swing by with half a sandwich, you’d share a single glove when one of you lost theirs. He’d show up on bad days without asking what was wrong. You’d walk beside him when he needed someone to pretend nothing was.

He remembered the first time his chest did something stupid around you. That weird pirouette inside, then you handed him instant soup like it was gourmet.

"This bond, it’s forever, James. So eat this and say it’s the best shit you’ve ever had, yeah?"

Something cracked in him then. Not like with Freddie and JJ – he loved them, no doubt. But this? This was different. Warmer. Deeper. Scary, if he was honest.

You weren’t just surviving anymore. You were building something. A quiet, scrappy little life made of instant soup and mismatched pyjamas and the kind of loyalty that doesn’t need words.

°°°°

You were thirteen when all your mates had buggered off for the summer. Off to some beach town or cosy village with ice cream and swimming pools. But not you. Not him either. The two of you were stuck. Stuck on the estate, where heat curled up off the pavement and the air sat thick and lazy, unmoved by even a whisper of breeze.

You were sprawled out on the grass in that sad little park, the one near the shops with the broken swing and the bin that always stank. Silent—not because there was nothing to say, but because everything felt too heavy to speak aloud. Maybe, deep down, you just didn’t want to be left alone with your thoughts. Not that day. Not any day, really. You were just kids then, but you both knew loneliness like an old song. Familiar. Mean.

Across the field, some couple were snogging like their lives depended on it. Arms tangled, lips smacking, all dramatic and disgusting. You rolled your eyes, but it was Cook who cracked first. Started taking the piss—moaning, miming, flailing like an idiot. A proper knobhead. But it worked. You laughed so hard your ribs ached, folding in on yourself as the air left your lungs in gasps. He was holding his sides too, wheezing, grinning, eyes bright with mischief. You wiped a tear from your cheek, the laughter still fizzing.

“That was vile,” you gasped, catching your breath.

He nodded, that daft grin still plastered on his face. But then he went quiet. His mouth was still curved up like he might keep laughing, but his eyes drifted—miles away. You knew that look. You knew him too well not to.

“Spit it out, before your brain explodes.”

He bit his cheek, weighing something up. But of course, he said it.

“We should try it.”

“What?”

“Snogging. We should give it a go. Everyone’s doing it. Might as well get some practice in, yeah? Don’t wanna be shit when it matters.”

You looked away. Something twisted in your chest. You didn’t know what it was—not exactly—but it stung. That last bit. When it matters. Like this wouldn’t. Like you didn’t. And that hurt in a way you hadn’t planned for.

So you did what you always did when things hurt: something stupid.

“Alright then. Let’s do it.”

He froze. Didn’t expect that—not really. He always talked big, but deep down he must’ve known you’d do anything he asked. You always had.

You leaned in, hands on his shoulders, a little rougher than you meant. Trying to seem cool, to ignore the way your fingers trembled. Your head felt full of static. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel funny. It felt like falling.

He licked his lips—nervous, clueless, drowning.

“Ew. Why’d you do that?”

“Dunno. That’s what they do in films.”

“Yeah, well, this ain’t some bloody film, James.”

And before you could think it to death, you kissed him. Slammed your mouth against his like it was a dare. Clumsy. Fast. A bit gross. You stayed there for a second, lips mashed together, not moving. Just existing in that weird, hot space between what you were and what you might’ve been.

Somewhere in that messy, awkward press of lips, something shifted—not outside you, but inside. A slow, startling warmth unfurled in your chest. Not like fire. More like the sun, rising somewhere deep in your ribs. It made it hard to breathe. Hard to move.

You always liked being near Cook. His warmth was different. Like home. He smelled like sun and grass and cheap soap, and somehow that had started to mean something.

His nearness made your heart twist.

It scared you.

You pulled back. His eyes were still shut, lips puckered like he was waiting for more. You gave his shoulder a little shove.

He coughed, awkward. Didn’t have the words. Probably never would. He looked lost—too many feelings with no names yet. Just two kids, barely keeping their own heads above water, trying to figure it out one clumsy kiss at a time.

“Dunno what the fuss is. Wasn’t even that good.”

He winced. You saw it. But he swallowed it down, did what he always did.

Turned pain into jokes.

“You taste like crisps.”

“You’re a dickhead, Cook.”

You flopped back on the grass beside him, squinting up at the sky. He laid down too, close enough your elbows touched.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Because yeah—maybe that was easier than admitting your heart had just cracked open a little.

°°°

You'd been waiting outside for over ten minutes. Maybe that wouldn’t’ve felt like much to another kid who’d just turned fourteen, but for you it was turning into bloody eternity. Time felt warped, stretched thin and cruel, the kind of waiting that made your hands itch for something to do—like pressing the buzzer and messing about with the loose bits on the porch, or digging through that box of shite Cook kept outside, pretending you weren’t just standing there feeling small. But you knew how it made him feel—coming down and finding you alone with his mum.

You’d known Ruth longer than you’d known your own way home. Spent more afternoons in that house than you cared to count—killing time, mucking about, waiting for your dad to remember he had a daughter. Back then, you didn’t think too much of it. It was an escape, sort of. Your house had no rules, sure—but Cook’s was real anarchy.

You’d sit on the floor drawing for hours, paper smudged with colour, making worlds out of felt-tip pens. Ruth’d snatch your sketches up and slap 'em on the fridge like they meant something. "This one’s got it," she’d say, holding your paper like a fucking relic. "Don’t lose her, James. She’s got light."

You don’t even realise your finger’s pressed the buzzer until it’s done. Regret floods you fast, heavy and choking. You can already picture his face—Cook’s—tight with hurt, confused why you didn’t wait like you promised. The door creaks open and there she is. Ruth. Wine glass in one hand, makeup smeared like war paint. She smiles like a knife.

"Well well. If it ain’t the little threat herself."

You force a grin. Polite. Hollow. Just long enough to slip past her and into the house. But once you're in, it’s like the walls start watching you. Her eyes rake over you—up and down, inside out. You feel flayed.

"All grown up now, eh? No wonder my Jamie can’t shut up about you. Always on about his special little mate."

The air snags in your chest. Something twists deep down, hot and weird and aching. You’d started feeling things lately. Not just for anyone—for him. Feelings none of your mates had names for. A tug in your chest when he looked at you too long. That burn in your cheeks when he touched your wrist by accident and didn’t let go.

You keep your mouth shut, lips tight. Just nod, just smile. But your eyes are locked on Ruth, taking her in, trying to memorise every bit of damage. Every sharp edge that made you learn how to fix him.

She leans in too close, breath warm and sickly with booze and smoke, and plants her hand heavy on your shoulder.

"Let me give you a bit of advice, sweetheart. Since your mum ain’t here to do it, yeah? Don’t let yourself get dragged down. You’ve got future in you—I can see it. That fire in your eyes, it’s real. You’ve got ambition."

You blink. Once. Then twice.

"Sorry, I don’t quite—"

"Don’t let that little monster ruin you. He don’t mean to, but he will. It’s in his blood. Everything he touches, he rots. Just like his dad."

That’s the first time you taste rage. Real rage. Not kid anger. Not sulking or stomping or shouting. Real, white-hot, burning fury. She’d just called him a monster. Him. The boy you stayed up late worrying about. The one who called you when his nightmares got bad and who never told you what they were.

Your mouth twists. You feel your shoulders square without thinking.

"Take care, darling. Best stay away fro—"

"Told you to wait outside."

Your head snaps toward the stairs. There he is. Cook. Slouched and tired and barefoot, shirt unbuttoned like he couldn’t be arsed to finish dressing. His face says everything—he heard enough.

You break from her touch like it burned. Move toward him. Raise your hand, slow but sure. It’s not just a gesture. It’s a message. Come with me. Let’s go.

He hesitates. Always does, like he’s checking to see if he’s allowed to want something. But then he moves, steps down, takes your hand in his. Warm and rough and real. You squeeze. Too hard, maybe. But you don’t care. You’re telling him everything in that grip. I’m here. I’m not leaving.

You pass Ruth together, hand in hand, her perfume still clinging to your lungs. But you don’t look back—until the very last moment. You hold her gaze like a dare.

She snorts. Disbelief, not laughter.

"What did I tell ya? Eyes like fire. Gonna burn the whole bloody world."

"Goodbye, Ruth," you spit, her name bitter on your tongue.

Outside, you don’t let go. You rub your thumb over the back of his hand. Small circles. Like you can undo what she said. Like you can stitch up all the places she left him bleeding.

"Our bond’s forever, yeah?"

Your voice is too soft. Too vulnerable. And he doesn’t answer with words. He lets go only to pull you into him, arms tight around your shoulders like he’s building a shelter out of himself.

You bury your face in his chest and grip the back of his shirt. Because this is how you’ve always talked. Not with words. With skin. With the way he holds you like you're the only thing that feels right in the world.

°°°

At fifteen, it was all just too much. Emotions that once felt simple started twisting, folding in on themselves, turning into something you didn’t have the words for. Your body spoke a language you couldn’t bloody translate, and it was driving you mad. You wanted to scream half the time. The other half, you were just tired. Tired of feeling too much and not enough all at once.

Cook? Cook decided the best way to cope was to be louder. To let the world know he was a mess inside by being even messier on the outside. He didn’t give a shit who he pissed off or what got broken along the way. If it hurt, he made it louder. Like pain meant less when it echoed.

You took the opposite route. You locked it all down. Ignored the noise in your own head, pushed the thoughts back so deep they started to rot. You didn’t let yourself think about what it meant to sit alone in a house that never felt like home. You tried not to notice the twist in your gut when Panda's mum made her cake and warm milk, or when Katie and Emily argued over nothing but still sat down to eat together. And JJ's mum? Bloody hell, she made your skin itch with all that love. Asking him how his day went, reminding him to take his pills, cheering like a loon when he did some daft magic trick.

You knew none of their lives were perfect. Hell, you knew too well. But that didn’t stop you wanting a piece of it. Just a bit of the warmth. Just something.

So that one night, when you waited for Cook with that sad little dish you’d spent hours learning to make, something cracked. Just the two of you, like always. You told yourself it’d be okay once he got there. That he'd laugh at the burnt bits, eat it all anyway, and then the two of you would take the piss out of that show with Freddie’s sister dancing like she’d been electrocuted. That you’d feel less alone, just for a bit.

But he was late. Real late. And that cold plate on the table started looking like a fucking eulogy.

You called. Once, twice. No answer. By the third, you were angry. Angry and scared. Told yourself you wouldn't ring again. That if he was lying in a ditch, it served him right.

Then he picked up.

His breath came heavy, like he'd legged it down the whole of Bristol. His voice was rough, but it wasn’t the good kind. And then you heard it – laughter. A girl, muffled but clear. Something clicked in your stomach. Jealousy. Ugly, sharp.

“Cook?”

A shushing noise, then that daft voice of his. “Yeah. Shit. Sorry. I lost track.”

“You forgot experimental dinner night.”

“Fuck. Was that tonight?”

“Yeah. It was.”

More noise. A girl again, asking him to come back to bed.

You felt it then. That bite. The heat rising in your cheeks. But not the good kind. This wasn’t blushing. This was burning.

“Give me a bit, yeah? I can—”

“No, Cook. You can’t. Don’t you dare come over.”

“Oi, don’t be like that, sweetheart—”

But you were already gone. Phone across the room. Dinner in the fridge. And just like that, it was empty again. You were empty.

At night, curled up in a bed that suddenly felt twice as big, you heard the knocking at your window. You didn’t move. Just buried your head deeper under the pillow, tightening it around your ears until his voice was nothing but a muffled hum in the storm of your own thoughts.

You knew it was him. Of course it was him. Who else would be daft enough to throw stones at your window past midnight in the rain? Who else would show up after fucking everything up like it meant nothing, like it was just another night?

But this wasn’t just another night. And it wasn’t just some dinner.

It was your thing. Thursdays. You’d started it as a joke. Experimental dinner night. You’d make something weird, he'd pretend to hate it, and you'd both end up on the floor laughing, talking about fuck all till it was late enough to forget the rest of the world.

You’d made something new that night. Put effort in. Set the table. Waited. And waited. You told yourself he was just late. That he'd show up with some stupid excuse and that you’d forgive him before you even got angry.

But he didn’t come. You felt something sharp twist inside you. Not just jealousy. It was betrayal. It was the cold realisation that he'd forgotten. Not flaked, not ditched. Forgotten.

Forgotten the one thing that was yours.

And not because he didn’t care. Because he did. That’s what made it worse. He cared, but he was still Cook. Still running from his own feelings like they were fire at his heels. Still diving headfirst into chaos instead of sitting still long enough to feel something real.

You’d seen it before. When things got too close, he’d blow it all up. Not on purpose—but not by accident either.

He couldn’t bear the quiet. Couldn’t bear how good it felt when you looked at him like you saw all the wreckage and still wanted him anyway. That kind of safety terrified him. So he ran. Straight into the arms of anyone who didn’t ask questions. Anyone who didn’t look at him like you did.

He showed up that night because a part of him knew what he’d done. Knew he’d fucked it. Knew that he’d broken something that wasn’t easy to glue back together.

You didn’t let him in.

And outside, under your window, Cook was falling apart.

Because you had been the only one who never asked him to be anything else. Who never expected perfection or promises. Just a seat at the table. A bit of warmth in the mess.

And he’d forgotten it. Like it was nothing. Because he'd been too busy trying not to feel jealous about you and Freddie. Too scared to ask what you felt, too hurt to admit what he felt himself. He'd bottled it all up like always, let it fester, and then found a body to disappear into instead of saying the one thing he couldn’t:

That he was scared of losing you.

°°°

There were no more Thursday experiments. That part of your life had vanished, like a dream fading in the morning light, and nothing came close to replacing it.

But still, you stayed. Maybe not in the same way, maybe not with sleepovers and secret smiles, but you never truly left him. You were still there—still laughing at his jokes, still showing up when he called, still walking into the chaos just to pull him out again. You kept orbiting each other like planets with wrecked gravity, doomed to circle forever without ever quite touching.

Things had changed between you. Not in loud, dramatic ways—but in the silences. In the pauses between jokes. In the way your eyes lingered too long and your hands pulled away too quickly. There was a weight between you that neither of you dared to name, the kind of tension that makes your chest ache because it’s too full of things left unsaid. Every time you looked at him, you felt it—that ache. And he felt it too, but neither of you was brave enough to step into it. So you let it grow, let it rot into something heavy and bitter, something that pressed against your ribs whenever he smiled at someone else.

You tried to kill it. You both did. You went looking for numbness, for distractions. For something to drown out that god-awful feeling of almost. Cook found it in strangers—flashes of skin and noise and temporary warmth. He was always good at pretending none of it mattered, that he didn’t feel anything. He’d wrap himself around anyone who’d have him, chasing that brief second of being wanted, of not being alone.

And you? You chose quiet. You chose Freddie. Gentle hands. Calm words. Someone who wouldn’t explode at the drop of a hat. He made your life feel less like a car crash and more like a walk through the rain. With him, it was softer. Safer. You knew he loved you in a way that hurt because you couldn’t love him back the same. He’d whisper it into your skin—"I love you, I love you"—like it could make you stay, like it could make you forget the way your heart still twisted at the sound of Cook’s laugh.

And all you could say was, “I know.”.

 He saw it in the way your eyes always drifted across the room. In how your voice changed when Cook was near. Freddie knew your heart belonged to someone who never quite knew what to do with it. And still, he stayed. Let you carve a home out of his chest and never asked for more than you could give.

You weren’t Cook’s girlfriend. Never were. You weren’t Freddie’s either, not really—just someone who drifted close enough to feel safe for a while. But Cook, he hated the idea of you choosing anyone else. Not because he’d claimed you, not because he’d ever said the words—but because deep down, he always believed you were his. His anchor. His person.

It twisted something in him, the thought of someone else holding you when your hands shook, of someone else knowing the sound of your breathing when you finally fell asleep. He couldn’t stand the idea that someone else got to see you soft, see you small. So his jokes turned sharper, crueler. His laugh louder, more manic. Every room you walked into, he made sure you saw him first—made sure you couldn’t look anywhere else.

He'd do anything to keep your eyes on him, even if it meant becoming a caricature of himself. Because being your nothing was still better than watching you belong to someone else.

And it worked. Somehow, it always worked. You’d end up beside him, always. Fingers tracing nothing on his arm while Freddie looked on from across the room, too kind to say anything, too in love to look away.

You were both broken. You and Cook. Too mangled by life to know how to say what needed saying. Too scared of ruining what little you had left. So instead of building something, you burned everything around you just to feel alive.

But no matter how far he spiralled, no matter how messy the night, Cook always found his way back to you. Battered and bleeding, eyes glazed over from whatever he’d taken, fists bruised from fights that didn’t mean anything. Somehow, his feet would always carry him to your door.

And you’d always open it. Even when you shouldn’t. Even when you were exhausted from carrying too much that was never yours to carry. You’d open that door and there he’d be—your wreck of a boy. All scraped knees and bleeding knuckles. Lost. And you’d take his hand, still the same hand you held when you were kids, and you’d guide him out of the dark again.

You’d clean him up. Sit him down, wipe the blood off his stupid face with that same gentleness he never felt he deserved. You’d dress his wounds like he hadn’t ripped your heart open a hundred times. Leave fresh clothes for him, not the old purple pyjamas anymore.

Then you’d pull him into your bed and wrap your arms around him like you could hold him together. Like if you held him tight enough, he wouldn’t fall apart again. Like maybe you could keep the pieces from slipping through your fingers this time.

And he’d let you. He always did. He’d let the warmth swallow him whole. Let you be the one place that didn’t hurt. And he’d think it—every time—that he loved you. That he needed you. That it killed him, not having the right to say any of it out loud. Because he didn’t know how to love things gently. He only knew how to want so much it broke him.

Instead of saying it, he’d make a joke. Always. “You really need to wash these sheets. They fucking stink.”

And you’d roll your eyes, your heart aching in your chest. “If you didn’t cover them in blood and sick every time, they wouldn’t, twat.”

And somehow, in all the mess and damage and wreckage—you’d fall asleep beside him. Pretending, just for a night, that love didn’t have to ruin everything.

°°°

You didn’t even remember gettin’ up to your room. Everything’d been so fucking loud, so overwhelming—all screaming and chaos, a storm in your head that felt like it’d drown you. You wanted to feel pain. Real pain. Something sharp enough to split you open, just so you’d know you were still alive. But there was nothing. Just that heavy, humming nothing sitting inside your chest like a weight.

You could see yourself sitting on the edge of the bed, dead still, staring at some random spot on the wall like your brain’d shorted out. It didn’t feel like it was happening to you, couldn’t be. You weren’t there, not properly. Like you’d split from your body and drifted off somewhere else.

You didn’t remember picking up your phone either. Didn’t clock the moment you called Freddie. He didn’t answer. Probably asleep. Maybe off with Effy. You weren’t even upset. No anger, no disappointment. Just more of that fucking void. Didn’t even know why you rang him first. Maybe deep down, you knew he wouldn’t pick up. That way, you wouldn’t have to say it out loud—wouldn’t have to make it real.

Your fingers moved on their own, calling another number. You didn’t even know what you were doing ‘til you heard his voice.

"What’s happened?"

He always knew. Didn’t matter if you hadn’t spoken in months, Cook just fuckin’ knew when summat was off. Like he had a radar for your pain or something. You just breathed, trying to find your voice beneath all the noise.

"You home? I’m comin’."

And suddenly, something. Your heart banged against your ribs and the heat came with it, warm and dizzying, like the blood was rushing back into dead limbs. You held onto it. Clung, like it might stop you from falling apart completely. Because that feeling, even buried as deep as it was, was better than that cold empty nothing.

When you stepped outside, you saw him. Loud as ever. Car that probably wasn’t his, windows down, music blaring through the estate like a fuck-you anthem. You knew he did it on purpose. For your dad. For anyone who thought you were alone.

He leaned out the window, waving a tub of ice cream.

"Weren’t no mint, babe. Got what I could."

Your chest twisted so tight it felt like it might snap. You smiled with your teeth clenched, trying not to fall apart.

"You gettin’ in or what? This shit’s already turnin’ to soup."

You got in without a word. Took the tub off him. It was a mess. Melting and sticking to your fingers. Just like you. Just like him. Perfectly fucked.

Back at his flat, you lay side by side on his bed, eyes stuck on the ceiling. The air was thick. Every breath a fucking effort. You reached out, slow, your thumb grazing his hand—a silent SOS. And he answered. That touch turned real. Present. Dangerous.

You started stroking his hand, like it meant nothing, like it was casual. But it weren’t. Not for either of you. You used to touch all the time. Back when you were just mates. Before it got complicated. Before it started hurting to be close.

He shifted closer. Your shoulders brushed. The weight of it pressed down on you like concrete. You couldn’t breathe properly—not through your nose, not through your fucking lungs. But you didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

His fingers gripped yours. Tight. Not soft. He was saying something. That he was there. That you weren’t alone. His breath hitched. You turned your head to look at him. His eyes were moving, restless, chasing answers in the plaster above.

Then he said it.

"I fuckin’ love you."

Too fast. Too real. Too late.

“No, Cook, please. Don’t”

You tried to shut him up. Hand over his mouth, desperate to stop the words before they fucked it all up. But he pulled it away.

"I love you. Not like Freddie or JJ. Not like that. It’s fuckin’ awful. Makes me feel sick, how much I do."

Your mouth opened but nothing came. Just tears. Blurry, burning, useless.

"You don’t have to say owt. Just... I need you to know there’s people out there who love you. Who think you’re gold, yeah? Proper gold. And you need to hear that. You need to believe it."

The world tilted.

Not just around you—inside you. It cracked. Your bones felt hollow. Your skin too thin. Your chest too tight to hold the weight of what he’d said. You were glad you were lying down because if you’d been upright, you would’ve collapsed under the force of it. You felt like glass, straining under pressure, seconds from shattering. He’d made you glass, and he didn’t even know it.

He was still next to you, breathing, waiting. Waiting for something you didn’t know how to give.

You loved him too.

Of course you fucking did.

You felt it blooming in your chest like a bruise, dark and tender and obvious. But you didn’t say it. You couldn’t. Because saying it would make it real, and real things could be broken. Could rot. Could ruin the only constant you’d ever had in your life—him.

You didn’t know how to love without ruining it. Didn’t know how to hold something without crushing it in your fists, how to touch something good without setting it on fire. You didn’t have soft in you. Not the kind people deserved. Not the kind he deserved.

And you knew, with this cold, awful certainty, that he would take anything you gave him. He always had. That was the worst part. He’d let you have him in pieces. He’d swallow your confusion, your silence, your mess, just to stay close. That confession? That reckless, beautiful fucking confession? It only proved what you’d already known deep down: he’d let you hurt him if it meant you’d let him stay.

You hated yourself for it. For needing him this much. For not saying what he needed to hear. For letting him drown in your silence just so you wouldn’t have to face your own fear.

You were selfish. And you knew it.

But you couldn’t risk losing him. Not him. Not the only one who’d stayed. Because once you fucked it up—and you would, it was in your blood—there’d be no going back. No arms to run to. No place left in the world that felt like home.

So when you saw him take another breath, gearing up to speak again, you did the only thing you could.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t anything out of a film. It was sharp and clumsy and almost panicked, your lips crashing into his like you could knock the words back down his throat.

And just like that, everything else fell away.

The years of confusion. Of longing. Of pretending. That ache in your chest that never had a name. It all burned up in the heat of that kiss. Because the truth was, your body had always known what your mouth couldn’t say. His mouth on yours was gasoline on everything buried. Your whole soul lit up.

You kissed him like a secret, like a scream, like a fucking prayer. Letting him feel all the things you couldn’t give shape to. All the love you didn’t know how to carry. You poured it into his mouth, frantic, desperate, hoping it would be enough.

His breath caught. His hands didn’t move. For a moment, it was just you—wreckage and want and all the things you couldn’t speak, pressed against the one person who might still want you anyway.

It only lasted a second. Maybe two. Just a graze of fire and salt and skin. But when you pulled back, you couldn’t breathe.

And he understood. Of course he did. That was the thing about him. He always fucking did.

°°°°

You don’t talk about it. Not the kiss. Not the way his hand clung to yours like he couldn’t stand to let go. Not the I love you he dropped like it was nothin—like he wasn’t tearing the world in half with it. You just pretend it didn’t happen. Both of you. Like it got swallowed up in the dark. Like it never cracked you open.

But everything’s different now. Even the silence. It hums. Stretches. Pulls at the edges of every moment. He still shows up, still takes the piss, still crashes at yours like always. But now, there’s a weight to everything. Like the air’s thicker when he’s near. Like you’re both waiting for the next mistake.

You wake up with him behind you.

Not heavy. Not suffocating. Just… there. Warm. Familiar. The kind of weight you used to think would mean safety, before you learned better. His arm is around your middle, loose but certain. His chest presses into your back, breath soft against the nape of your neck. You can smell him. Sweat, cheap shampoo, something vaguely like the smoke from last night’s spliff still clinging to his skin.

You blink at the light slipping through the crack in the curtains. Too early. Too cold. You should get up. Instead, you lie there for a moment longer.

It’s not the first time he’s crawled into your bed after a night out or a fight or just because he had nowhere else to go. He never asks. Just slips in beside you like it’s natural. Like it’s always been this way.

You try not to read into it anymore. You’ve both gotten good at pretending this doesn’t mean anything.

When you shift, his grip tightens. A sleepy groan vibrates against your shoulder.

"Don’t,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and honey, barely awake. “Warm here. Stay."

You smile despite yourself. That stupid, lazy voice of his—so close it feels like it could climb under your skin.

"We’ve got class, idiot," you whisper, turning just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

His face is buried in your pillow, one eye cracked open, bleary and annoyed. He doesn’t move.

"Skip."

"You skip."

"I am."

You huff out a laugh. You should be annoyed, but he looks so fucking peaceful like that. Like some other version of himself. One that doesn’t burn everything down just by being near it. You push a bit of hair from his forehead, slow and careful. His eyes flutter closed again.

"Go back to sleep, Cook," you whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

You stay there a second longer, watching him. Trying to fix this version of him in your mind—the one that sleeps, the one that clings, the one that doesn’t talk. Then you ease out of his grip and tuck the duvet back around him.

By the time you leave, your fingers are still tingling from touching his skin.

The day’s shit from the start. Cold wind. Missed bus. You nearly spill coffee on your jumper, and someone plays Mardy Bum too loud in the hallway and it hits too close. But then—silver lining: your third period’s cancelled.

It’s barely noon. You could go to the library. Get ahead. Be a normal person for once. Instead, your feet turn toward home like they’ve made the decision for you.

You’re already smiling when you climb the stairs. He’ll still be asleep, probably starfished across your sheets. Maybe snoring, definitely drooling. You’ll crawl back in beside him, just for a bit. Maybe steal his warmth before he wakes up and ruins it with his mouth.

You push open the bedroom door, ready to say, You’re not gonna believe this, they actually—

And then you stop.

Because he’s not asleep.

He’s on your bed, one hand wrapped tight around himself, the other holding—

Your knickers.

Pressed to his face.

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

For a second, the world tilts.

Your voice gets caught in your throat, stuck somewhere between shock and—something else. Something hot. Something low and coiling.

You freeze, caught in the doorway like you’ve stepped into someone else’s dream—or maybe a nightmare you don't hate quite as much as you should.

He’s sprawled across your sheets like he owns them, like he belongs there, flushed and messy and loud, moaning your name like a curse. Your panties are bunched in his fist, pressed to his face like a drug he’s too far gone to quit.

And the worst part is: he doesn't even flinch. Doesn’t try to hide it. Just blinks through the haze, lips parted, hips twitching up into his fist like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like you walking in on this was just part of the plan.

Your heart stutters. Your skin prickles.

You should slam the door. Should scream at him. But instead—

You laugh. It bubbles up, breathless and sharp, just as your hand flies to your mouth.

“Are you actually jerking off in my bed?”

He grins, wild and unrepentant, eyes glittering with something feral. “Took you long enough, princess. Thought you’d never get home.”

“You absolute pig.”

He groans like that helps, head falling back into your pillow like he’s sinking into something holy. “Go on. Call me more names. Call me your filthy little secret.”

Heat coils in your stomach. This isn’t new. Cook and his disasters. Cook and his wreckage. But this—this thing he’s doing in your sheets with your scent on his skin and your name in his mouth—this is new. And it’s working.

“Is this what you do the second I leave?” Your voice barely works. You lean on the doorframe, arms crossed, trying not to melt. Trying to look unbothered. "Raid my drawer, get off with your nose buried in my underwear?"

He doesn’t startle. Doesn’t even stop. He just groans loud, lets his head roll toward you with a grin that’s all teeth and trouble.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You arch a brow, your stomach tightening.

He laughs again—breathless and soaked in sweat. “Alright, maybe do. You smell like sin, babe. Like fuckin' heartbreak. How'm I supposed to behave when you leave me here like this?"

Your mouth goes dry. There's heat curling behind your ears, a deep throb low in your stomach. You shift without meaning to, thighs brushing, sensitive.

"You're a menace."

"And you fuckin' love it," he pants, voice getting louder now, filthier. He's putting on a show and he knows it. All messy rhythm and flushed skin, muscles twitching under the strain. "Bet you think about this too, yeah? Think about me when you touch yourself in that bed?"

Your breath hitches. Everything inside you pulses.

"Not Freddie," he growls, jaw tight, hand still moving. "Me. It’s me you think of with your fingers between your legs, innit?"

Your legs lock, throat too dry to speak. Every nerve ending is on fire. You can feel the ache building between your legs just watching him. That hot-cold shame that feels like lightning.

" Because it’s always been you for me. Always have," he spits, eyes wild. "But after that kiss? Fuck, princess. I can’t stop. Every fuckin' night. You think I’m loud now? You should hear what I sound like with your name in my mouth and your taste still stuck in my teeth."

You squeeze your thighs together so tight it hurts. Your skin feels too hot. Your breath too shallow. He catches the shift in your stance and moans, filthy and guttural.

"You like this. Bet you're soaked just watchin' me. Bet you can't even look away."

You can’t. You don’t want to. Your body’s humming, aching, practically begging for something you haven’t even admitted to yourself.

You knew it was a provocation—everything he was doing was meant to make you snap, to make you say what you couldn’t that night. But the words caught in your throat again, stuck fast with no way out. He clicked his tongue, saw it in your eyes—the denial of the obvious—and moaned a little louder, just to fuck with you, just to see if that would finally pull you out of your own head.

“You’re such a dick.”

"Big one too," he grits out, voice almost breaking, hips bucking like he’s chasing the edge.

Your heart stutters. Your pulse thrums between your legs.

And he falls apart with a shout, like he wants the whole damn street to know. Loud, messy, shaking, like he can’t take it anymore.

Your name breaks out of him like a plea. Like a prayer.

You watch.

Burning. Silent. Shaken to your core.

He lies there for a second, chest heaving, hair stuck to his forehead, your ruined knickers still clutched in his hand. Then he looks up at you and laughs, soft and breathless.

“What d’you say, princess? How ‘bout we don’t talk about this?” He wipes his stomach with the fabric, grinning. “Just like we don’t talk about that night, yeah?”

Your whole body pulses. And still, you don’t say a word.

You can’t.

°°°°

Everything had gotten stranger. Your door wasn’t always open like it used to be, like you’d built a wall of bricks and silence around you. And Cook—he’d started wondering if he’d pushed you too far, properly fucked it by trying to force all the shit inside you to come spilling out.

Thing is, he never knew how to love right. Never learned how to want something without breaking it. But that didn’t stop him saying it, that jumble of feeling that had been growing inside him for years. Stuff too big to bury, no matter how deep he shoved it down.

And yeah, maybe you'd thrown yourself into someone else’s arms—Freddie’s—but he could almost understand that. The dizzying fear of handing your heart to someone who might actually take care of it. Still, he hadn’t given up, even if he stopped showing up at your door at 3 a.m., even if he kept his distance now like it might spare you.

But it didn’t help. There was a storm inside you that even Freddie couldn’t quiet. No one knew, no one else had seen that side. You didn’t let them. Too ashamed, maybe, of the mess you’d made trying to pretend you didn’t need anyone.

So you said yes to every plan, every distraction. Anything loud enough to drown the chaos in your head. That’s how you’d ended up at that party, half-cut and ignoring JJ’s warnings about exams and hangovers. You bit your tongue before telling him that forgetting was the plan. Blanking it all out—especially the parts that still mattered.

And then, like always, there he was.

You two always ended up in the same place, like it was fate or some sick joke. That night, you were dancing with Freddie, the world spinning, his hands on your hips trying to keep you grounded. But it was Cook’s eyes that scorched you, following every movement like they had something to prove. He wasn’t even trying to hide it.

And that made it worse. Because that kiss—it kept echoing in your head, louder than the bass pulsing through the floor. That brutal, honest confession you couldn’t shake: “I fucking love you.”

You couldn’t breathe. Pulled away from Freddie, gasping, some excuse about needing air. “Don’t worry, stay—I'll be back in a bit.”

The club door slammed behind you, and the stairwell felt thinner, heavier. You didn’t even know if you meant to go outside or just get away—away from those eyes.

Then the door creaked again.

You didn’t turn. You already knew it wasn’t Freddie.

You shut your eyes, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole. Anything would’ve been easier than facing him.

“Always runnin’, innit?”

That’s what made you spin.

His breath was ragged, lips parted like there was still more to say.

“Fuck you, Cook.”

You turned to face him fully. A thousand things slammed into your chest. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to hit him. Scream until your voice broke. Tear something down just to match the ruin inside.

“What d’you want me to say, ah?”

You were close now. You could feel the tremble in his chest, his breath hitting your skin.

“That I’ve been a fucking mess ‘cause you made me listen to what you feel?” Your voice cracked, trembling. “That it’s fucked me up ‘cause I can’t say it back?” Your eyes were wet now. “And not ‘cause I don’t feel it. Christ, I think I’ve loved you since the day we met, Cook. But I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to hold it. It scares the shit out of me that it’s this strong.”

You were sobbing now, your voice barely a whisper.

“Everyone who’s meant to love me has smashed me to pieces. And if I tell you how much you mean, it’ll be in your hands. You could destroy me.”

He froze. Eyes locked on you, wide, taking in every inch of your face like he was memorising it. His hands cupped your cheeks, rough but careful. Fingers shaking a little.

And then he smiled. Soft. So bloody gentle it hurt.

“Yeah. S’pose it’s a bit like that.”

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t one of those reckless, angry kisses you’d shared before. Not a distraction. Not a dare. It was soft. True. Full of all the words you’d never said aloud.

And you let it happen.

But softness scared you too. It was too raw, too open. So you kissed him back with hunger, with fire, like asking him to take everything you couldn’t put into words.

The kiss turned messy, desperate. Your nose knocked his, your fingers found his shirt. Cook growled into your mouth, hands gripping your jaw, angling your face just so.

He was all teeth and tongue and breathless want, like he was trying to burn his name into your bones.

By the time you broke apart, you were both gasping. But he didn’t pull away—he chased your lips like they were the only thing keeping him alive. Tiny kisses, feather-light, tracing the corners of your mouth. Whispering your name over and over like a prayer.

You buried your face in his neck, breathing him in. It smelled like memories. Like home. You nearly cried again.

“I was scared. I couldn’t—”

You didn’t finish. The stairwell wall slammed against your back. You had no idea when you’d started walking backwards, probably somewhere during that blazing kiss. Maybe when his tongue brushed yours and you stopped caring where you were.

He kissed you again, rougher this time. His hand slid under your top, warm on your spine, and the gentleness in his fingers didn’t match the urgency in his mouth. Your gasp gave him the chance to deepen the kiss, tasting you like he’d waited a lifetime.

Your hands flew to his neck, anchoring yourself. A low growl rumbled from his throat and tugged a whimper from yours.

He gripped your waist, dragging you closer, until there wasn’t a sliver of space between you. One hand dipped lower, bold now, until he cupped your arse firmly. You didn’t think—just wrapped your legs around his waist, letting him hold your weight. He hissed at the heat of you against him.

“Let me,” he murmured, scattering kisses along your cheek, your jaw, nipping lightly at your skin. One hand traced your thigh, skin to skin, making you shudder.

With Cook, words always failed you. But they weren’t needed.

So you nodded, lost in the spiral of everything you’d buried for years.

He tilted your chin with two fingers, gaze locked to yours. You braced for something cutting—but instead, he kissed you again. Gentle. Almost too tender for this hallway of secrets and mistakes.

“I’ve waited so fucking long for this,” he whispered. His hand ghosted across your chest, not quite touching. Like he had all the time in the world.

“No rush.”

His mouth finds your neck, and you're powerless to stop the moan that tears from your lips. He starts grinding against your heat, lost in the promise of it. With every shift of your body, desperate for more friction, you brush against his erection, making him lose the rhythm of the kisses and bites he was scattering across the sensitive skin of your throat.

“Please…”

The plea tumbles from your lips in desperation, because you don’t even know what you need—just that you need him.

“James, I need you. Please…”

He chuckles low in his throat, swallowing a groan when your hips buck forward, chasing the heat of him.

“Now you say what you want, huh?”

You’d curse at him, but the words tangle uselessly in your throat as he finally starts to hike up your skirt. His hands drag achingly slow over your skin. You’re about to tell him you’re not in the mood for teasing when you feel his fingers slipping between your bodies, still separated by too much fabric. He runs one fingertip over the damp spot that’s already soaked through, clicking his tongue when he feels how wet you are.

He comes into view, and you can’t believe he’s got that smug grin on his lips—like the two of you aren’t about to go up in flames.

“All this just for Freddie?”

Then he pushes the fabric aside, and the lazy caress he trails over your burning flesh makes your eyes snap shut, head pressing back against the wall. His warmth had always felt comforting, always felt like home—but this closeness, this hunger, was overwhelming.

“Of course not. Because you’ve always thought about me, haven’t you?”

Your heart thunders so loudly you can barely hear him. You feel the firm pressure of his thumb parting you, gliding easily through the slick heat that welcomes him with no resistance. He touches you with maddening care, never quite where you need him, and just when you're about to whine, he sinks a finger inside you. You gasp, sharp and breathless, the sensation too intense to be real. His voice brushes your ear again, warm and wet:

“You’re soaked.”

You don��t even realize you’re shaking until his fingers curl inside you — slow, deep, deliberate. Like he’s carving a place there for himself. Like you’re not already full of him. Your breath catches and he grins against your neck, cocky and smug and so goddamn beautiful it hurts.

“Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of things he’ll never say out loud. His thumb finally finds your clit, circling with maddening pressure, and your back arches off the wall with a gasp that dies somewhere between your teeth and his.

You cling to him like you’re drowning. Maybe you are. In everything he is, everything he’s always been to you. In every bad decision you both swore you’d never make but are making anyway, right here, right now.

He bites down gently on your shoulder as he works you open, every stroke pushing you closer to something sharp and inevitable. You moan into his hair, tug at it with one hand while the other fists his shirt, needing him closer, deeper, anchored in the only way you’ve ever known how.

“You want me?” he mutters, almost like he’s teasing — but there’s something underneath, a raw edge, a crack he can’t quite cover. “Like this?

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just grind down against his hand like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth, because maybe it is.

“Say it,” he demands, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “Say you want me.”

Your voice is wrecked when it comes out. “I want you, James.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lets out a guttural noise and shifts, unfastening his jeans with a desperation that makes your pulse stutter. You help him, fumbling, frantic, the two of you lost in your own chaos. The second he’s free, you feel the heat and hardness of him pressed against your thigh, and your mouth goes dry.

You wrap your legs tighter around his hips as he slides your underwear to the side, lining himself up with a grunt. One last look into your eyes — something unspoken flickering in his — and then he pushes into you in one long, aching thrust.

You choke on a gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

He groans like he’s finally home.

The stretch is intense, overwhelming, and right. He stills for a moment, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling, breathing each other in like you’ll forget how if you stop.

Then he moves.

He thrusts into you slow and deep, the drag of him inside you maddening, hitting places no one else ever has — not like this, not with this knowing. It’s messy and raw and so damn intimate it makes your heart lurch. His lips find yours again, sloppy and bruising and full of every word neither of you have the guts to say.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he groans, voice unraveling as he picks up pace. “So tight — fuck — always thought about you like this. Every goddamn time you smiled at him.”

You whimper, because it’s too much. The way he moves, the filthy things he says, the heat in your stomach building into something devastating. You press your face into his neck and he grinds deeper, fucking you like he’s trying to claim every part of you that’s ever belonged to someone else.

Each push forward is full of purpose, and with every thrust, it's like he's pressing a piece of himself into you, anchoring the years he never spoke into the softness of your body.

You're still clinging to him, arms looped tight around his neck like you’re afraid he'll disappear. But he’s here. All of him. And you feel it in the way his hand skims up your back, in the press of his forehead against yours, in the breath he lets out when he sinks all the way inside you again — a sound that cracks open your chest from the inside.

“Look at me,” he whispers, voice hoarse and breathless.

You do.

And it wrecks you.

His eyes are wild, glassy, filled with something so raw and full it almost hurts to meet them. He’s not just fucking you — he’s memorizing you. The way your breath catches. The way your legs tremble. The way your walls clench around him when he whispers your name like it’s something sacred.

“I didn’t know how much I needed it… you… until I couldn’t take pretending anymore.”

You don’t speak. Can’t. Your voice is buried beneath the waves of sensation building too fast, too sharp. But tears burn at the corners of your eyes,

Every roll of his hips is a confession. Every grind of his pelvis against your clit makes you cry out his name like it’s a lifeline. And he listens. God, does he listen — with his body, with his hands, with every whispered "I've got you," he leaves on your skin like a promise.

You feel yourself tightening around him, everything coiling and rising, your release hovering so close it makes your vision blur. And then—

“I’ve always been yours,” he pants against your mouth. “Even when you didn’t look at me. Even when it was him.”

That breaks you.

Not just physically.

Something inside you shatters in the most beautiful way. You come with a gasp so deep it feels like being reborn, and he holds you through it, kissing your face like you’re something holy.

He follows right after, hips stuttering, breath breaking apart as he spills into you with a moan that sounds like your name turned prayer.

°°°°

You walk into the party with Cook like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t have his hands all over you on the stairs. Like he didn’t look at you with something burning behind his eyes and say he’d been waiting for that moment for years.

Now it’s just music. Lights. Laughter. You two again, as always — shoulder to shoulder, knocking shots back like war buddies, bumping hips and stealing each other’s drinks.

You make him laugh. That loud, ridiculous Cook laugh. And you feel it twist something inside you, because it sounds like him. Like before.

He throws his arm around your shoulder at one point, and you lean into it automatically, like muscle memory. You know every version of this boy. You know how to pretend with him.

You’re both pretending now.

Pretending it didn’t mean anything. That the weight of him still isn’t echoing in your bone

But you’re both so drunk you’ve forgotten how to keep your distance.

Somewhere between the third shot and the stolen bottle of rum, you end up with your back against a wall, Cook’s mouth on yours again. It's messy and rough and soaked in everything you didn’t say earlier. Everything you won’t say now.

His hands are on your waist like he owns the moment — like this is something you've done a thousand times. And maybe, in his head, you have.

You laugh into his mouth, dizzy, half out of your mind, and he presses closer like he needs you to stay tethered. Like you’re the only solid thing left in the spinning room.

People are everywhere. Music’s pounding. Bodies are dancing. And you two? You’re falling. Fast.

“OH MY GOD,” someone yells.

You both flinch.

Panda’s standing there with her hands in her hair, looking like she’s about to cry from joy or scream.

“Fucking FINALLY. Finally, you two! You’ve had everyone going insane for months, man. Thought you were gonna combust or something.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Cook laughs. His forehead rests against yours for a second and you feel his breath on your lips. But then—

“No,” you mumble.

Panda blinks. “What?”

“We’re not… it’s not like that,” you say quickly, shaking your head.

Cook’s already back to kissing you — your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Sloppy, drunk kisses that make your knees weak, but you don’t stop him. You can’t.

“She’s right,” he mutters against your skin, voice low and wrecked. “Not like that at all.”

Panda looks confused. “Mate, you’re literally—what do you mean—?”

But you’re not listening.

Because Cook’s murmuring things in your ear now, nonsense and maybe truths, too far gone to care. Something like mine, something like fuck, I missed this even though you never had this.

You grab his shirt to steady yourself and smile at Panda like you’re not unraveling.

“It’s nothing,” you lie. “Just drunk.”

Panda stares like she knows exactly what kind of lie it is.

But she lets it go.

And Cook?

Cook just keeps kissing you like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

°°°°

You wake in his bed with the sunlight coming in sideways through a curtain that never quite closes. The room smells like him—sweat, smoke, the lingering sweetness of last night. It should feel gross, maybe. But it doesn’t. Not today. Today it feels like something new. Like you’re allowed to be here. Like it means something.

You lie still for a moment, head turned toward him. He’s facedown, limbs sprawled like he’s just been dropped from a great height. There’s a purple bruise blooming on his shoulder from your teeth. You smile.

Your body aches in places you didn’t even know could ache. You pull on his shirt—one he probably found on the floor and declared clean by smell alone—and tiptoe toward the bathroom. The mirror is cracked, the faucet leaks, the tiles haven’t been scrubbed since the last ice age, but it’s fine. You look at your reflection, hair tangled, eyes lit up. Wrecked and radiant. You press your fingers to the glass like you might fall into it.

This. This is yours. For a minute, at least.

You’re brushing your teeth when arms wrap around you from behind. He’s warm and heavier than you remember in the mornings, chin hooked over your shoulder, eyes barely open.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

You smile around the toothbrush.

He kisses your neck. Then your jaw. Then your cheek. Then—

“Wait. Wait, is that my toothbrush?”

You pause mid-brush. Turn your head just enough to see him in the mirror.

“Seriously?” you say, mouth full of foam.

He’s frowning, nose scrunched. “That’s rank. Why would you use my toothbrush?”

You pull it out of your mouth with a snap. “You had your tongue in my arse like, eight hours ago.”

“Yeah, that’s completely different.”

“HOW?!”

He grabs the toothbrush from your hand like he’s rescuing a puppy from a burning building.

“Boundaries, babe.”

And then he kisses you. Not soft. Not sweet. It’s filthy. He tastes like sleep and last night’s whiskey and the toothpaste you just spit out. His hands are on your hips, dragging you back against him like he’s starving. You choke a little on your own laughter, try to push him off, but he doesn’t budge.

He’s all tongue and teeth, messy and hot, mouth greedy against yours.

“Jesus—Cook—” you mumble between kisses, still foamy at the corners.

He finally pulls back, eyes shining with something wicked. Picks up the toothbrush off the sink and just shoves it back in the cup like nothing happened.

“You’re fucking gross,” you laugh, wiping your mouth on his shirt.

He winks. “You like it nasty, innit?”

You’re both laughing now. He’s got toothpaste on his chin, and you’re gasping, breathless, heart beating too fast.

“I hate you,” you whisper against his mouth.

“Liar,” he says, grinning.

°°°°

The reality of what you once were hits you like a lorry with no brakes.

Fifteen years. And still, it’s all right there. Still him. Still you. Still that version of love that didn’t make sense but somehow felt like the only thing that ever had.

You see it in his eyes first—same Cook, only older, worn in the ways no one should ever be. But there’s that glint of pain buried deep, like he never stopped waiting for you to come back through that door.

He stares at you like you’re still seventeen. Like you’re still that girl who used to press her fingers to his ribs and tell him he was more than what the world saw.

And he speaks—rough, guttural, voice splintered at the edges.

"You said our bond was forever. Said you wouldn’t fuckin’ leave."

It doesn’t even sound like him—not the version you built up in your head over the years. It’s not the brash, laughing boy who used to dive headfirst into every wrong decision and drag you along for the ride. This version? He sounds... small. Young. Like the scared kid life never gave a chance to grow slow.

And you... you almost break right there.

But you don’t.

You owe him the truth. And you owe yourself the choice you made, no matter how much it hurts now to stand by it.

"Nothing was ever enough, Cook."

You say it without flinching. Not cruel. Just honest. Raw. A blade wrapped in cloth.

"I tried. You know I did. But you—you wouldn’t let me stay."

He looks away, but you can feel the weight of his stare anyway. Feel it pressing into your skin like old ghosts.

"Maybe if you’d stayed... if—"

He stops, because the words die on his tongue. Because whatever he was going to say, it’s too late for it now.

You shake your head, voice steady, even as your chest cracks open under the weight of it all.

"You weren’t gonna drag just me to your heaven. You’d have burned it down before we ever got there. I couldn’t let you destroy everything."

He flinches. That gets him. That lands deeper than any hit he ever took in a fight.

And for a second, you’re both silent. Letting the years stretch between you like a trench too wide to cross.

He’s not that boy anymore. And you? You’re not that girl. You both had to learn how to survive without each other, and it left you stitched up in all the wrong ways.

You think about apologizing. For leaving. For running instead of holding his hand and fighting through the mess. But then you remember why you did it. Remember the child growing inside you and the life you refused to offer up to chaos.

You made a choice.

And now it’s time to deal with the fallout.

He breaks the silence.

"Who’s he like?"

You blink. The question doesn’t register at first.

"Who?"

"The lad. Our son."

It knocks the breath out of you like he’s punched you in the stomach.

You weren’t ready for that. For him to say "our son" like the words belonged to him, like he'd known all along. But he hadn’t. And somehow, hearing it now is worse than if he had.

You smile, but it’s the kind that’s wrapped in something heavier than joy.

"He’s... brilliant. A menace." You laugh a little through your tears. "He’s got that spark in his eyes, right before he does something mad. Laughs louder than everyone else. Can ruin a room or light it up, depends on the day. He’s a bloody bomb, James."

You say it like it’s a confession. Like loving someone that much should come with a warning.

And Cook—he just nods, sharp and sudden, turning his face away like maybe if he hides it, the pain will go somewhere else. But it doesn’t. It lands heavy, shattering whatever pieces of him were left intact. He rubs a hand down his mouth. Tries to swallow it. Tries not to fall apart.

And then, like a reflex, your hand reaches out. Shaky. Uncertain.

His eyes meet yours—bloodshot, worn down, but still the same underneath.

Everything in his grown-up self tells him not to take it. Not to fall for the same girl with the trembling fingers and the war in her eyes. But that younger version of him—the reckless boy who loved you with no armour at all—he grabs it.

And he holds on.

You close your fingers around his like it’s the only thing keeping either of you afloat.

"He loves hard, too," you whisper, your voice barely holding. "All-in. Like you. And sometimes that screws him over, because he doesn’t get why the world doesn’t love back the same way. But he’s learning."

Cook doesn’t speak. Just tightens his grip like if he lets go, you’ll disappear again.

"He’s got the best of both of us," you say, softer now. "And I won’t let you ruin him, Cook. Please."

His nod is almost invisible.

"I can do that," he says. Quiet. But firm.

You don’t wait. You pull him into a hug so hard your bones ache.

He smells different now. But he’s still warm. Still Cook. Still the boy who once built you a home out of broken glass and cigarette ash.

You cry into his shirt, no longer trying to stop it.

And when you finally let go, you kiss his cheek—gentle, trembling.

"Thank you."

And then you walk away.

He watches you go. And even though you’re not leaving town this time, it still tastes like goodbye.

[pagesfromthevoid]

Honey & Glass | r. r. | 3

Robert “Bob” Reynolds x superpowered!reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: Mentions of void. But otherwise tooth rotting fluff.

Author’s Note: Technically the end of the story. But I’m sure I’ll write more about her and Bob over the course of those 14 months soon

Masterlist | Talk to Me! | AO3

“You’re all idiots, just come up stairs,” Valentina’s voice echoes through the main floor of the old Avengers Tower. 

The Thunderbolts –as Alexei decided they would be called –glanced at each other wearily. Bucky doesn’t trust a thing that comes out of Valentina’s mouth. Not a goddamn word. But her agents have stood down, and there’s a clear path to the elevator. And he really needs to save his assistant. And Bob. 

He’s getting too old for this shit, honestly.

When the doors open, Valentina immediately starts spouting her usual bullshit.

“How crazy is it to think about all of the…monumental fights that happened exactly here, where you’re standing?” She spouts, pouring herself a glass of champagne as the team approaches. “I mean, the place wasn’t cheap. But it’s got good optics.” She pauses, looking up finally and smiling at all of them. 

“This ends today,” Bucky says, stepping forward in front of the rest of them.

“Congressman Barnes. You know, I never really thought you’d have a promising political career –but less than half a term? Yikes.”

“We’re taking you in, Val,” Walker cuts in, rolling his eyes. 

Valentina scoffs though, setting her glass down. “I don’t think so, junior varsity Captain America.”

Bucky is trying to get eyes on his assistant; he knows she’s here. She has to be. Same with Mel. But Walker goes to pull his gun and Bucky snaps at him. “Walker.”

Valentina just smiles, knowing that Bucky isn’t going to let her get killed by any of them. He wants to let them; he understands. But he needs de Fontaine alive –he needs her to face consequences the right way or everything he’s done –everything he’s trying to do –will mean nothing. 

“Nice to see you, Ava –and Yelena. Wow. You look…awful. You sure you’re ready for that public facing role you asked me about?”

Yelena sneers, stepping around Bucky now herself. “Eat shit, Valentina. Where’s Bob?”

“And Bucky’s assistant,” Walker interjects. Bucky narrows his eyes, reminding them she has a goddamn name.

But Valentina just chuckles again, like all of this is some big joke. “Look at you. You are all so adorable. Just think –I send you down there to kill each other and instead, you make nice and form a team!”

“Where are they?” Ava asks one more time, but her tone is clipped. They’re all about ready to pounce.

“They’re both fine. Working together, actually. I told you, Congressman Barnes –your girl is a swiss army knife. She’s got talents far beyond what you give her credit for. Robert?”

There’s a pause –just long enough that they can hear footsteps. Heels clicking behind boots. Then Bucky feels it –that tingle at the base of his skull. The uncomfortable pin pricks of her getting into his head. He looks around, noticing everyone else feels it too –except Valentina.

Don’t freak out, she says, Well, not about me. I would freak out about Bob. I wouldn’t fight him.

Walker is about to say something but Ava is the one that catches on that it’s their heads first. Don’t worry about fighting. You’ll get out of here soon.

She’s about to say something, Bucky can tell, but Valentina is talking again.

“Years of hard work have finally come to fruition,” she explains, motioning to Bob who comes to stand beside the director. Behind him stands Bucky’s assistant, who is shifting uneasily as she stares up at Bob. She doesn’t look scared –not of Bob, at least. She looks…worried. “Stronger than all of the Avengers combined. He has the power of a thousand exploding suns –Earth’s mightiest hero. The Golden Guardian of Good. The Sentry.”

Bucky can’t help but make a face at all of this posturing. “I’ll bite –what do you plan to do now? Take over the world like every other bad guy?”

But the director scoffs again, shaking her head. “Oh, god no. Robert here –Sentry, as he’s aptly named –is a hero, James. He’s going to protect the world. Where the Avengers have failed, he will succeed.” She turns to Bob now, putting a careful hand on his arm. Bucky notes that she almost flinches, like she’s expecting something bad to happen when she touches him. But nothing seems to happen. “Robert, take care of them, will you?” 

Bob looks down at Valentina for a moment, then glances back at the young woman behind him. Like he’s waiting for her permission. But she doesn’t make a motion one way or another, fear freezing her finally. Bucky knows that look; it’s the same look she had when she came in six months ago after being cornered and he decided to teach her to fight. 

Cornered. Frustrated. Powerless.

“C’mon guys –just give yourselves up. I don’t…I don’t want to hurt you.”

Do not fight him. You will not win, she insists as Valentina steps back, pulling her along. But that falls on deaf ears as a dogfight breaks out. Bucky can’t keep track of how many punches he throws or how many knives he breaks. Walker’s shield is twisted into him and he’s thrown across the room. Every punch, every shot, every attack –it’s like they’re nothing. The guy doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t bruise, he doesn’t bleed. 

But they do.

All of them do.

He only stops when she cries out as Bucky’s arm is ripped off his shoulder and thrown to the ground. She’s shoving away from Valentina, finally putting the skills Bucky has taught her to some use to throw Valentina off balance and twist out of her grip. Bob watches as she throws down the files that she’s been forced to carry and drops down to grab her boss’s arm. The rest of them are rushing to the elevator, trying to get away as fast as they can. But she’s hesitating, looking between Bob and her boss –her friend. 

Don’t hurt them, she says but her lips aren’t moving. Bob realizes –that tingle at the base of his skull –it’s her. Please.

Yelena is yanking her into the elevator, but she’s trying to look at him with pleading eyes as the doors shut. Please.

But she hears him –a voice, distorted. Dark. Shadowed in his mind but loud enough in her own that she can feel it in her very bones.

They always leave. Even when they promise they won’t.

When they get to the ground floor –and they’re sure that Bob is not going to come finish them off –Bucky turns on her.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind? What did I tell you about getting closer to Valentina?”

She flinches back, not expecting to be scolded after the events of the last few days. “I wasn’t thinking –I was talking to Mel –,”

“You’re right. You weren’t thinking. You could have been killed.”

“Hey, hey –do not yell at her,” Yelena cuts in, stepping between her and Bucky. The Russian puts her hand up. “She did not know she was going to be kidnapped –she was doing her job. Which –by the way –you taught her to do. So it is technically your fault.”

“Oh no –,” she starts, shaking her head quickly.

“It is not my fault –,”

She shushes them all suddenly, throwing her hands out to the sides. Everyone is staring at her like she’s insane, but she’s staring like she’s listening intently to something. Ava says something, tries to get her attention, but she waves her away. 

“Something’s wrong,” she says, spinning around several times. 

Her eyes lock into the sky just beside the tower –a shadowed, caped figure. She wants to think it’s not something evil –it’s not Bob, it can’t be. Deep down, though, she recognizes this figure. She’s seen it in his mind before –and those eyes. The only part of the figure that’s not casted in shadows –two white, glowing spots that look directly into the soul –are staring down at them.

He puts his hand out and the helicopter that is circling spins out of control suddenly, crashing into the tower. One by one, people around them disappear into shadows themselves, and she tries to step forward –tries to save someone; anyone. But Alexei holds her back gently. Bucky and Alexei stand on either side of her, looking up in horror as Yelena steps forward with Ava. Walker is pulling off his helmet, following their gazes as shadows creep up the buildings surrounding the engulfed tower. 

“You all know the truth,” he says. And it’s Bob’s voice –she knows it. But it’s distorted and full of anger. The same voice she heard earlier –the one that told Bob that they always leave. “You can’t outrun the emptiness.”

“I think Bob’s dark side got superpowers,” Walker states, eyes wide as they all stare in horror. “We need to get everyone off the streets.”

They’re all too distracted to notice that she does not follow them. That she stays planted in place, looking up at the figure that is slowly creeping its way towards her as the shadows begin to consume those around it. Vaguely, she registers that Bucky is yelling her name but she ignores him as she takes half a step forward towards the shadows.

“You promised you wouldn’t leave,” he says, peering down at her. “You did though. You left. Just like Yelena said –we’re all alone in the end.”

Bucky is screaming at her now, and so is Walker. But Yelena steps to her right and looks at her –knowingly, as if the former Black Widow knows something that was never shared between the two of them. Then, Yelena steps forward into the shadows. And he watches, waits. His thoughts are much clearer than Bob’s. They’re more violent; more feral. But they’re easier to understand.

“He’s not alone. And neither are you,” she promises, taking the plunge into the shadows herself. 

*****

In the end, they do what superheroes always do:

They save the world from the bad guy.

Except the bad guy wasn’t actually a person.

It was loneliness, and self-loathing. It was the darkness that surrounds you when you’re at your lowest and think it’s the end. It was the hardest parts of life thrown at you all at once, trying to drown you.

It’s something that…doesn’t just go away. And it didn’t just go away. 

It’s there. It’s lingering.

But that Void –as they’ve been calling it –can’t be ignored. But it can be filled –and that’s what they’ve been doing. For Bob, for themselves, for each other. Valentina did a lot of bad –but out of that bad has come some good. 

She has friends, for example. Though Alexei would insist they’re family, even if they’ve known each other a month. And she has a job that pays obscenely well (though, given the PR nightmare that is her new team, it better). 

Bucky made it clear that he wasn’t going to take part in anything relating to the team if she wasn’t hired as their PR manager. Yelena had seconded that notion, and Valentina wasn’t really in a place to negotiate so here she is. Living in New York City, with what could be described as her own floor of the Watch Tower, trying to clean up the team’s PR nightmare.

Living in the WatchTower is…weird, she thinks.

She’s gone from living in a crappy little apartment in DC with a random roommate she met on Facebook, to living in what was once the Avengers Tower in New York. With the New Avengers. 

This isn’t how she imagined her life. Though she can’t complain. 

When she isn’t trying to convince Walker to stop arguing with trolls on Twitter (“Seriously. This is what they want. Give me your phone.”) or stop Alexei from getting random sponsors from internet scams (“Sponsors will not ask for your credit card!”), she’s kind of actually enjoying herself. She makes good money, she has good friends, and her job isn’t that bad. 

The team is a hot mess. Don’t get her wrong —they truly are a PR nightmare. But they’re her PR nightmare and it’s not like she can get fired if she doesn’t do a good job at helping them. 

However, she’s doing a damn good job at helping them. 

Tonight is a great example. She’s sitting in the kitchen, finishing an outline for the next meeting with Valentina. Because while the director might think she’s in charge, she is not —and the team has entrusted their PR manager to ensure meetings with the director go their way and no one else’s. 

It’s late; she should probably be asleep. But she likes being up late when the team is out doing training because then she’s awake when they’re back. Though, it also means she gets to work in her pajamas and she much prefers that. And Alexei, bless him, has given her so many random shirts that are twice her size with New Avengers logos on them that she has a nightshirt for every night to wear with her boxer shorts that she definitely didn’t steal from the laundry the first week they all lived together. 

Bob —who has been distant and quiet most of the day —wanders into the kitchen. He’s wrapped up in a sheet, though he’s also wearing a sweater and sweats, and she briefly wonders how he’s not hot. She keeps an eye on him from her computer, though she doesn’t say anything initially. Sometimes he needed that push to talk, sometimes it was clear he didn’t want to. Tonight felt like the latter. 

They have…some kind of relationship. More than friends but less than dating. A weird in between that she doesn’t mind but is a bit confusing.

It’s clear they have some sort of feelings for one another. After everything that happened last month, she couldn’t help how she felt. Though she takes everything at his pace.

He clings to her (not literally but he’s always as close as he can be without making her uncomfortable). When the team is on missions and he’s left behind, she’s with him. Him reading, her working on whatever PR problem they’re facing now. Sometimes they lay on the couch together and watch movies.

Because she’s the only one he can touch without shame spiraling them, Bob likes to hold her hand whenever he can. That’s all he’ll do in front of the team; they don’t question that. But he lays his head in her lap when they’re alone. She plays with his hair absently and does whatever she’s doing. He just sort of exists in that moment and enjoys it while it lasts. And they just enjoy whatever they have.

When he drops his spoon three times in a row, she finally speaks up. 

“Are you good?” She asks, shutting her laptop. He’s staring at the spoon on the ground, clearly contemplating getting it. She slips off the chair and does it for him. “You don’t look too hot.”

He waves her off, but she can see the thin layer of sweat that stuck to his hair and skin. She reaches up to touch his forehead, though it dawns on her as soon as she touches him that there’s no real way to check his temperature. 

“Bob, we talked about this,” she reminds him gently. 

He huffs some and nods a bit, pushing his hair out of his face. “Just…I can’t sleep. That’s all. Nightmares and stuff —hard to sleep when I can’t control those. I’ll be okay though.”

“Do you have them a lot?”

He just nods and shrugs, opening the fridge to take a bottle of water. “Yeah. Less when the others are around —think that’s why I fall asleep during meetings.”

She hums in response, taking a note of that, then nods. “Let me know if I can help.”

“I don’t think you can,” he replies simply, but it doesn’t seem like he minds as he smiles at her wearily. Then he starts to leave, calling over his shoulder, “Thanks though.”

She wants to argue, but stops herself. “At least hang out here with me then,” she counters, pushing her laptop across the counter and trailing behind him. “I just finished Friday’s outline; we can put something mindless on and maybe that’ll help you sleep? That helps me.”

He hesitates, clearly considering it, then nods some. She motions for him to follow her, and they end up finding themselves sitting in the living room. For a moment, she’s staring at the buttons on everything before realizing —she’s never actually turned anything on up here. Usually it’s just on. Or Bucky does it for her. 

“Oh shit, hm.”

“What’s wrong?” He asks, sitting up some and leaning over. 

“I…don’t know what does what. I need to label all this shit,” she laughs sheepishly, sitting down beside him. “Any ideas?”

He shrugs. “I just push things ‘til something happens.”

“Fun idea,” she offers, crossing her arms over her chest as she considers what to do next. “But I don’t touch buttons I don’t know how to use. I’ve seen plenty of movies that say that’s a bad idea.”

“What do we do then?”

She hums, looking around. The room is lit with dimmed lights and the cityscape is glowing around them. Then she grabs two of the throw pillows on the couch. 

“You trust me?” She asks, looking down at him. She’s smiling, holding out her hand to him.

Bob doesn’t hesitate this time, taking her hand and pulling himself up. He doesn’t let go, either because this is his way of saying he does trust her or because he just wants to touch her. But she doesn’t care one way or another because she leads him to the elevator and hits the up button. 

They stand in silence, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder as the elevator shoots up to the top floor. Bob is fidgeting, and without even poking into his head, she knows he’s worried about what they’re doing. But she just squeezes his hand reassuringly as the doors open. Then she pulls him along towards the staircase that leads to the helipad outside. 

There’s one more set of stairs that leads to a small balcony –nothing fancy; probably there as an observation deck. But she found it the second night there after having tried to label a map of the tower for everyone. She didn’t label this part for selfish reasons, though anyone can find it if they really try.

The pillows drop to the ground and she kicks them some to adjust them to be cushions. Then, she pulls her hand from Bob’s and sits down, legs dangling over the edge and arms braced against the railing. The way the tower is shaped blocks the wind, but allows for an excellent view of the entire city from this vantage point. Rest in peace, Tony Stark, she thinks, because this is the best thing he designed in this tower. Bob is hesitant but sits down beside her, though he criss-crosses his legs under him instead of letting them dangle. 

Shoulders brush again, and she reaches out to take his hand without a word. He interlocks their fingers, no questions asked, and leans against her. And for a while, they just sit there in silence. They don’t really need to speak; they have each other’s company and that’s all she really needs. She hopes this is enough for him too.

An hour or so must pass, because he adjusts slightly and she lets out a small laugh as he lays his head in her lap without question. She runs her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp as she does so and he closes his eyes

“We gonna camp out up here tonight?” She asks, voice soft and finally tinged with tiredness.

“Can we?” 

She considers it for a moment. He’s warm enough that it’s comfortable, even if there’s a slight chill in the air from being so high up. The team won’t be back until the early hours of the morning, so it’s not like they’ll be looking for the two of them right away. So she just nods and taps him to get him to move, then pulls her legs up off the edge. Bob moves the sheet he’s discarded to cover the ground some and she adjusts the pillows to be used properly now. 

Then they just lay down, face to face. They’re almost nose to nose, and Bob is smiling softly, the weariness that he had earlier just barely apparent in his eyes now. 

“Can I try something?” She asks, and he nods once, brows furrowing. Her hand moves slowly, resting on his cheek. “You’re going to feel that weird little pin prick.”

Bob braces for it; closes his eyes. She knows he doesn’t like it when she’s in his head; not because he doesn’t like her powers but because he doesn’t want her to be afraid of whatever is going on in it. She doesn’t mind whatever she sees, though, because she knows that he’s trying to be better. He’s working on it, and they’re all there to help him. So when his mind floods into hers, and she sees the fragments of the nightmares from earlier –the ones that are just brimming on the edge if he closes his eyes.

It’s him –well, it’s Void, actually. And it’s the lab where Void almost won. In this nightmare, though, he does. Consumed by the shadows, and the self-loathing. And Bob is standing there, unable to stop and save all of them. There’s crying and begging. She even hears her own voice, telling him that he’s only made things worse.

But then…she pushes it away. Sort of, at least.

They’re still there —still scary. But not as loud or as violent. Their faces are blurred out and Void is gone, replaced by just a shadow figure without eyes or a voice. It takes a lot of energy to do this –she’s never really held it longer than an hour or so –but touching him is helping keep it up. 

His breathing is even –soft, calm. He’s let out a soft, “oh,” having not experienced this level of calmness in a long time –if ever. Even if the thoughts aren’t as violent, they’re still there. But she’s trying to push them all away; replace them with something good. Though it takes most of her energy to even blur the current thoughts. 

But a new thought –not one she’s planted, but his own –flashes in her mind. It’s him and her. Where they are –above the city, looking at each other. And he’s reaching out to her. But he’s not timid in his own thoughts. He’s confident, and instead of taking her hand, he’s taking her by the waist and pulling her closer and –

“Oh my god,” he suddenly cries, pulling away and sitting up. He’s blushing furiously, covering his face. “I’m so sorry –that’s not –I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry –,”

She sits up, pulling his hands away from his face. She can feel the flush on her cheeks, but it’s a good thing as far as she’s concerned. “Hey, don’t apologize –I’m not uncomfortable.”

He looks at her with surprise, blue eyes swimming in confusion and dare she assumes, a little bit of hope. “You’re not?”

Laughter bubbles up and she can’t help it. “Bob, we hold hands pretty much every day. We basically cuddle any time no one else is around. Do you think I’d do that if I wasn’t comfortable?”

“I mean, you’re always nice to me. I just thought, you know, because you’re the only one that doesn’t get pulled in –you’re just doing that to be nice.”

She can’t help herself. She should have been patient, but he’s so…endearingly blind, and she realizes that if she doesn’t do it now, it may never happen. Her lips are on his without another word, leaning into him to get close. Unfortunately, Bob doesn’t seem to expect this –though he’s very excited nonetheless because his thoughts are just repeating holy shit, holy shit, holy shit and he falls onto his back. She falls with him because she doesn’t expect him to not know she’s going to kiss him. But his hands find her waist, and she catches herself by her hands on either side of him.

And he’s looking up at her with a faint blush on his cheeks, and she’s looking down at him with a bright smile that she can’t contain.

“Can we try that again?” She asks, and he nods quickly, closing the distance himself this time. 

One hand finds itself tangled in her hair and the other is gripping her waist like she’s going to disappear. The connection to his mind has been severed, but she doesn’t need to read his mind when she’s laying on top of him anyway. The kiss is awkward and a bit messy –neither of them have clearly been this close to another person in a while. But something about that only makes it better as she presses herself closer to him. 

He makes a sound –it’s quiet, but an obvious whine as she nips at his bottom lip. Her tongue slips past his lips and he makes that sound again, a little louder this time. A little more desperate. But it’s him who pulls away, and she wants to be okay with that but honestly, she’s more flustered than she’s willing to admit. They’re both breathing hard but she rolls off him and lays on her side, hands tucked under her head as Bob lays flat on his back and covers his face. 

“I –sorry, I couldn’t breathe,” he admits with an awkward laugh. And she laughs too, shaking her head.

“It happens,” she reassures.

There’s a pause, then she shifts, laying her head on his chest. He tenses just a bit, perhaps not expecting her to want to keep touching after all of that. But he relaxes, and drops his hands from his face, then slowly wraps his arms around her. He’s unsure, but when she presses closer to him, he squeezes her tight and rests her cheek against the top of her head.

“Thank you,” he whispers into her hair, and his voice is sluggish with exhaustion.

*****

“Look at the two lovebirds!” Alexei yells, pointing at the security feed in the conference room.

Bucky looks up from his phone, frowning some as everyone gathers around the monitors to see her and Bob, asleep, on the roof. It’s not the weirdest thing he’s seen, but it’s not what he’s expecting.

“Finally,” Yelena complains, throwing her hands in the air. “I thought we were going to have to lock them in a closet or something.”

“Should we go wake them up?” Ava asks, kicking her feet onto the table. “Valentina will be here any minute. Do we really want to give her any kind of leverage over us?”

“Leave them be,” Bucky says, tossing his phone onto the table. “Just shut off that camera. We’ll make up an excuse why they’re not here.”

The team agrees not to bring it up. Let the two have whatever time they want together.

Bucky’s just thankful he doesn’t have to listen to her complain about how hot Bob is anymore.

———

Taglist: @ilovemarvel12 @k1ttyjuice @magikdarkholme

[mocchii-writes]

hii!! i love your work! i would like to request head-canons with a reader who is an ex cop (could be from the same reason as jun ho, as they failed to investigate the mysterious island) but this time, they’re actually able to infiltrate into the games. you can do separate characters for gi hun, in ho, dae ho, thanos, and nam gyu?!

Squid Game Boys if You Were Undercover in the Games

Paring: Seong Gi-hun, Hwang In-ho, Kang Dae-ho, Choi Su-bong (Thanos), Nam-gyu x fem!Reader (Separate)

Warnings: Drugs

A/n: I hope I understood this correctly, Anon, it's a very cool one! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

~🍡🍡

Hwang In-ho:

This would be very interesting indeed

Since he's also an undercover spy-esc. type, he might not even notice if you act suspicious in that type because he's covering up himself

but he also seems smart enough to figure it out

he would admire your bravery, if so, and originally planned to shut you down once he thought you'd had enough fun

but there was something about the way you looked at him sometimes that made him pause

it took him a while to realise he actually liked you, and the thought didn't exactly comfort him

you guys would play a game of tag in the dark, jumping around the fact that you're on opposing sides of a growing war

and you'd both pretend you knew nothing so you could be friendly guilt-free

he wouldn't hesitate at the chance to save your life, unlike he would for many other "friends"

he's very protective and defensive of you anytime anyplace

if anyone even thought of hurting you, pray for them fr

he's almost ashamed to admit to himself that he cares about you, but the thought hardly crosses his mind when met with false hatred for you instead.

(or what he calls hatred)

Seong Gi-hun (s2):

You knew he could use all the help he could get, and he seemed almost too kind to be in this place

and you knew you could use all the help you could get as well

so you didn't have to think long on it to decide to tell him what you knew

he trusts you, for sure

he's also protective of you, trying his best to ensure your safety even though that's a hard ask

and you protect him too, to the best of your abilities

you both have a common goal, too, and that helps with the bonding

speaking of

you two would bond pretty well imo, sharing your stories and fears with each other at night

he's not very confident in terms of romance, and he'd probably miss most of your hints because he's so used to people never glancing his way

but eventually he would understand

if not your feelings, then his own

and he would probably confess to you by like either exploding a bunch of words out of his mouth that are hardly understandable, or very quietly and clearly, like he's sharing a secret with you

Kang Dae-ho:

If you told him he would be so impressed, let's be honest here

literally star-struck, because an undercover ex-cop is the sickest thing ever??

and not to mention he definitely already admires you

he wants to know everything about your investigation and your backstory

he feels very safe with you, but still holds himself to the standard of defending you if he needs to

you'll probably have to make the first move unless you can boost his ego a little more because like I said, he thinks you're way too cool for him

you would do your best to help him, and he does the same for you

which really makes you two a crazy power couple because when you guys really link up you're unstoppable

I just know yall would devour in the riot omg

he loves loves loves you, and he loves talking to you about all the police stuff you do and his time in the military

Choi Su-bong (Thanos):

It's an understatement to say you were wary of him, and even more wary of telling him your reasons for being here

but it's not like he would notice anything weird, so you'll be alright

you were trying to keep a low profile, but Thanos didn't intend to just let a pretty girl like you get away

He tried his usual charms, and whether or not they worked is... irrelevant... 🤭

anyways

you joined his group because you thought it gave you safety, but that didn't stop Thanos from trying to win you over

after your suspicions died down, he seemed pretty genuine

so you told him your story, and he listened

he told you he'd try to help you, but neither of you know if he could really help that much

but he definitely respected you more after that

and nobody dares to mess with Thanos's girl, but if they did, you know he'd handle it

he thinks of you as a close friend as well, and he trusts you more after you tell him you're undercover

he would want to tell Nam-gyu, but he wouldn't if you didn't want him to

he would think it's hot lmao

he'd be like, "So you're a super secret spy? cool, cool. Where's your earpiece?"

"bro"

"Hm?"

it overall wouldn't really affect how he treats you, but your relationship would sift, probably for the better

Nam-gyu:

Depending on how you met, he would be really gentle with you imo

he's really nice with thanos (though he claims it's for the drugs)

so I think if he liked you he would really like you

we know he's very touchy and probably protective of you

but when you tell him your real story, he's flabbergasted

I mean sure, it makes sense, but what??

his perfect wife? (he's known you 4 days)

he's very proud of it

will probably yap to everyone about it, sadly

you'll really have to hold him back, if you can

he'd say he wants to hear about it but hed probably lose interest lmao

but he'll ask you late at night, and you two will talk for a while about your lives

he'd say he's ashamed of his life currently, and that you have so much more potential

you'd have to comfort him and tell him it's okay

also, please comfort him when he takes drugs from thanos because they make him pretty anxious sometimes

and he just wants to be with you, so hold him ♡

protects you but also knows you can handle yourself, just give him this

Sorry, I'm posting really slow but all the req will be out once I get on that grind ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

~🍡🍡

[madwomansapologist]

──────〃✰ KINKTOBER DAY 24: 𝐒𝐄𝐗 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍

title: milk me synopsis: usually demons' poisons just kill whoever was affected by them. this time, it served for something else. something way better. [2.1K] cw: established relationship, eye patch!kyojuro, crystal hashira!reader, sex pollen, public sex, pussy drunk, forced orgasms, overstimulation, oral (f!receiving), fingering (f!receiving), p in v, dacryphilia, spit, nipple stimulation, accidental voyeurism (we'll say: sorry miss shinobu).

Monsters, echoed in the demon’s head as he ran deeper into the forest. His arm reattached to his body, fully healed but burning still. With human blood dripping from his mouth, he cursed the slayers after him. Monsters. All of them.

The bastard decided where his body would rot. He was the one to decide over his path. Lurking among the branches, you waited. Concealed by the night, Kyojuro chased. And as the demon laughed, believing to have outwitted the slayers, fire and crystal cut through his neck in union.

Blood burned into ashes on your nichirin sword. As the head rolled, you gazed at the starless sky. Using the moon as a reference, you knew this hunt was too easy. “It’s not even midnight yet”, you frowned. “Sanemi spoke the truth on our last meeting. Those slayers begged for our help to end this weak thing?”

Hypnotized by your presence, Kyojuro cupped your cheek. The head between you two screamed and cursed, but his voice meant nothing for Kyojuro. Talking is a privilege for the living, and he won’t allow a beast to stop him from admiring you.

“Only because of your flawless strategy, flame of my heart!” Kyojuro laughed, thumb caressing your lower lip. He blatantly ignored your last statement, determined to not let worries take you away from him. “How glad I am to fight beside you!”

To feel his hand full of scars, hear his voice full of love, made you come back to the present. Kyojuro knows how easy it’s for you to get lost inside of your own head. Soothing you back into reality, you were the flying pipe and Kyojuro the stone.

How could you care about any other thing when Kyojuro burns this bright? All concerns about the level of those new slayers were quickly forgotten. Moving your face, you kissed his open palm. He was so warm. Welcoming.

“You flatter me.”

“I only speak the truth”, Kyojuro pulled you closer. “As you deserve.”

Peace was disturbed as bones cracked. You looked down to find the demon’s jaw wide open, tongue contorting as he choked on it. You assumed it was agony, but Kyojuro recognized it as a last act of violence. From stroking your face, Kyojuro spared no strength to shove you as far away as he could.

You were about to do the same to him.

As you rose from the ground a heavy, yellow mist came out from the demon’s mouth. Covering your face with your emerald haori, to hear his coughs made your heart stir. The more desperate Kyojuro becomes, the more this pollen will infiltrate his nostrils. The more this wretched demon would hurt your dear Kyo.

In an act of pure logic, you kicked the head away. In an act of pure hatred, you did so with so much strength the head exploded in pieces against a tree trunk.

You turned around in time to see Kyojuro’s nose scrunching.

The pollen was already gone, scattered in the wind. You let go of your haori and held his chin, looking for blisters or burns were the mist touched. As you moved him closer to you, Kyojuro sighed.

More carefully now, you tilted his head. Moonlight revealed his flushed cheeks, forehead already soaked with sweat. His owl eye, always brimming with excitement and joy, never looked so dark. You found nothing. Not a wound, not a scratch.

“Focus”, you demanded, voice stern. Now you weren’t his wife, only a hashira telling a hurt person what to do. “Slow down your heartbeat. Fight the fever. Kyojuro, I need you to breath.”

That damned thing. You doubt that demon could create anything stronger than a common poison. After a whistle, your crow landed on your shoulder. Looking into its purple eyes, you gave the instructions to warn Shinobu of your position.

“Kyo!” You almost lost balance when he collapsed against you. “Listen to me! You need to keep on breathing.”

His arms intertwined around your waist, his hold so tight you could feel his chest moving up and down with every shaky breath. Kyojuro’s knees failed, his weight making you stumble back.

Your mind was a torturous place right now.

Usually, he would fight back. If only his body was threatened, Kyojuro would have stopped that poison by now, but it clearly affected his mind too. You can’t count on Kyojuro tonight. He needs you now.

The best thing is for Kyojuro to get healed immediately, and the only one that can assure that is Shinobu. You want to take him in your arms and run. The sudden movement, the change in temperature, his aching lungs. You want to run, but maybe that would only work to weaken Kyojuro even more. But to stay here, holding a suffering Kyojuro in the hopes of being found? That would make you insane!

And again, you were the pipe flying away, lost in the winds of your head. You need your stone. You need Kyojuro to be fine again.

Kyojuro inhaled deeply your scent, and for a moment you thought he learned how to deal with the poison. Him shamelessly ravishing on your skin made you second thought that.

“Dear”, you whimpered. Trying to move Kyojuro away, you stumbled back once more. This time, Kyojuro stepped forward, putting more of his weight on top of you. “Kyo… What are you doing?”

His warm tongue licked the crook of your neck, tasting your sweat. His nose brushed against you, drowning in your perfume.

“I am hungry”, Kyojuro whimpered, mouth closing around the sensitive skin where your shoulder and neck meet. His lips, soft and plump, stole a little whimper from you. “I burn for you.”

At that, your eyes widened. Aphrodisiacs! That explains why those slayers were so quick to avert his curious gaze and your careful touch. Why they cried as they moved, although they carried no wound. Why you feel something poking at your belly.

His teeth sank on your neck, expelling every thought from your mind. It was strong enough to bring you to tears. A deep moan echoed through the night; a sound so primal a part of you mistook it from an animal’s doing.

Your heartbeat increased, and you knew Kyojuro heard it too.

“Kyojuro Rengoku,” you hissed. It made him froze. “You need to stop.”

Taken back from your harsh tone, Kyojuro tilted his head towards yours. You were mad at him. No, no, no, no! That… That can’t be. He can’t make you suffer. He promised to never make you suffer.

“Forgive me,” he begged. Kyojuro sounded more like himself. Still clouded, flying like a pipe, but real. Caring.

In a merciful act, the moon shone over you two. And in its glow, you saw Kyojuro crying. Heavy tears rolled down his face, sobs forcing out of him.

The great flame hashira reduced to such a beautiful mess.

“I need you”, Kyojuro whimpered. He closed his eyes, all the voices in his head bringing him step by step closer to the abyss. “I feel as if… As if I will go insane if I don’t have you. I am… sorry.” You saw fire inside his eye, heard certainty on his voice. “I just need to… Yes, my flame, I just need to…”

His warmth turned into heat, and Kyojuro moved before you could decide over your next action. Not a second later your back was on the ground, eyes wide as you stared at the predator lurking above you.

Kyojuro kneeled down, thighs closed between your legs. His rough hands tugged at your haori, trembling as he pulled it apart. Like a beast, Kyojuro cut through all the fabrics between you two. He stopped when your breasts spilled out, nipples hard as the wind touched them.

His deep breath made you pay more attention to Kyojuro’s details. Fingers hesitant to touch your skin. Tears staining his face. Lips open, drool falling over you. The sound of his pitiful cries pierced your skull.

Without any words, Kyojuro begged. He begged for your forgiveness. For your help. For you. And how could you deny Kyojuro of what he wants so badly?

“Do it”, you said. You allowed. Supporting your weight on your elbows, back leaving the ground, you bit your tongue. “Knock yourself out.”

“Thank you, my flame”, Kyojuro cried. So beautiful. “Thank you, thank you.”

His warm mouth closed around your nipple, eyes widening as he sucked on it. His fingers yanked the other, rolling it between his fingertips with just the right pressure.

Kyojuro bit your shoulder, this time less feral. It wasn’t possessive, only a need to have you between his teeth. Marking your bust, leaving not a single inch untouched and unmarked, he covered you on his spit.

He is a selfless lover in a way the most selfish one could appreciate. There isn’t a single moment Kyojuro doesn’t think about your pleasure. He is always seeking for it, drowning himself on you and only coming back to surface when you beg for rest. It’s nothing but a mere coincidence that Kyojuro takes his own pleasure from yours.

The more you whined, hips twitching beneath his broad body, the more Kyojuro gave to you. You hissed when his teeth closed around your wet nipples, and Kyojuro saw that as a sign he needed to keep going.

Even in this condition, your man really can’t bear having an empty mouth.

Kyojuro bended your legs, feet high on the air, laying down on the ground. He forced your thighs to close around his head, fingers drawing circles on your hips. You felt his shaky breath against your ignored cunt.

“Itadakimasu,” Kyojuro whispered. Not for you, but for your pussy.

And so, he dived into you. There was no technique, no method on the way his tongue moved. And that’s why you always loved to have his head between your legs. With Kyojuro, you never felt as if your time was running out. As if you had to be quick, so he would finally feel pleasure too. Eating you out, Kyojuro never thought about the quickest way to get you to cum.

He does that for himself. Tongue deep into your walls, Kyojuro rejoices. Teeth pulling at your clit, Kyojuro salivates. Every noise that you make, from sheepish whimpers to weary cries, is a full meal for this hungry man.

You’re in for a long night.

Kyojuro licked your slit restlessly. In his place, your jaw would stumble. His big tongue slipped inside of it, back to his home. The soft and trained muscle, curling at the perfect spot inside of you.

But he never stayed inside of you for long enough, as another part of your glistening cut looked deserving of his attention too. Torturing you, all you did was pull his golden hair and take it.

After the fourth orgasm, his fingers filling you up without mercy, your mouth hanged open. You couldn’t close it. You couldn’t remember to close it. All you wanted, all you could think about, was for Kyojuro to have his fill. To get better. To just drown already and let you rest.

“Inside of me”, your voice echoed, but you had no time to be embarrassed about your screams. Pushing his head away, you tried to bargain with his desire. “Just get inside of me already, Kyojuro!”

But he refused you. Nodding, Kyojuro nuzzled at your core. Impatient, you groaned and pulled his hair harshly.

Kyojuro saw you. All of you. The redness of your tearful eyes. The bite marks around your collarbone. Those half-closed eyes, tired but energized still. Those breasts moving up and down, up and down.

“Now”, you ordered, clenching your teeth.

As if he would be punished by disobeying you, Kyojuro freed his leaking cock and pulled you closer. Rigid for you, sensitive because of all the pleasure he gave you, ready for you.

Your flame hashira, more than ready to burn you alive.

His body was on top of yours, involving you completely, as he thrusted into your walls. He licked your lips, eye as heavy as yours. “You taste so good”, he said against your mouth. “The best meal I ever had.”

Looking into his eyes, you melted. Your legs shaken around his hips; eyes rolled back as Kyojuro used you to get off. Watching Kyojuro finally fell apart, head finding solace in the crook of your neck, you smiled. “Better?”

A husky laugh vibrated through you. “Better.”

Shinobu thanked darkness for hiding her burning cheeks.

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[mywhisperingwords]

never will be | fred g. weasley

summary: if one more person called fred your boyfriend, you were going to hex them—and then probably yourself for wishing it were true word count: 5.8k masterlist

“Seriously, though,” Angelina said, leaning against the Gryffindor common room sofa with a sly grin, “when are you two finally going to admit it?”

“Admit what?” Fred asked, looking up from the deck of Exploding Snap cards he was shuffling.

“That you’re dating,” George chimed in from across the room, tossing a chocolate frog wrapper into the fire.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “For the hundredth time, we’re not dating.”

“Not yet, at least,” Angelina muttered, smirking at you.

Fred laughed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Don’t listen to them. They’re just bored and trying to start drama.”

George snorted. “Says the bloke who can’t go two hours without dragging her off to help with one of his pranks.”

“That’s because she’s got steady hands,” Fred argued, flashing you a grin that made your stomach flip. “Best partner-in-crime I could ask for.”

“Mm-hmm,” George said, exchanging a knowing look with Angelina.

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks but forced a casual laugh. “Exactly. Partners-in-crime. Nothing more.”

Fred’s grin widened, oblivious to the way your voice faltered on the last words.

Later that evening, as you sat in your usual spot in the common room, Fred plopped down beside you, his long legs stretching out in front of him.

George and Angelina had finally left you alone, their laughter about your so-called “relationship” fading into the background.

Fred tossed a bright green bean into the air, catching it in his mouth. “Honestly, they’re relentless. Next thing you know, they’ll be planning our wedding.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Oh, definitely. George would insist on fireworks during the vows.”

“And Angelina would probably hex the cake to explode in my face,” Fred added, grinning.

“Not that you wouldn’t deserve it,” you teased, nudging him with your shoulder.

Fred gasped dramatically. “Me? Deserve it? Please, I’d be the perfect groom. You, on the other hand…”

You raised an eyebrow. “What about me?”

Fred smirked, leaning back in his chair. “You’d probably spend the entire ceremony arguing with me about the flowers or the seating arrangements.”

“Only because you’d insist on something ridiculous, like having a Quidditch match instead of a reception,” you shot back, laughing.

“See? Proves my point,” Fred said, throwing another bean into his mouth.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips. The conversation was silly, but it sent a pang through your chest all the same. For a moment, you wondered—what if it weren’t so ridiculous? What if you weren’t just friends?

“Guess it’s a good thing we’d never actually be a couple,” you said lightly, testing the waters.

Fred snorted, not catching the slight hesitation in your voice. “You’ve got that right. Can you imagine? We’d probably kill each other within a week.”

Your smile faltered for a split second, but you quickly recovered, laughing along with him. “True. It would be a disaster.”

“An entertaining one, though,” Fred added, grinning at you.

You laughed again, but the ache in your chest lingered as his words played over in your mind. A disaster.

Fred, oblivious, tossed the box of beans onto the table and stretched his arms over his head. “Anyway, who needs all that relationship nonsense? We’re better off just being us.”

“Right,” you said softly, your smile not quite reaching your eyes. “Just us.”

But as you watched Fred lean back, his expression carefree and content, you made a silent decision.

It was time to stop hoping for something that would never happen. It was time to move on.

A couple days later, Fred dropped into the seat next to you in the common room, his typical big grin directed at you. “Fancy sneaking out to the kitchens? I was thinking a snack, but maybe we could even go for a full-course meal if the house-elves are feeling generous.”

You didn’t look up from your book, keeping your voice steady. “Can’t. I’ve got plans tonight.”

Fred tilted his head, frowning. “Plans? With who?”

“Just plans,” you said vaguely, flipping a page.

Fred narrowed his eyes, studying you for a moment, but you didn’t elaborate. Eventually, he shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Your loss. More food for me.”

You hummed noncommittally, keeping your gaze fixed on the words in front of you.

Later that evening, Fred was sprawled on the sofa near the fire, George and Lee arguing over a card game beside him. Angelina sauntered in, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail.

“Oi, Ang,” Fred called, waving her over. “What’s she up to tonight?”

Angelina raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“You know who. She said she had plans.”

Angelina hesitated for half a second before smirking. “She’s got a date.”

Fred blinked, the words not registering immediately. “A date?”

“Yeah,” Angelina said, sitting on the arm of the sofa. “With that bloke from Ravenclaw—what’s his name? Aaron? Aiden?”

“Andrew,” George supplied helpfully, grinning.

“Right. Andrew,” Angelina said, crossing her arms. “Apparently, he’s been asking her out for ages, and she finally said yes.”

Fred frowned, a strange tightness forming in his chest. “Huh.”

George glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Something wrong, Fred?”

“No,” Fred said quickly, shaking his head. “Why would there be?”

George exchanged a look with Lee, who raised an amused eyebrow. But neither of them said anything, much to Fred’s relief.

Meanwhile you were trying your best to focus on Andrew as he told you about his latest Quidditch practice. He was charming, handsome, and undeniably kind. Exactly the type of person you should be going out with.

But as much as you tried to stay engaged, your mind kept wandering. His laugh wasn’t quite as infectious. His jokes weren’t quite as sharp. And when he leaned in slightly to brush his hand against yours, your chest didn’t flutter the way you wanted it to.

You forced a smile, reminding yourself why you were here. Andrew had always been good to you, and after Fred’s clear rejection, it was time to stop holding onto something that wasn’t going to happen.

“Are you alright?” Andrew asked, his voice soft as he studied your face.

“Yes,” you said quickly, sitting up straighter. “Sorry, just a bit distracted. It’s been a long week.”

Andrew smiled, his eyes warm. “I get it. I’m glad you said yes, though. I’ve been wanting to do this for a while.”

You felt a pang of guilt but managed another smile. “Me too.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. Andrew deserved a chance, and you were determined to give it to him.

Still, as the evening wore on, you couldn’t help but wonder what Fred was doing. And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the thought that you wished he were sitting across from you instead.

You had done your best to steer clear of Fred over the past few days. You weren’t sure why, if someone dared to ask. Maybe you wanted to avoid telling him about your date or maybe talking to Fred would force you to acknowledge that moving on was harder than you thought.

It wasn’t easy, avoiding Fred, considering he had a knack for showing up everywhere you didn’t want him to be.

And, naturally, today was no exception.

“Oi!” Fred’s voice rang out from behind you as you made your way down the hallway after class. “Wait up!”

You considered pretending not to hear him, but the sound of his footsteps catching up told you there was no escaping this time.

“Hey,” he said, falling into step beside you. His usual grin was in place, though there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Haven’t seen much of you lately. Been avoiding me or something?”

You gave a half-hearted laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Just… busy.”

Fred raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Busy with what? Or should I say who?”

Your stomach twisted at the question, but you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Angelina mentioned you went on a date,” Fred said, his tone light and teasing, though his eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place. “Figured you’d be too busy swooning over this Andrew bloke to hang out with your real friends.”

You rolled your eyes, gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter. “It was just a date, Fred. No swooning involved.”

Fred tilted his head, studying you. “Come on. Spill. What’s he like? Is he as funny as me? Doubt it.”

You hesitated, your heart hammering as you searched his face for any hint of jealousy, any sign that this conversation bothered him. But Fred’s grin was firmly in place, his tone casual and carefree.

“He’s nice,” you said finally, keeping your voice even. “Really nice.”

Fred’s smile faltered for the briefest of moments before returning. “Nice, huh? That’s a glowing review.”

You shrugged, refusing to meet his eyes. “What else do you want me to say?”

“I dunno,” Fred said, scratching the back of his neck. “Maybe that he’s secretly boring or has terrible taste in music. Something I can mock him for.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you, but it quickly faded as the tension in your chest tightened.

Fred shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Well, if he’s so bloody great, maybe we should invite him to hang out with us sometime.”

Your head snapped toward him, your eyes narrowing. “Are you serious?”

Fred shrugged, his grin turning lopsided. “Why not? He could use a proper Weasley test. See if he can keep up.”

You shook your head, muttering under your breath. “You’re impossible.”

Fred watched you closely, his grin slipping just enough to reveal the confusion beneath it. He didn’t know why the thought of you with Andrew left a sour taste in his mouth, but he was determined to ignore it.

Maybe it was just because he didn’t know the guy. Or because he didn’t want to lose his favorite partner-in-crime to some bloke from Ravenclaw. That had to be it.

Definitely not because he cared more than he should.

&

The common room buzzed with its usual post-dinner chaos. Fred was in his element, loudly challenging George to an Exploding Snap rematch after a questionable loss earlier, when you walked in with Andrew.

Fred’s laughter faltered for half a second, but he quickly covered it up with a grin. “Well, well, look who decided to join us. Ravenclaw royalty.”

“Hi, Fred,” you said, your voice neutral but carrying an edge of warning.

Andrew smiled politely, clearly unfazed. “Hey. I thought I’d take you up on your offer to hang out.”

“Brave of you,” Fred quipped, gesturing to the chaos around him. “We’re not exactly Ravenclaw standards of refined.”

Andrew chuckled. “I can handle it.”

George appeared beside Fred, grinning broadly. “Andrew, right? You’re the Quidditch guy. Chaser, yeah?”

“That’s me,” Andrew said, looking pleasantly surprised.

“Always nice to have another flyer in the group,” George said, clapping him on the back. “Ignore Fred if he gets too annoying.”

“Oi!” Fred protested, but George was already leading Andrew to the sofa, chatting about brooms and game strategies.

You sighed, crossing your arms. “Play nice,” you muttered as you passed Fred, taking a seat near Angelina and Lee.

Fred watched as Andrew settled into the group, answering questions and laughing at everyone’s jokes with ease. His jaw tightened when Angelina leaned over to whisper, “He’s charming, isn’t he?”

“Sure,” Fred said, his voice flat.

An hour later, everyone seemed to be getting along swimmingly—except Fred.

He wasn’t outright rude to Andrew, but his usual teasing had a sharper edge tonight. Every time Andrew spoke, Fred had a quick quip or an exaggerated eye roll.

When Andrew mentioned his house winning the latest match, Fred chimed in with, “Ravenclaw’s strategy, isn’t it? Win the game, lose the fun.”

George elbowed Fred, but Andrew only laughed. “We take Quidditch seriously. Some of us, at least.”

Fred grinned tightly. “Right. Because fun has no place in sports.”

“Okay,” you interjected, cutting through the growing tension. “Who wants snacks? I’ll get some from the kitchens.”

“I’ll help,” Andrew offered, standing up.

You hesitated, glancing briefly at Fred before nodding. “Sure. Let’s go.”

After you and Andrew left the common room, Fred slumped back into his chair, muttering something under his breath.

“What’s your problem?” George asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Problem? I don’t have a problem,” Fred said quickly.

“Sure you don’t,” Angelina said, smirking as she leaned against the armrest. “You’re only acting like a jealous git.”

Fred scoffed. “Jealous? Please. I just think he’s boring.”

George chuckled. “Yeah, he’s awful. Friendly, charming, loves Quidditch—how dare he?”

Fred scowled but didn’t reply, his gaze fixed on the door you’d just walked through.

When you and Andrew returned, the evening had mostly calmed down. Fred kept to himself, though his eyes followed you whenever you weren’t looking.

As the group began to disband for the night, Andrew turned to you, his smile warm and easy. “I had a great time the other night. Do you think you’d want to do it again? Soon?”

Fred’s head snapped up at Andrew’s words, but he quickly looked away, pretending to fidget with his deck of cards.

You hesitated, your gaze flickering to Fred for just a moment. His usual grin was gone, replaced by a furrowed brow and averted eyes. Ignoring him and the little voice in the back of your mind, you turned back to Andrew.

“Sure,” you said with a smile. “I’d like that.”

Andrew’s grin widened. “Great. I’ll find you tomorrow to figure out the details.”

You nodded, and as Andrew left, you glanced back at Fred one last time. He was shuffling his cards with unnecessary force, avoiding your gaze entirely. Weird.

Over the next couple of weeks, your relationship with Andrew began to take shape. Slowly but surely, he worked his way into your life.

He wasn’t overly pushy or demanding, which you appreciated, and he had a way of making you laugh—though not quite as effortlessly as Fred could.

Still, it felt nice to have someone show genuine interest in you, even if the spark you were hoping for wasn’t quite there yet.

Of course, Andrew didn’t just win you over—he charmed everyone.

“Well, he’s bloody polite,” George said one evening after Andrew left the common room. “And he brought snacks. Can’t argue with that.”

Angelina nodded in agreement. “He’s sweet. You picked a good one.”

“Of course she did,” Fred muttered, slumping lower in his chair.

Lee gave Fred a side-eye. “You alright, mate? You’ve been acting off lately.”

“I’m fine,” Fred said quickly, grabbing a deck of cards and shuffling them with unnecessary vigor. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Lee raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further.

The thing was, Fred wasn’t fine.

He didn’t know what it was about Andrew that rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe it was how the bloke always seemed to be around now, sitting beside you in the common room or leaning in too close when you laughed at one of his jokes.

Fred told himself it was just the newness of it all. You’d always been his person—his partner-in-crime, his go-to for pranks, his late-night snack accomplice. And now Andrew was stealing you away.

It was irritating.

But Fred wasn’t jealous. Definitely not.

One afternoon, the group decided to head down to the lake to take advantage of the rare sunny weather.

Andrew and George carried the food, Angelina and Lee brought the blankets, and you walked ahead with Fred, your pace slowing as you chatted.

“So,” Fred said casually, kicking a stone along the path, “how’s Prince Charming?”

You gave him a look. “He has a name, you know.”

“Right. Andy.”

“Andrew,” you corrected, rolling your eyes.

“Same thing,” Fred said with a shrug.

You sighed. “He’s fine. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Fred said, though his tone was anything but casual. “Just wondering how long he plans to stick around.”

“Why? You planning to scare him off?” you asked, your voice teasing but laced with curiosity.

Fred grinned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Before you could respond, Andrew called your name from behind, jogging to catch up with you.

Fred fell silent, his jaw tightening as Andrew slipped into step beside you, his hand brushing yours as he walked.

By the time you reached the lake, Fred was thoroughly annoyed.

As everyone settled on the blankets, Andrew took the spot beside you, leaning close to whisper something that made you laugh. Fred sat across from you, stabbing at his sandwich with unnecessary force.

“You alright there, Fred?” Angelina asked, nudging him with her foot.

“Fine,” Fred said tightly, taking an aggressive bite.

George smirked. “You know, for someone who doesn’t care, you’re awfully bothered.”

Fred glared at his twin but said nothing.

As the sun began to set, Andrew offered to walk you back to the castle, and you accepted with a smile. Fred watched the two of you leave, his chest tightening as your laughter faded into the distance.

“Mate,” George said, clapping Fred on the shoulder. “You’ve got it bad.”

Fred scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” George said with a knowing grin.

If there was one thing Fred Weasley prided himself on, it was his ability to remain unshakable. Cool under pressure. Steady in the face of chaos.

Except, apparently, when Andrew was around.

“I’m just saying,” Fred declared loudly, leaning back in his chair with the kind of dramatic flair that immediately drew everyone’s attention, “no one is that nice. It’s suspicious.”

“Suspicious?” Angelina repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Absolutely,” Fred said, gesturing wildly as if this were common knowledge. “No one can laugh at every single joke. Even George’s bad ones.”

“Oi!” George protested, though he was grinning. “My jokes are masterpieces.”

Andrew, seated comfortably next to you, chuckled. “I don’t know, George. That one about the Blast-Ended Skrewts last week was a bit of a stretch.”

Fred’s eyes narrowed. “See? Right there. He’s even polite when he’s being critical. Who does that?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. “Fred, are you really mad because Andrew is nice?”

“I’m not mad!” Fred insisted, though his tone suggested otherwise. “I’m just… observant. He’s too nice. It’s unnatural.”

“Fred,” Lee said, struggling to keep a straight face, “I think you might be allergic to decent human behavior.”

The group erupted in laughter, and for a moment, even you couldn’t hide your amusement. But Fred wasn’t done yet.

“Mark my words,” Fred continued, pointing dramatically at Andrew, “this whole ‘charming and perfect’ act is going to crack one day. And when it does—”

Andrew held up his hands, laughing lightly. “Alright, you’ve got me. I’ll admit it: I burned toast once. Twice, actually. Sometimes I even leave the cap off the toothpaste.”

“Oh, the horror,” Lee said, clutching his chest mockingly. “Fred, are you sure we’re safe in his presence?”

Fred scowled, muttering something under his breath.

You shot him a look, your patience wearing thin. “Fred, if you’re so bothered by something, maybe you should do something about it.”

Fred blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in your tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrugged, standing to grab a glass of water. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

Fred watched you leave the room, the weight of your words settling uncomfortably in his chest.

“What’s her problem?” he muttered, glancing at the others.

Angelina snorted. “You’re joking, right?”

Fred frowned. “What?”

George exchanged a look with Lee, barely containing his laughter. “Oh, nothing,” George said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with you acting like a jealous prat every time Andrew breathes in her direction.”

“I’m not jealous!” Fred shot back, his voice a little too loud.

“Sure you’re not,” Lee said, patting him on the shoulder.

Angelina leaned forward, her smirk practically glowing. “Fred, has it ever occurred to you that you’re not mad at Andrew? You’re mad because he’s with her, and you’re not.”

Fred opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. He shut it again, glaring at the lot of them as they burst into laughter.

“Honestly,” George said, shaking his head. “I’ve seen Blast-Ended Skrewts with more self-awareness.”

Fred groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You’re all useless,” he muttered.

“Hey, we’re just here to point out the obvious,” Lee said with a grin. “The rest is up to you, lover boy.”

&

The Three Broomsticks was warm and bustling with chatter, the kind of lively atmosphere that could distract anyone from their troubles.

Fred leaned back in his chair, nursing a mug of butterbeer, and let the noise wash over him.

It had been weeks since he’d felt this at ease. For once, he wasn’t thinking about Andrew or the way he seemed to occupy every spare moment of your time.

Because, for the first time in a long while, it was just the group—George, Lee, Angelina, you, and him—laughing, joking, and bickering like always. And with you sitting across from him, grinning over the rim of your butterbeer as you teased George about his latest failed prank, Fred felt… content.

Comfortable. Like everything was back to normal.

But then the door to the pub opened, letting in a gust of cold air and a familiar figure.

Fred’s stomach twisted the moment he saw Andrew.

“Hey, everyone,” Andrew said, his smile easy and confident as he approached the table.

Fred tried to focus on his drink, on George cracking a joke, on literally anything else—but then Andrew leaned down, his hand brushing your shoulder, and kissed you.

It wasn’t long, just a brief, casual kiss on the lips, but it might as well have been a Bludger to Fred’s chest.

The laughter at the table carried on, the others welcoming Andrew like they always did, but Fred barely heard a word. His mind was spinning, his heart racing, and for the first time, he couldn’t keep up the denial.

It wasn’t just irritation. It wasn’t just protectiveness.

It was jealousy.

Pure, undeniable jealousy.

And it wasn’t just because Andrew had you—it was because Fred wanted you.

The realization hit him like a brick wall. Every time you laughed at Andrew’s jokes, every time you brushed his hand with yours, every time you smiled at him with that soft, affectionate look in your eyes—it burned.

Because Fred wanted to be the one making you laugh, holding your hand, earning your smiles.

But it wasn’t him. And now, sitting here, watching Andrew slide into the seat beside you, his arm draped casually over the back of your chair, Fred finally understood why it hurt so much.

&

Fred paced the length of the Gryffindor common room like a man possessed, his hands raking through his hair as George, Angelina, and Lee lounged on the sofa, watching with varying degrees of amusement.

“She kissed him,” Fred muttered for the fiftieth time, his voice tinged with both disbelief and frustration.

“Yes, Fred,” Angelina said patiently, not bothering to hide her smirk. “We were all there. You don’t need to recap.”

“But—” Fred turned on his heel, his expression wild. “How did I not see it before? How did none of you tell me?”

George snorted. “Mate, we’ve been dropping hints for years. You’re just thick.”

“Excuse me?” Fred stopped pacing long enough to glare at his twin.

Lee chimed in, grinning. “He’s right, you know. It’s been painfully obvious to everyone but you. Honestly, we were starting to think you’d never figure it out.”

Fred groaned, collapsing into a chair and burying his face in his hands. “What am I supposed to do now? She’s happy with Andrew. I can’t just…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“You could do nothing,” Angelina suggested, crossing her arms. “Let her be happy. Maybe keep your mouth shut for once in your life.”

Fred glared at her. “Thanks for the support, Ang. Really helpful.”

“I’m just saying,” Angelina continued, shrugging. “If you care about her, maybe you don’t ruin things for her. It’s not about you, Fred.”

George tilted his head. “Or—and hear me out—you could tell her how you feel and let her decide.”

Lee grinned. “Or—and this is my favorite option—you stage an elaborate prank to scare off Andrew, then swoop in as the knight in shining armor.”

Fred groaned again, throwing his head back against the chair. “You’re all useless.”

“Hey, I’m giving you options,” Lee said defensively.

“Yeah,” George added. “And Angelina’s just saying what she’d do if she were you. Personally, I think you should grow a pair and tell her the truth.”

Fred shot him a look. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” Angelina said, her tone softer now. “But you’ve got to figure it out, Fred. Otherwise, you’re just going to keep driving yourself—and the rest of us—mad.”

The sound of the portrait hole opening drew their attention, and there you were, stepping inside with your bag slung over one shoulder and a slight frown on your face.

Fred’s heart skipped a beat, and he immediately sat up straighter, trying to look normal—which, of course, only made him look even more suspicious.

“Everything okay?” you asked, glancing between the group and Fred’s suspiciously guilty expression.

“Fine!” Fred said quickly, his voice a little too loud.

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t push, instead walking over to your usual spot by the fire. You dropped your bag on the floor and pulled out a stack of parchment, rifling through it with a small, frustrated sigh.

Fred couldn’t take his eyes off you. It wasn’t anything special—just you being you—but the way your hair caught the firelight, the tiny furrow in your brow as you concentrated, the way you bit your lip when something didn’t go right…

In that moment, Fred knew.

Knew that no one else would ever make him feel the way you did. Knew that no one else would ever measure up to you. Knew that he couldn’t keep this to himself anymore.

Now he just had to figure out how to tell you.

“Merlin, he’s gone,” George muttered, nudging Angelina. “Look at him.”

Fred ignored them, his mind racing as he tried to think of something—anything—to say. But for once in his life, words failed him.

Fred had never been one to overthink things. Usually, he went with his gut, said whatever was on his mind, and dealt with the consequences later. But when it came to you, every plan he came up with seemed doomed from the start.

The first time he tried, it was on the way to Charms. He’d spotted you walking ahead, your bag slung over one shoulder and your hair bouncing as you moved. His heart did that stupid thing where it sped up, and before he could stop himself, he called your name.

“Hey,” you said, slowing to let him catch up.

“Hey,” he replied, suddenly feeling like his tongue had turned to lead.

You smiled at him, that warm, easy smile that made his chest ache. “What’s up?”

Fred opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, Andrew appeared from the other direction.

“There you are,” Andrew said, grinning as he slipped an arm around your waist.

Fred’s jaw clenched, but he forced a smile. “Right. See you in class,” he mumbled, walking off before either of you could reply.

The second attempt came during a group study session in the library.

Fred had been unusually quiet, his eyes darting to you every few seconds. You were sitting across from him, absently twirling your quill as you read over your notes.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, leaning forward.

You looked up, tilting your head. “Yeah?”

“I—”

“Shh!” Madam Pince hissed from across the room, glaring at Fred like he’d just set one of her precious books on fire.

Fred sighed, leaning back in his chair as George smirked beside him. “Smooth,” George muttered under his breath.

The third time wasn’t even his fault.

He’d waited until you were alone in the common room, curled up in your usual chair by the fire. It was late, and most of the others had gone to bed, leaving the room quiet and cozy.

Fred took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as he approached. “Hey, can we talk?”

You looked up at him, your expression soft but curious. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

Fred hesitated, the words hanging on the tip of his tongue. This was it. He just had to say it.

But before he could, Lee burst into the room, laughing loudly about something George had apparently done. The noise startled both of you, and whatever fragile moment had been building between you vanished in an instant.

Fred sighed, watching as you smiled politely at Lee’s antics before heading upstairs to your dorm.

Meanwhile, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

Andrew was as kind and attentive as ever, but your heart wasn’t fully in it. You caught yourself zoning out during conversations, your mind drifting to memories of late-night laughs and pranks with Fred.

Andrew noticed.

“You’ve been a bit distant lately,” he said one evening as you sat together by the lake. His tone was calm but serious, his eyes searching yours.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, though you weren’t sure what you were apologizing for.

Andrew smiled faintly, shaking his head. “We should talk. Really talk.”

You nodded, your stomach twisting with unease and the underlying feeling of already knowing what was about to come.

&

The rain fell steadily, soaking through your cloak and chilling you to the bone, but you didn’t care. After your conversation with Andrew, you’d needed space to think, to feel, to breathe.

That was why you stayed in the same spot he left you in, even when it began to pour.

But tonight, the storm wasn’t just inside.

The sound of footsteps on the dock pulled you from your thoughts, and you turned to see Fred, his red hair plastered to his forehead and water dripping from his clothes.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice carrying over the rain.

Fred shoved his hands into his pockets, looking equal parts frustrated and relieved. “I could ask you the same thing.”

You shrugged, turning your gaze back to the water. “Needed to think.”

Fred hesitated, then stepped closer, the wood creaking under his weight. “And you couldn’t think inside? Where it’s dry?”

You huffed a laugh, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Guess not.”

An awkward silence stretched between you as the rain continued to fall. Fred shifted on his feet, clearly trying to work up the courage to say something.

He hadn’t planned this, hadn’t thought through what he wanted to say.

“You’re really something, you know that?” he blurted finally, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “You’re out here in the rain, and I’m the idiot who followed you, and… Merlin, I don’t even know where to start.”

You raised an eyebrow, your expression guarded. “Then don’t.”

Fred shook his head. “No, I have to. Because—because you drive me mad. You’re all I can think about, and it’s infuriating because I don’t even know when it started, but it’s just… there. All the time.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the raw honesty in his voice.

“You know, Andrew is… perfect, really. Kind, understanding. Says all the right things. And he’s right. He’s everything I should want.”

Fred’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. “If he’s so perfect, then why are you out here? With me?”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and you blinked, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

“Why, if Andrew’s so perfect, are you standing out here in the rain with me instead of him?” Fred pressed, his voice soft but insistent.

Your chest ached, and before you could stop yourself, the truth spilled out. “Because he’s not you, Fred! He never was.”

Fred stared at you, his breath hitching as your words sank in.

You laughed bitterly, swiping at your wet face. “Andrew is kind and caring and everything I should want. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s not you. And that’s why we ended things. He knows he’s not the one I want to be with.”

Fred didn’t move for a moment, as though your words had stunned him. His wide eyes searched yours, raindrops slipping down his face, mingling with the uncertainty you saw flicker there.

But then, something shifted. Determination sparked in his gaze, and in one swift motion, he stepped forward, closing the distance between you. His hands, rough yet gentle, cupped your face, his thumbs brushing against your rain-damp cheeks.

The kiss came like a thunderclap—fierce, overwhelming, impossible to ignore. His lips claimed yours with a desperation that stole the breath from your lungs, as though this was the only way he could make you understand everything he couldn’t say.

The rain blurred everything around you—the trees, the lake, the world itself—but Fred’s warmth anchored you. His hands trembled slightly against your skin, betraying the vulnerability beneath his boldness.

A soft gasp escaped you as your fingers curled into the fabric of his soaked shirt, pulling him closer instinctively. The rain had drenched you both, but Fred’s heat seeped through the layers, making you feel like nothing else mattered.

His lips moved against yours, earnest and unrelenting, as though he feared you might slip away if he didn’t hold on tightly enough. And yet, there was no demand in his kiss, only a raw, aching need that left you dizzy.

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, Fred rested his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. His hands stayed on your face, as if letting go would break the fragile moment between you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but firm, his thumb brushing away the rain—or was it a tear?—from your cheek. “Forgive me?”

The rain continued to fall, cold and relentless, but it didn’t matter. Fred’s eyes searched yours, unguarded and full of something that made your chest ache.

“Always,” you whispered, your voice trembling but resolute.

Fred’s lips curved into the faintest smile before he kissed you again, softer this time but no less consuming.

From a distance, George and Lee watched from the cover of a nearby tree, Angelina holding an umbrella over them with a triumphant smirk.

“Told you,” George said smugly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lee muttered, crossing his arms, but not before handing George the bag. “I still say it’s weird to bet on your brother’s love life.”

“Not when it’s this predictable,” Angelina chimed in, snatching a Galleon from the bag. “You’re welcome, by the way. I made this happen.”

“You did nothing,” George said, rolling his eyes. “They’re just idiots. Idiots in love.”

[scarletemeterio]

Hello! Can I ask for ekko with an reader who confessed to him thrice (and thrice rejected) and then he finally falls hard for them? With a happy ending, thank you!

(kind of like she fell first he fell harder trope)

Let Me Love You (Ekko x Reader)

Warnings: some cursing Genre: angst, hurt/comfort Word count: 2.3k Reader has no set pronouns!

The first time was the hardest of them all. You’d muster up the courage to confess your feelings for him, knowing very well that it could go south.

“I have something to tell you,” you uttered. He gave you a worried look, noticing that there was a hint of desperation in your voice. You were in his so-called office, working on something that didn’t really matter anymore.

“Is everything okay?” He simply asked.

“I’m not sure,” you began, “but I really need to say this.” He gave you his full attention, making you feel a bit intimidated by him and extremely self-conscious. “I’m in love with you,” you blurted out.

Silence quickly filled the room, and the tension could easily be cut by a knife. The moment you saw his face, you knew it: he didn’t feel the same way.

“I, uh, I don’t know what to say,” he mumbled more to himself than to you.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make things awkward at all. You can just forget I said anything.”

“I really don’t want to hurt you but I just don’t feel the same way.” You were trying to hold back your tears as his words left his mouth. “You’re an amazing person and anyone would be lucky to be with you, but that person isn’t me.”

You simply looked at him and slowly nodded. “It’s okay, you can’t force yourself to feel something you don’t.” It was hard to speak at this point. He knew you were hurt, but you’d never show it; it would just make things harder for the both of you. “Is this gonna change things between us?”

“I would hate that, honestly.” You nodded again, finally being on the same page about something. He came closer and put a reassuring hand on your shoulder to try and alleviate the tension. If only it were that easy.

•••

Some time passed and you still tried to hide your feelings for him. For a while, it worked, you’d suppressed them every time you spent time with the boy but deep down, you missed the way you were before. It had always been hard for you to open up to people, but you’d never been this miserable before. You were just a shadow of your usual self, and it was evident to everyone in the base.

Ekko himself tried to talk to you about it, clearly oblivious to the fact that he was the reason for your attitude. Finally, after a particularly hard day for you, you just lost it.

“You wanna know what’s wrong with me, Ekko? It’s you!” You truly didn’t mean to scream at him but you also couldn’t help it. Lately, you lived on edge, always frustrated about something; it was like you were a bomb simply waiting to explode. “I swear I tried to play dumb, to ignore everything but I just can’t.”

“Is this about-?”

“Yes, Ekko, of course it is.” You interrupted him. “I know you went on with your life and pretended I never said anything so we could go back to the way things were, but it’s not that easy for me. Nothing about this has been easy.”

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“Bullshit,” you spat. “You know exactly how I feel about you. We’ve known each other for years, you can’t tell me you never realized why I’ve been acting so strange.”

There was a pause between you. You were agitated, heart beating so fast that you could feel it in your throat. “I guess I wanted to pretend nothing ever happened,” he confessed after some time. “Acknowledging it made it real and I just- I just want my friend back, without any messiness and complications between us.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Ekko. I’m sorry my feelings are such an inconvenience to you. Trust me, I wish I could change them and forget about you for good but I just can’t.”

Something twitched inside of him when you said that and he looked at you with hurt eyes. “You really mean that? That you’d like to forget me?”

“I meant forgetting about my feelings for you, ‘cause you’re not making things easy for me,” you explained. “When you come over and put your arm around me or stand so close to me that I can feel you breathing it kills me, Ekko. And the worst part is that you know it.” You took a deep breath, anger slowly leaving you, feeling nothing but sadness. “Sometimes I feel like you enjoy testing me like that because you know that no matter what I’ll always come back to you. But I’m tired of this dance between us, it’s too much.”

“I just don’t know how to feel! This is hard for me too!” Neither of you cared if someone heard you at this point, you’d simply have to put up with the weird looks from everyone. “I don’t know what you want me to do and I’m confused.”

“Honestly,” you began, “I want you to give me some space.”

“Wait, I- uh, I don’t want that, please,” he took a step closer to you, trying to grab ahold of your hand but you avoided his touch, as you avoided his sad eyes.

“Do you have feelings for me, Ekko?”

“I said I’m confused.”

“It’s a simple question, do you?”

You finally looked at him and he realized that you were crying. He could count with one hand the number of times he’d seen you cry, and he never thought he’d be the reason why. “I don’t know,” he finally whispered.

“Then I don’t have anything else to say. I don’t want to wait for you to figure out how you feel and keep getting hurt in the process, I don’t think I deserve it.”

“Wait, please-.”

“Ekko,” you cut him, “I need some space, don’t make this even harder, please.” And with that, you left, leaving him even more confused than before, and with a pain in his chest he couldn’t really explain.

You should’ve known this was coming. Still, it hurt like the first time. You couldn’t blame him; if anything, you were glad he was honest with you. But after today, you realized that you needed to keep some distance from him, or this would end up destroying you for good.

•••

Days quickly turned into weeks, and you realized you hadn’t said a word to the Firelight’s leader in almost a month. Your heart still flipped inside whenever you inevitably ran into him or locked eyes with him within the first few days since the fight, and soon you started avoiding him all along.

In no time, the boy started feeling an emptiness inside him, something he couldn’t explain. He was truthful with you in that last conversation, he truly wasn’t sure how he felt, but with every passing day that you were nowhere to be seen, he realized that maybe he’d been a complete fool.

He missed you, there was no denying that. Now the question was if his feelings for you were simply platonic or if deep down he yearned for you, maybe even more than you for him. Ekko wasn’t the best with his emotions, not because he actively repressed them, but because all of this was extremely new to him, and he just felt so overwhelmed. However, there was one thing he was extremely sure of: he wanted you in his life.

It had been days since he last saw you, evident now that you’d been avoiding him for a while, so when he finally caught a glimpse of you around the base, it was like seeing an angel. Soon, his pleasant feelings were replaced by envy. You were talking with one of the new members from the Firelights, nothing out of the ordinary, but there was nothing he wanted more than to be the one you had your attention on. He didn’t recognize himself, filled with jealousy and bitterness.

The boy was pulled out of his thoughts when someone asked him a question, engaging in conversation with him, but that strange sensation still clung to him like glue. He hated himself and blamed his stupid ass for being such an idiot, these were merely the consequences of his own actions.

When he was lying in bed that night trying to fall asleep, you were the only thing on his mind. Your smile that shined like the stars, your lips that he so wanted to feel against his own while your arms wrapped around his body. He wanted to bang his head against the wall, he was such an idiot. If only he’d realized this before then maybe now you wouldn’t hate him. It all seemed so obvious to him now. You were there for him, by his side from the very beginning. He could always count on and lean on you, he trusted you even more than he trusted himself. Oftentimes he’d become mesmerized by how pretty you looked when you spent time together, the sun hitting your face in just the perfect way or your hair effortlessly framing your face in such a flawless way. Of course, he thought nothing of all this at the time, brushing it off as objective thinking. But now, it suddenly hit him, everything was different now because he wasn’t unsure anymore, he knew exactly how he felt about you. He loved you.

He sat on his bed, passing his hands through his face in an attempt to clear his mind. He wanted- no, needed to talk to you. Maybe you didn’t even feel the same way anymore, but he had to get it off his chest, he had to at least try. But right now, he also had to calm his nerves because if he didn’t, he’d go and knock on your door this very moment, and he was certain you didn’t wanna see him at all. So instead, he got up and went to take a walk, thinking it would be nice to sit by the tree to help him organize his thoughts. What he wasn’t expecting was seeing you there.

As soon as you saw his figure making its way to you, you got up, ready to leave but were interrupted by his voice. “Wait, please, don’t go.” You knew you should pay him no attention and leave anyway, but it had been so long since you’d last heard his voice that you were taken aback for a moment, standing in place. “Can we talk?” His voice was soft, nothing compared to what it was in your last conversation together; you could even hear a hint of desperation, which was what ultimately made you turn around and stay.

“What do you want, Ekko?” As soon as he heard you he let out a small smile, confirming that yours was the voice he wanted to hear every day when he woke up and every night before going to sleep.

He motioned for you to sit down again, doing the same right after you. “I’m sorry for everything,” he began saying, “I never meant for things to end up like this between us.” His chest accompanied his breathing, moving just a little too fast, earning him a concerned look from you. “I know that you probably hate me now, I know I would if I were you, and you’ll probably hate me even more after what I have to say since I acted like a complete idiot and took so long to figure out something that was right in front of me this whole time but I- uh, I do have feelings for you. Lots of feelings actually, I’m in love with you.”

You snapped your neck to look at him, trying to read his expression in search of a playful tone, but it wasn’t there. He was serious, he was finally saying what you wanted to hear for so long now. So long that you couldn’t fully believe him.

“Ekko, I don’t want any games, please.”

“I’m being serious. These weeks without you have been absolute torture, I can’t do this without you, I need you.” He rubbed his face, stopping at the bridge of his nose to pinch it. When he looked back at you, he had tears forming in his eyes, a sight you hadn’t seen in a very long time. “I’m being honest. I’m so sorry it took me so long to finally realize it. I made it my personal vow to always protect you and keep you safe and I’m the one that caused you pain and for that, I’m so sorry.”

You didn’t really know what to say, nothing seemed good enough. Your mind was racing and quickly you were lost in your thoughts and were brought back to reality by the sound of Ekko getting up, ready to leave. “These last weeks have been hell for me, too.” Your eyes met his and you stoop up, getting closer to him. “I don’t hate you, Ekko. I could never hate you.”

“But you don’t love me anymore?”

“I didn’t say that, I’m just a bit taken aback that’s all.” He got closer to you, trying to grab your hand and this time, you let him do it. He brought it to his face and planted a kiss on it, never breaking eye contact with you.

“I’m so in love with you that just thinking about spending a second away from you makes me suffer. I don’t want to feel that way anymore, I want to be with you, share my life with you, and love you every day.” One of his hands went to cup your face and you leaned against it. “Please let me love you.”

You looked at his lips and then back at his eyes, and in just a second the air was knocked out of your lungs when you felt his lips against yours. The kiss was sweet but desperate and filled with emotions. “Please let me love you, too,” you said when you separated.

“Nothing would make me happier.”

hey! i loved this request, i'm a sucker for angst :)

i changed it just a little bit but i still hope you like it anon, thanks for requesting! really enjoyed writing this one and i LOVE writing for ekko

[winchestersisterimaginessss]

imagine: You’re going through all the emotions of being on your period with your brothers Sam and Dean, but realize you need a little help from Castiel

You were curled up in the weirdest position, trying to find some relief from the waves of pain coursing through your body. The cramps had hit you like a freight train, and no matter how much you tried to shift, nothing made it go away. The moment you woke up, you could tell it was going to be a long day.

As you lay there, gritting your teeth and doing your best not to cry out, you heard the familiar sound of footsteps. Dean’s voice broke through the haze of pain. “You good?” he asked in slight confusion, but for the most part amused. His tone was playful, like he was trying to make light of the position he found you in.

You let out a low groan before snapping at him. “Dean, I swear to God, if you don’t wipe that smirk off your face, I’ll slap it off of you,” you hissed through clenched teeth, practically vibrating from the pain.

Dean stopped in his tracks, his mouth still curled into that damn grin for a second longer. But when he noticed the agony on your face, the smirk dropped, and his expression turned serious. “Damn, what’s up with you?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing a hand to your abdomen, trying to ride out the cramps. “I feel like I’m gonna fucking die,” you muttered bitterly, voice thick with frustration and pain.

Dean hesitated for a moment, but then, you felt his hand gently press against your back. His voice was softer. “What’s going on, kiddo?” he asked.

“Cramps,” you whispered, the word barely escaping your lips. You hated admitting weakness, but there was nothing you could do to hide it.

Dean didn't hesitate. He sat down beside you, gently shifting the pillow from beneath your head and making room for himself to lie next to you. He stayed quiet for a few seconds before speaking again.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and comforting, “I’m sorry you’re hurting, kid. I know I can’t exactly fix this for you, but I can at least stay with you while you get through it. If you need anything, I’m here.”

You let out a shaky breath, your body still aching, but his presence was like a balm to your frayed nerves. His voice, calm and steady, made the storm of pain inside your body seem a little less overwhelming.

“Thanks, Dean,” you murmured, feeling a surprising comfort from his words.

“If you need anything, I’ll be your errand boy. You just say the word.”

Sam wandered into the room at that point, catching the tail end of your exchange. He looked from you to Dean, immediately sensing something was off. “What’s going on?” Sam asked at the same time Dean mouthed period cramps to him behind your back. Dean’s eyes widened immediately, knowing that would set you off.

Before Dean could answer, you snapped, voice sharper now. “I swear, I’m gonna lose it if I have to keep dealing with this.”

Sam frowned, his eyes softening with concern. “You’re in pain, I get it. But take it easy, okay?”

You shook your head, barely holding it together now. “Easy? Easy? This? I can barely even move without feeling like I’m being stabbed repeatedly!” Your frustration bubbled over, and you didn’t even care that you were sounding irrational. The pain made you irrational.

And then, as if all the emotions that had been building up for days exploded, the tears came. They were hot, and they burned as they ran down your cheeks. The pain was too much, and you were just so tired of it.

Dean looked at you, his eyes softening, clearly unsure how to handle you in this state. His usual playful charm had disappeared, and now, he just seemed... concerned. “Hey, hey, come on, don’t cry. We’ll figure this out.”

But all you could think about was the fact that this cycle—this suffering—was something you couldn’t escape. The tears kept coming, and before you even knew it, you found yourself speaking without thinking.

“When we find God, remind me to ask him why the hell he thought it was a good idea to make women suffer like this.” You sniffled between your words, wiping at your eyes. “And if I ever find Eve, I swear, it’s on sight. I don’t care.”

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance before Dean raised an eyebrow. He chuckled softly, though it was a little strained. “You know, kid, I’ve got your back on that. Eve? Totally on sight.”

Sam, though, looked a bit more concerned.

“Y/N,” he started and you could already tell he was going to get all touchy feely and you weren’t exactly in the mood for it. You were actually in the mood to fight someone and thinking about Eve made you seethe.

“Okay, that’s it. I can’t do this anymore,” you cut Sam off muttering through gritted teeth. “I’m calling Cas.”

Both of your brothers’ eyes went wide, clearly startled by your sudden outburst. “Wait, wait—Cas? What are you doing?” Sam asked, his voice tinged with concern.

Dean, ever the protective older brother, had a look of horror. “Uh, you sure that’s a good idea? Cas is... I mean, I get it, but he’s not exactly... helpful when it comes to, you know, cramps and whatever else you’re dealing with. He’s gonna make everything way more complicated than it needs to be.”

“Dean, you have no idea,” you said, sitting up with effort. “You don’t get it. Cas knows stuff. He can probably tell me why the hell we’re cursed with this biological nonsense.”

You were already pulling your phone out of your pocket and texting Castiel without hesitation. Cas, get your grace in here now. I need answers.

Within minutes, the familiar sound of his arrival in the bunker echoed through the hall, and the next thing you knew, he was standing in front of you, his expression confused as ever.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, a little louder than necessary. “Cas! You’re just the angel I need.”

Sam’s face dropped in disbelief. “What are you doing?” he asked again, his voice almost pleading.

Dean sighed and rubbed his temples, but you could tell he was more than amused. “You’re killing me kid.”

You weren’t paying attention to them anymore, already sitting up slightly and glaring at Castiel with an intensity that only a woman going through hell on Earth could possess. “Cas! Maybe you can help me with something. Why did your father want to make me suffer?”

Castiel blinked, as lost as ever. “My father? I don’t—”

You were getting impatient. “God, Cas. I’m talking about periods and the suffering that comes with being a woman. Why did he do that to me?”

Castiel’s brows furrowed, clearly trying to make sense of your words. “I... I’m not entirely sure I understand...”

Sam had his face buried in his hands at this point in utter disbelief. “You really called Cas for this?”

You ignored him, still laser-focused on the angel. “Was it because Eve bit the apple? Because if that’s it, I swear to God, I’m going straight to her. I don’t care. I’m taking it up with her myself.”

You could practically hear Dean choking on his laughter in the background.

Castiel tilted his head, as if he were pondering your words like they were some grand cosmic mystery.

“Eve? The first woman?” he asked cautiously. “Well, yes, technically. Eve’s actions with the apple did cause certain... consequences.”

Your jaw dropped. “So, you’re telling me that because of Eve, I have to suffer through this every month?” You waved a hand at your cramping body in frustration. “Every month, Cas. You have no idea how bad this hurts.”

Castiel blinked again, processing. “Well, yes... it is an unfortunate result of the... fall from grace, so to speak. But, the suffering you feel... it is not a punishment. It is... well, a part of being human.”

You narrowed your eyes, not having the patience for his usual philosophical nonsense. “No, Cas. I don’t want some deep answer about ‘the human condition.’ I want to know where Eve is because I need to have words with her.”

Castiel looked at you like you had asked him to solve the mysteries of the universe. “Uh...”

You leaned in a little closer, determined to get some kind of answer. “Wait—were you even there when Eve was around?”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause, and Castiel’s eyes flickered like he wasn’t sure how to answer. Finally, he spoke up. “Yes, I... I was there. But, I... I don’t believe I ever interacted with her much.”

You stared at him incredulously. “Okay so you didn’t even try to stop her either? So I can technically add you onto the list of people I need to have a word with?”

“Well,” he began, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “I wasn’t exactly... allowed to interact with her.”

Sam was standing in the doorway by now, rubbing his eyes. “This is getting out of hand,” he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow, voice dripping with frustration. “Why do I have to suffer? Why does every woman on this planet have to go through this? I didn’t ask for this, you know?”

Castiel hesitated for a moment, the weight of your frustration clearly sinking in. “I... I will go and find answers for you,” he said, his usual confidence returning in a determined tone. “I will seek out more information on Eve, on why these consequences were set in motion.”

You blinked, taken aback by his sudden promise. “You will? Really?”

Castiel nodded solemnly. “Yes. I will leave now and return with the answers you seek.”

“Okay wait Cas! See if you can reverse it-” But before you could even finish, he disappeared with the familiar flutter of wings.

Sam turned to you with an exasperated sigh. “So... you really just called him and told him to find Eve?”

You nodded, arms crossed over your chest. “Hey, I figure if anyone knows where she’s hiding, it’s Cas. And if he’s going to keep dropping cryptic answers, maybe he can at least help fix this.”

Dean flopped back down next to you on the bed, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Just don’t be mad at me when Cas brings back some ancient scroll saying it was Eve’s fault.”

“I’ll be mad at everyone,” you said with a small laugh. “But mostly Eve.”

Dean gave you a soft smile, the lightheartedness back in his tone, though it was now tinged with a genuine concern. “Well, kid, if I had a magic wand, I’d wave it. But since I don’t, just know I’m here. If you need anything—anything—you know I got you, okay?”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Thanks. I guess... I guess I’ll survive this, somehow.”

Dean grinned, sitting back down on the bed. “That’s the spirit. And hey, if you need a punching bag, Sam’s your man.”

Sam shot him a glare but then softened. “Don’t listen to him.”

You chuckled weakly, your mind desperate for a distraction from the pain. “You know what would make this day a little better?”

Dean raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What’s that?”

“Legally Blonde,” you said with a sigh of relief, the thought of a lighthearted movie soothing your mind even if just a little.

Dean’s face lit up. “Sammy’s favorite.” He winked.

“Oh, I know. That’s why I picked it.” You said sending Dean an over exaggerated wink right back.

Sam groaned from the doorway, clearly not impressed. “Seriously, guys? Come on.”

You laughed despite yourself. “Come on, Sammy, I just know your bag was going to be full of pink sparkly pens at law school.”

Dean shot you a playful grin. “He was gonna walk into the courtroom and say, ‘Objection, Your Honor—this is unacceptable!’ and flip his hair dramatically.”

Sam glared at Dean, but it was obvious he was trying not to smile. He shook his head, muttering, “I can't even believe you two are making fun of me for wanting to be a lawyer. But fine, fine, let’s watch Legally Blonde.”

You settled back into the pillows with a satisfied sigh. “Great choice, Sammy. I knew you were cool under all that lawyer talk.”

Sam let out a reluctant laugh. “Alright, alright. But you guys better be ready for The Trial of the Century. Because Elle Woods? She’s gonna win this thing.”

And for the first time in hours, you felt a flicker of joy. It wasn’t about the cramps—it was about the three of you, trying to make light of the situation, and you realized, you’d survive this, one laugh at a time. Oh and hopefully with some answers from Cas!

[papayainsectorone]

Bad Day Fix

════════════════════════

request: can you write about comforting kimi antonelli after a bad race or hes sad

content: angst, fluff, vulnerability, healing, comfort, reassurance, bad race, established relationship

word count: 1,7k

pairing: kimi antonelli x fem!reader

════════════════════════

You know it’s bad before you even see him.

The broadcast cuts off and the silence that follows feels heavier than the race itself. You’re left staring at the black screen, heart caught somewhere between frustration and helplessness — that gnawing twist in your chest when things unravel, slowly at first, then all at once.

The race had been chaos. A strategy that didn’t work. A pit stop that went long. The car fighting him through every lap. You watched the whole thing unfold from the couch, gripping a pillow like it could somehow keep the wheels turning, keep him afloat.

But it hadn’t. And now he’s somewhere out there, probably still in his suit, still wound tight, unraveling in a paddock garage with too-bright lights and too many eyes.

You wait for the message. A text. A sigh. Even a single emoji — his usual heart or thumbs-down when he's grumpy but okay.

Nothing comes.

That’s the second sign.

By the time the hotel room door clicks open, the sun’s gone. You’ve been sitting on the bed for hours, pretending to read, re-reading the same paragraph until the words mean nothing. When Kimi steps in, it’s like the energy in the room shifts — sucked out in one breath.

He doesn’t say anything. Just drops his bag by the wall like it might explode if he touches it too long. His shoulders are curled inward, baseball cap tugged low, jaw set like he’s trying not to crack his own teeth from clenching too hard.

“Hey,” you say, soft and steady.

He nods. That’s all you get.

You close the book, setting it gently on the nightstand, and pat the bed beside you. “Come sit.”

For a second, he doesn’t move — eyes fixed on the floor, the silence stretching too long. Then he does. Slowly. Like every step is a weight. But he doesn’t sit on the bed. He lowers himself to the floor in front of it, elbows braced on his knees, cap still hiding most of his face. He stares at the carpet like it said something cruel.

“I fucked up,” he says, voice rough and low. “Everything. The strategy was shit, yeah, but I should’ve adapted. Should’ve seen it earlier. I should’ve pushed, saved the tires better. I don’t know. Something.”

You slide closer, shift onto your stomach at the edge of the bed until you can rest your chin gently on his shoulder. You don’t push. Don’t try to fix it. Just offer the truth.

“You did everything you could.”

His shoulders tighten under your touch. He doesn’t lean into it, not yet, but he doesn’t pull away either. That’s enough for now.

“I hate how it felt,” he murmurs, the words thick, like they cost him something to say. “Like I wasn’t even driving my own race anymore. Just reacting. Like the whole thing slipped out of my hands and I couldn’t grab it back.”

You stay quiet, the weight of your chin resting lightly against his hoodie. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves — jaw clenched, fingers knotted together, legs bouncing faintly with leftover adrenaline.

“I tried to reset,” he goes on. “Told myself, ‘You’ve got time. You can still pull something from this.’ But then I came out behind traffic, and the grip was gone, and I just—” He cuts himself off, exhaling hard. “I don’t know why it messed me up so bad.”

His voice doesn’t break, but it dips. Frustrated. Fragile. Like he’s angry for even letting it get to him.

You shift slightly, letting your hand move until your fingers curl around his bicep. Just grounding him. No pressure.

“It matters to you,” you say gently. “That’s not a weakness, Kimi. It’s the opposite.”

He finally looks at you. Just a glance over his shoulder, eyes ringed with exhaustion, but something in them flickers — like maybe, just maybe, he hears you.

“I just keep thinking about what I should’ve done. I keep playing it back like I can undo it if I watch it enough times.”

“You’re not a robot,” you remind him. “You’re allowed to be frustrated. But one race doesn’t rewrite who you are.”

Kimi swallows hard, and for a moment, it’s like the silence is going to win — like he’ll shut down again, slip into himself and wall it all off. But then he exhales, rough and long, and leans back just enough for his shoulder to brush yours. Not fully leaning. Not yet. But closer.

“Everyone always says ‘move on’ or ‘learn from it,’” he mutters. “But right now I just feel…embarrassed. Like I let people down.”

You shift off the bed slowly, sliding down to the floor beside him. Legs folded, back against the edge of the mattress. You take his hand — still clenched — and gently pry his fingers open so you can thread yours through them.

“You didn’t let anyone down,” you say, firm but soft. “Especially not me.”

His jaw ticks again. His fingers twitch around yours. “You always say the right thing,” he mutters, but there’s a trace of warmth in it now. Quiet gratitude buried under everything else.

“I say what’s true,” you answer. “Even when you forget it.”

For the first time, Kimi lets his head fall sideways, resting against your shoulder. It’s not dramatic or loud. Just tired. Real. His cap shifts, revealing a bit more of his expression — flushed from the long day, brows still pinched like his brain won’t stop replaying the track.

You nudge his head softly. “Come on. Scoot up.”

He blinks like he didn’t expect you to say anything — like he forgot, for a moment, that he’s allowed to ask for comfort. But after a beat, he moves, slow and wordless, crawling up onto the bed.

You shift too, sliding back toward the headboard until you’re sitting upright, knees bent slightly. Kimi settles in between your legs, his head resting on your stomach, arms curled loosely around your waist. He exhales again, the sound quieter this time, more resigned than tense. His whole body melts into you, like gravity’s finally winning.

Your fingers move instinctively to his hair, slipping beneath the edge of his cap to run through the soft strands at the nape of his neck. He lets out a quiet sound — not quite a sigh, not quite a groan — and closes his eyes.

“There we go,” you murmur, barely audible over the room’s hush. “That’s better.”

He doesn’t speak, but his grip tightens slightly around you, just enough to say thank you again without words.

You let him stay like that, gently carding your fingers through his hair, the slow rhythm of it anchoring you both. The hotel room is still, the only sound the muffled buzz of the city outside and the occasional shift of fabric when he breathes a little deeper.

Time stretches. Not in a heavy way — more like a blanket pulled up over both of you.

After a long while, he speaks, voice thick with exhaustion but softer than before.

“Do you ever think it’s stupid? That I care this much?”

You look down at him, frowning. “No. Never.”

His cheek is warm against your stomach. He doesn’t open his eyes, just listens.

“Because if you didn’t care,” you continue gently, “you wouldn’t be you. You wouldn’t fight this hard. You wouldn’t have gotten as far as you have.”

He shifts slightly, pressing his forehead more firmly against you. “It just hurts. Failing like that. In front of everyone.”

“You didn’t fail.”

He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t agree either.

So you lower your voice even more, soft and certain. “You had a bad day. That’s all it was. A bad day. But you’re still Kimi. You’re still…you.”

Another beat of silence. And then:

“Keep talking,” he says, muffled against your hoodie. “I like when you talk like that.”

You smile gently, bending to press a kiss into his hair. “Good. Because I could say it a thousand times and it would still be true.”

[traiaadd156]

No one asked for but ima do it anyways🌝✨

Damian wayne x girlygirl! Reader

Warnings; cringe dialogue, fluff mostly.

As much as I would like to believe he cares about your style, he just thinks its cute. A bit childish sometimes when its seen in a third person perspective but he doesnt comment.

There is just something about how you stuck out like a sore thumb especially if your both in gotham, it was like a colorful glitter bomb that exploded and became a person(you). Its just a bet that peoples heads would turn, either because of the odd sight of the young heir who is the definition of the word 'doom and gloom' beside the personification of glitter and pink.

But its cute, your hands always holding his but nothing more than that. He doesnt hate PDA per say but he doesnt initiate it since he has to hold up his "reputation"

Dates are usually spent in places where he thinks is safe. Trust me the last thing he needs is being crashed at especially on dates; either some quiet part of gotham where its either a ghost town or a cat cafe that you both could enjoy and how cats swarmed you like an army of fur and claws since you may or may not have sprayed catnip on yourself so that cats would come near you 🫣(pls tell me Im not the only one who's done that😭)

Him as a boyfriend is sweet, slow. Like a burning amber scorching the path of your skin, his way of loving is silent. More than he could ever speak but his words hold weight as much as any promise a man could make, lingering glances and the weight of his hand either on your lower back or hand a bit too long.

To him he was being obvious how smitten he truly is, he doesnt care about what anyone has to say about it either. Not even the teasing taunts of his brothers when they caught you two on a date, your in your best attire, a soft dopey smile on your face as his eyes softened at the slightest bit.

You practically marked him with your body glitter with just the slightest touch, to you it comes off as too possessive and a little jealous. Because you are jealous and possessive but there is no way you'd admit that to him! Besides, he was the one supposed to be jealous and possessive and he does that openly but silently at the same time.

His gifts are thoughtful and well thought of; your purse tore because some mugger stole it? Boom! He bought you a custom pink and light green bag(why green? It reminds him of the two of you, being the pink to his green. Very corny I know and I just thought of it bc why not🤷).

He would rather rip his limbs of then EVER admit he is a sappy romantic, a little crazy sappy romantic that would follow you home as robin randomly since he doesnt want you to get hurt by some mugger or something.

It wasnt uncommon that you'd find random notes/reminders ranging from "you should eat beloved." Or "coffee since you look tired." And there is your favorite ice coffee he had seen you drink once.

Of course they were all innocent and meant well, but he should really stop breaking into your house to remind you. But at least he locked the door when going out.

You know how I mentioned that he doesnt openly display PDA? Yeah he is a whole lot clingier when its just the two of you. Either laying on his room or yours, which either he prefers. He may or may not sometimes stalk your socials whenever you make a new post; either food, getting your nails done, a new pallet which he probably bought.

Though it takes sometime till he is going to spoil you, either date a year or two and then he will probably start to open up with his more open acts of love

ACTS OF SERVICE AND GIFT GIVING!! you cannot tell that this man doesnt appreciate if you obey him or serve him in a way, it never has to be extravagant just handing him whatever he needs. Since lets be real you carry random shit in that bag since you might need it. He wants to draw but he doesnt have a drawing book? Your pulling it out from a random pocket of the purse he bought(if your an artist or not). He has a sore throat from yapping to much? You have orange flavoured cough drops.

I really need to calm down on the damian fanfic stuff since it will be an aneurysm that will stop me😔

Anyways here is a song I think would fit your love life well with him:⁠-⁠)

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 9

Or: a secret Admirer AU

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6 || PART 7 || PART 8

Jeff calls her. It’s the first time they’ve spoken on the phone, and something flutters in her chest.

“How did you get this number?” she asks, finger twirling the coiled wire of the phone as she smiles down at her socked feet.

“There’s only one Cunningham in the phone book, Chrissy,” he replies, all dry wit—she can almost see the smirk on his face. “It’s not exactly rocket science.”

She laughs, shuffling around her kitchen, suddenly desperate to move, but she’s leashed to the wall by her phone’s cord, so it’s only about four steps each way until she’s bungee-corded back to the starting point.

“Smartass.”

Jeff laughs this time, quiet the way he always is, but her chest feels like a supernova’s exploding in it. “But that’s not why I called.”

Chrissy’s smile fixes to her face before drooping down into her shoes with her gut. “What’s wrong?” she asks, now standing statuesque in her kitchen, cold tiles leaching all the warmth from her feet even through her thick socks.

“Nothing,” Jeff sighs, and there’s a crackling sound, like he’s rubbing his face in exhaustion. “Just—Steve drove me home.”

“Is he okay?” she asks, clenching the phone hard enough in her hand that the cheap plastic creaks.

“I think so?” Jeff replies, sounding unsure. “He just seems sad, man.”

Steve and Jeff don’t spend a lot of time together, but he’s been around enough that she trusts his judgment.

Steve is sad.

Chrissy wants to sink down to the cold tile beneath her and never get up. Instead, she shuffles back over to the phone and swings herself up onto the countertop—what her mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Her heels clack against the cupboards noisily, broadcasting her restlessness even as the worry sinks straight through her.

“What about?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“He thinks Eddie hates him.”

Chrissy sucks in a breath and lets it shudder out before biting her lip against the next logical question. “Does he?”

“He thinks he does,” Jeff replies promptly. “But he definitely doesn’t.”

Chrissy hums, too lost in her own head to think of a reply. It doesn’t matter what Eddie feels if the effect is the same: a sad Steve Harrington.

“I don’t think you guys should do this anymore,” Jeff says, snapping her out of her spiral.

“I know,” she groans, shoulders slumping. “But Steve’s hellbent on keeping it up.”

He sighs again, muttering, “boys,” with such a defeated air that she can’t help but laugh again.

“You just keep an eye on yours, and I’ll do the same for mine,” she says, smile audible in her voice. “Deal?”

“I feel like yours is a bit easier to wrangle than mine,” Jeff scoffs, a twinge of bitterness leaking into his tone.

And he’s right; Eddie still hasn’t even told Jeff about the letters he’s been getting, much less asked his opinion on them. Steve, at least, keeps her appraised of his next moves, shares his feelings, and asks for her help even if he won’t always take her advice.

So, when Steve’s acting weird when she sees him the next morning—all shifty-eyed and nervous—she doesn’t ask. He’ll tell her when he’s ready. Besides, the hallway’s too crowded, and she’s got a sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with her and Jeff’s conversation last night.

She’s proved right when they hit the library at lunch instead of the cafeteria, and Steve barely waits until they’re settled in their usual table, feet interlaced.

“He hates me,” Steve whispers.

“He doesn’t hate you.”

Steve pouts across at her, bottom lip stuck out like a puppy dog as he accuses, “you’ve been talking to Jeff.”

Chrissy bites her lip. “I always talk to Jeff.”

He rolls his eyes, but it seems to lift his spirits. “Did you ask him out yet?”

“Shut up.” She kicks him beneath the table until he laughs.

Without further preamble, he pulls a piece of paper from his bag and pushes it across to her. She expects the latest note from Eddie, having yet to read the last one, but it’s not—it’s a letter from Steve, clearly responding to something she’s yet to see.

“Did you pick up the letter yourself?” she asks, panic sinking through her. He could get caught, and then all their subterfuge will be for nothing. She might lose her best friend. 

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, so shyly that she can’t bear to chastise him further. “What do you think?”

She reads it again, trying to look past the panic to the words in front of her. “It’s good,” she says, and it is. “Do you want to send it like this?”

His handwriting is barely legible, even to her with her weeks of practice, and there’s a few misspellings, but she’ll do whatever he wants, forever and always. But he shakes his head, and asks, “Will you edit it?”

“Can I see the one you’re responding to?” she asks.

He pulls it out of his bag and pushes it across the table without a complaint. She picks it up and begins to read.

         Secret Admirer,

         There was a little hiccup with my guitar and plugging her in, but otherwise it went great! All four of the drunks at the Hideout clapped politely when we were done, and not even one of them booed us off stage!

         The riff is still getting on my last nerve, darling, you have no idea. I wish I could hear you play, I bet you’d inspire me so much, a stroke of genius would strike me and I’d know exactly what I’m missing.

         (I don’t know how to ride a bike. My dad was never around to teach me, and by the time I moved in with Uncle Wayne, I was too old to learn.)

         Darling, did you dream of me? Was it a naughty dream?

         Yours,

         Eddie

P.S. The Lord of the Rings is the name of the whole trilogy, so I hope you find it in The Fellowship. Can’t believe you don’t even know Tolkein. It’s okay, baby, I like you anyway. 

She smiles when she’s done, kicking him beneath the table as she asks, “Does this sound like someone who hates you?”

If anything, Steve just gets droopier. “It’s for you,” he mumbles, and she doesn’t have anything to say.

Chrissy squeezes his foot tighter between her own in a pantomime of a hug.

Even with his newfound pessimism, he carefully rereads her edited words once she’s done. He smiles down at it, clearly cheered by the act of writing to Eddie.

“It looks great, Chris,” he says genuinely, as if she’d done more than correct his spelling and rewrite his letter word for word.

“Thanks,” she replies, smiling across at him, relieved his spirits have risen. “Now, let’s drop this in his locker so he doesn’t have to wait too long to read your lovely letter.”

Steve’s ears turn red with embarrassment, but he dutifully wraps his arm around her waist and leads her out of the library.

Jason’s loitering outside of it, leaning against the wall like it’s a coincidence he’s here at all, but the way his eyes glare at the point where they’re in contact makes a liar out of him.

Steve seems to agree because he pulls her closer and asks, “problem, Carver?” in his snootiest King Steve voice.

Jason holds his hands up, smiling like this is all a coincidence, but he seems to have forgotten that Chrissy knows him, maybe better than anyone. She sees the way his arms are flexing, the way he’s baring his canines more than smiling, and it makes her feel on edge.

“No problem, man,” he replies, untold violence behind every word.

“Let’s just go,” she whispers to Steve.

She’s relieved when he nods, not sparing Jason another look as they take the most direct route to Eddie’s locker. He doesn’t respond until they’re well out of Jason’s hearing range. “That guy’s starting to really freak me out,” he says, talking quietly still, even after putting all this distance between them.

Chrissy sighs. The thing is, she still misses Jason, but the Jason she misses is at least a year dead and gone. Now, all that’s left of him is someone who wants to own her.

“Me, too.”

*** 

There’s something different about the letter he finds in his locker this time.

  Eddie —

  You were the best damn thing those drunks have ever seen, hands down. No, before you ask, I wasn’t there. But when I had that letter under my pillow, I dreamed a little dream (not naughty, I know you’re disappointed, sorry). I don’t remember the songs, but I remember the way you looked for me in the crowd and smiled. All the dream people gave you a standing ovation, me loudest of all.

  You’re never too old to learn to ride a bike. My dad didn’t teach me either, but a friend did. Maybe someday, I could be that friend for you, and when I tell you I won’t let go, you can rest easy knowing I’m not lying.

  Sincerely,

  Your Secret Admirer

  P.S. I know it’s still winter, but I’ll meet you in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

The handwriting is just the same, and it’s as sweet as always, but still. There’s—something Eddie can’t quite put his finger on no matter how many times he rereads the letter. Maybe he should have paid more attention in English class instead of always working on his next campaign.

He watches Chrissy when she’s not paying attention, trying to figure out what’s changed, but Harrington always catches him and stares him down like a dog marking his territory.

It leaves him flushed, desperately trying to focus on whatever he’s supposed to be doing. By the time he looks up, Harrington’s always moved onto something else.

Maybe it’s just because they know each other now, spend time with each other, are even becoming friends? Eddie doesn’t mind, as long as the letters keep coming. He might even like this letter best of all. It feels more honest, real somehow, like he’s peeling back the layers of bullshit obfuscation to get to the truth of who she is.

He hopes it lasts.

It’s hard to write his own letter back, to meet that same level of transparency to someone who, despite now having a name and face, still feels like a nebulous being. A nebulous being whose favorite color he knows, who’s insecurities feel like they’re his own, whose words he’s stroked on the page late at night while unable to sleep.

He tries to pour that same energy back into his letter.

  Secret Admirer,

  I wish I could dream about you, too. I want to know your face well enough to hold it in my mind, even unconscious. I want to lay my head on my pillow tonight and know that you’ll be waiting for me in dreamland, ready to be the best groupie a guy could ask for.

  The truth is, no one’s loved me before. No one’s liked me, or kissed me, or held my hand during a scary movie. And, that’s scarier than any movie could ever be. Because, you’re it, baby. The one and only, and all that shit.

  I’ve got friends, and that’s enough for me! It really is! But a part of me just wants to hold someone’s hand—your hand. Maybe we can someday. Maybe we can do all the things we’ve talked about: go to a drive-in, play music together, learn to ride a bike. But even if we never do, I’m grateful for every one of these letters. Being wanted is new to me, and I’m not ready to give it up.

  Yours, always,

  Eddie

He steps into the Shakespeare section once more and slips the note into A Midsummer Night’s Dream and promptly tries his best to forget about it. It doesn’t work.

He wants a response immediately, dreads waiting the typical days it takes for a letter to appear in his locker, so no one can blame him for panicking.

“Do you want to come to a Corroded Coffin practice?” Eddie blurts after the latest Hellfire session.

Chrissy’s brow’s all furrowed up as she asks, “Corroded Coffin?”

Eddie’s surprised she doesn’t already know. He’s mentioned it at least once in one of his letters; does she not spend her nights pouring over the words like he does? Does she not have every dotted i and crossed t seared into her retinas?

His intestines wriggle around in his body, fingers itching to tear his letter into tiny little pieces before she reads his desperate, yearning words.

“My band,” Eddie replies, his response overlapping eerily with Harrington’s, “his band.”

Chrissy smirks between them but Eddie barely notices, too caught up in staring at Harrington. “How do you know that?” he demands.

Harrington’s shoulders curl, like Eddie’s the threat here as he mutters his response barely loud enough to hear over the sounds of the other Hellfire members packing up, “uh, the middle school talent show?”

Eddie’s lip quirks up as Harrington looks up from his own shoes and meets Eddie’s eyes. “You remember that?”

Harrington snorts. “Hard to forget, dude.”

Harrington’s smiling—he’s never noticed before but it’s a little off center, just enough to be endearing. Eddie smiles back helplessly, taking a step forward as he asks, “the king remembers little old me?”

He gets a laugh this time, Harrington’s eyes almost crinkling shut with his amusement. He’s got a nice laugh. Eddie’s never noticed before, hasn’t heard anything from him that wasn’t at least a little snide.

Eddie opens his mouth, desperate to elicit that noise again, when Chrissy pointedly clears her throat and reality comes rushing back in—what was that? He snaps his gaze back to her, shuffling his feet, feeling absurdly guilty. For what? Being nice to her boyfriend?

“When is it?” she asks.

It takes him a minute to remember what they were talking about. “Oh!” he exclaims, taking a step back when he realizes how close he’s gotten. “Uh, tomorrow night in Gareth’s garage.”

Chrissy’s smiling, but there’s something sly about it, Eddie knows, watching the flashing of her eyes, that Chrissy Cunningham knows what evil is and has the capacity to perform it. So much for his pet theory that she’s actually a golden retriever stuffed into a human girl’s body.

“Can Steve come?” When Eddie frowns, shifting his eyes to a red-eared Harrington standing stock-still beside her, she continues, “it’s just, Jason’s been a little intense lately?”

Carver’s name seems to bring Harrington back to life. He damn-near growls as he wraps his arm around Chrissy’s waist. “The word you’re looking for is stalkery.”

She snorts, “not a word, but yeah.”

Now that they mention it, Carver has seemed to be within arm’s reach of Chrissy for a while now, loitering on her fringes with his arms crossed like he’s staking his claim, even all these months after they broke up.

“Sure,” Eddie replies, and he means it. Harrington can come if it keeps Eddie from ending up on the wrong side of Carver’s fists. “Harrington can come.”

Harrington’s ears flush again, and he mutters an awkward, “thank you,” before leading Chrissy out of the drama room.

Once they’ve cleared out, Gareth sighs, long and loud as he says, “band practice is going to be so awkward.”

Eddie glares at him, having forgotten entirely about his audience while talking to Harrington and Chrissy. “Oh, it won’t be so bad.”

“Yeah, right,” Doug snorts, shouldering his bag and heading toward the door.

“Oh, ye of little faith!” he replies as all three of them head out the door, Jeff having inexplicably already left despite Eddie being his usual ride home on Hellfire days. “It’ll be fine!”

Before he drives the guys home, he doubles back to the library to try and steal back his note, but it’s too late: the doors are locked and by the morning, the note’s sure to be gone.

They’re right; band practice is awkward, and it’s not even Eddie’s fault. It’s not even Harrington’s fault. It’s Jeff’s.

“You look nice today,” Jeff says, looking directly at Chrissy, who blushes.

He’s right, she does look nice in a cute pink cardigan and some light-wash jeans that fit her well. It’s not Eddie’s style, but it suits her. But Jeff doesn’t have to say it while her boyfriend is standing right there.

“Thanks,” she says, smiling at Jeff.

Harrington just keeps standing there while Jeff does what can only be described as flirting, with his girlfriend. Everyone else carries on like this is normal, but Gareth’s sending him crazy-eyed looks proving that Eddie’s not the only sane one.

Doug’s too busy practicing his riffs, sure, and Jeff’s clearly gone off the deep end, but Harrington? What’s his excuse?

When he’d been dating Wheeler, he’d been all over her at all times, monopolizing her time whenever possible. And sure, Chrissy and Harrington are always together, but there’s never more than an arm around her waist or sitting close together. He’s never even seen them kiss.

And now here he is, letting Jeff flirt with his girlfriend right in front of him.

Eddie just doesn’t get it.

Corroded Coffin’s a fucking mess, Gareth keeping a beat only he can hear, Eddie missing every other note, and Jeff too busy looking at Chrissy to keep tempo. Only Doug is on his game, clearly getting more and more fed up with each new fuck-up.

Chrissy stays by Jeff’s side, whispering with him between songs while Harrington flops down on the couch and watches them play like it’s his own, personal concert.

Eddie can’t take his eyes off Steve. He wants to peel the guy like an onion, figure out what makes him tick, what makes him smile, why the hell he’s here in Gareth’s smelly garage watching his girlfriend make eyes at Jeff while she writes love letters to Eddie in her free time.

He wants to know.

He just—

Wants.

*** 

Steve’s words have been echoing around her brain for days—have you asked him out yet? It’s ridiculous, but before he’d said those words, she’d never even considered it as an option. Boys ask girls out, that’s how it works. But if Steve can like a boy, she can ask out Jeff.

That doesn’t make it any less scary though. She sits on the revelation for a few days more, watching Jeff out of the corner of her eye, flirting back after he instigates. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s still him instigating.

“I’m going to ask him out,” she tells Steve, not looking at him as they walk into the school together, too afraid of what she’ll see.

“Yeah?” he asks, bumping their shoulders together. “When?”

When she glances his way, he’s grinning ear to ear. She huffs, “I don’t know, soon?” Looking away so she doesn’t have to see that sly look on his face. “It’s just so scary.”

“I know, Chris,” he says, bumping into her again and again just to annoy her. “But you’re the strongest person I know.”

She doesn’t feel strong—she feels like a breeze might swipe her feet out from under her, but Steve believes in her. Steve thinks she’s strong, and she told him she’d ask Jeff out, so she will.

So, when Jeff next slides into her passenger seat, she starts the car and drives away without saying a word.

This has become something of a habit lately—if there’s no Hellfire, she drives Jeff home. Usually they talk, or turn on music they both like and sing along. The quiet has his feet tapping and fingers picking at the seam of his jeans. He grows more restless with each minute that passes.

“Chrissy?” he asks finally, a shyness to his voice that she’s not used to hearing. From the first time they’d spoken, he’s been confident—quiet, yeah, but assured. “Are you okay?”

Unable to take the waver of his voice sitting down, Chrissy veers off the side of the road, holding her arm out to keep Jeff from smacking into the dash at the abrupt change in momentum. She puts the thing in park, takes off her seatbelt, and turns in her seat to face Jeff head-on.

His eyes are wide, clearly freaked out by her erratic behavior, but he still unlatches his own seatbelt and mimics her position, awkwardly pulling his feet beneath him when it becomes clear his legs are too long to fit.

She’s helplessly charmed; it may just be Steve and Eddie’s letters rubbing off on her, but she wants to reach out and take his hand. So she does.

His fingers jerk in hers, pulling back a little like it’s instinct before he drops his hand on the console separating them and lets her link their fingers together. Even with the heater on, the interior of her car’s cold enough that his skin scalds against hers, sending a shudder through her.

“Is this the part where you murder me?” he asks, squeezing her hand. “Because if so, let me know.”

“So you can run away?” she asks, grateful for the moment of levity.

“No, because I’m a gentleman,” he replies, winking at her, “and I can help dig the grave, save you some work.”

Chrissy laughs, once again captivated by him. He’s a nerd, how is he so gosh darn charming? Her cheeks hurt, her heart hurts, her whole body is tingling with the anticipation of what she’s about to do.

“Chrissy—“

“Will you go out with me?” she asks, slapping her hand over her mouth when she realizes she interrupted him. She closes her eyes, entirely mortified. “Shoot, sorry!”

His hand spasms in hers before he tightens his hold. “You’re…” he starts, hand shaking in hers. She opens her eyes, horrible visions of him crying dancing behind her lids, but he’s laughing, whole body moving with the effort of suppressing it. “You’re apologizing for the best moment of my life?”

She laughs, too, helpless not to. “Is that a yes, or are you just laughing at me?”

He hums, tilting his head closer to hers, chuckles finally fading away as he replies, “can it be both?”

“Always.”

Chrissy bounces a little in her seat, vibrating with pent-up excitement. Maybe sometimes the girl can get the guy instead of the other way around.

He hums again, low down in his throat, and their gazes lock. The energy in her car is so electric her skin is buzzing with it. She wants to reach across the distance between them and steal a kiss. But girls don’t do that sort of thing. Girls aren’t supposed to—

She leans across the console separating them and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. Jeff gasps into it, like he’s the one being electrocuted now, and suddenly his hand is out of hers, but that’s okay because it’s on her face now, drawing her closer, closer, closer, as he sucks on her bottom lip until she gasps.

She might have stayed in that position forever, craning her body uncomfortably forward like a sunflower toward the light, if she hadn’t shifted a little too far to the left into her car’s horn with a bony hip.

As it blares, they both jump apart, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, looking around for a threat that will never come.

“Oops,” she whispers, settling back into her seat, back protesting at the change of angle.

Jeff laughs, head thrown back, long throat on full display. She wants to bite it, but the moment’s long since broken, so she puts her seatbelt on and shifts back onto the road, cheeks flaming, heart warm.

“Does this mean you’re going to give me your letterman jacket?” he asks once he’s finally stopped laughing. “I’m not familiar with jocks courting rituals.”

Chrissy’s responding laugh isn’t her usual cultivated giggle—it’s a bark that makes Jeff grin at her. “Oh my goodness, can you even imagine the looks we’d get?”

“Or that Steve would.” Jeff replies. “But you’ve gotta admit, I’d look good in his jacket.”

She almost wants to do it for the drama, Eddie’s presence rubbing off on her surely, but it’s not quite worth doubling the lynch mobs that will already be after all of them.

“You realize this is only making this whole situation even messier, don’t you?” she asks, eyes on the road.

“Yeah,” Jeff sighs, but his fingers reach across the car and settle atop her hand where it’s clasping the stick shift. “But worth it, right?”

She’s been smiling so much that her cheeks hurt, but at that, she damn-near beams ear to ear. “Yeah, baby,” she says, heat pooling low in her stomach when Jeff lets out a soft little gasp. “You’re worth it.”

PART 10

[ninyard]

I just saw a post wondering what Andrew and Neil’s first proper argument is, and naturally I have to offer this:

Andrew and Neil don’t fight. They’ll ignore each other if they’re pissed off - but never for more than a few hours, or maybe until one of them has slept it off and decide it’s not worth it (usually Andrew). They’ll have tiffs but never over anything serious.

Except for in the months coming up to Andrew’s graduation. That is when I believe Andrew and Neil have their first real argument.

Andrew gets officially signed to his pro team around abouts the February of that year. It’s in a state further away that Neil expected, and since they found out, Neil keeps catching Andrew looking at apartments or researching the state and the team. He’s happy for him, of course he is, but he can’t quite identify what this feeling in his stomach is every time Andrew brings it up. The little fights that last longer than their usually bickering start not long after; Neil getting more pissed off by the little things Andrew does, Andrew having off-days with Neil more and more often, each of them asking for their own space because they know if they stay around each other they’re going to start a fight. It’s gradual in a way that they don’t realise for a little while that it’s getting worse, until just after the championship finals, and the season is officially over, when three days have passed without them talking for not much of a reason at all. Neil used his finals as an excuse, but Andrew didn’t have any good reason. After those three days, they’re finally alone in their dorm for whatever reason, and maybe Andrew has started packing or he’s just got some sort of welcome package from the team: everything explodes. Andrew tries to kiss Neil, and something feels wrong, and when Neil asks what the fuck is going on, all hell breaks loose.

Andrew doesn’t yell, of course he doesn’t, but he’s venomous. He’s asking Neil why he’s acting as if the world is going to end just because he’s graduating, he’s angry at him for becoming so dependent on his presence, he’s angry at himself for feeling like he’s found a future in Neil when this was never the plan. He was supposed to be nothing. A casual fuck, with an end date and no feelings but fuck if he can’t live his life without him now. Neil yells, because he does, and he’s angry that Andrew still seems so unsure about what they are, how comfortable they were, but suddenly things are different, and it feels like he doesn’t care. He’s angry at himself for building his life around Andrew, but he’s the only reason why Neil Josten exists. Andrew reminds him of that, and it makes everything worse.

It goes on for far too long, quickly becoming meaningless and just an excuse for either of them to vent out the frustration they’ve been keeping inside for months.

“You know that I won’t overstep your boundaries,” Neil points a finger at him. “So in your head it’s okay to treat me like shit and ignore me because you know that I will give you that space.”

He doesn’t even really think that, but every little thing, every little excuse is multiplied by a thousand when he feels this red hot rage. He hates the things that come out of his mouth, but Andrew gives it back, and his insistent refusal to back down just further butts their heads together and infuriates them both.

“I won’t chase after you because you’ve decided to allow me distance,” Andrew says, calm and ice cold. “You can’t invent boundaries for me and then be upset that they exist.”

Lows blows after low blows, unfair quips and insults from both sides, slamming of drawers and doors and throwing of things; they have never, ever fought like this before. It’s over everything and nothing at the same time. Andrew knew it was only a matter of time before campus security was called, but when he tried to tell Neil to calm down and lower his voice, it only made things worse.

They’ve been unkind and awful with each other for about an hour when Neil finds himself starting to get so furiously angry thats he’s upset, that he can feel himself being needlessly nasty with Andrew. For the first time ever he feels the tilt. He feels their foundations getting rocked, a crack in the base of the pyramid of their relationship that gives him the feeling that this might not last forever. He leaves their dorm with a slam of the door, and goes for a run. He hasn’t done that in a while, a run from his feelings, running from his problems and responsibilities. He’s not sure how long it’s been before he finds himself too far away from campus, because he just ran in a straight line.

When he checks his phone he realises he’s over an hour walk away from their dorms. He almost calls Matt, and hesitates over Coach’s phone number, but instead he clicks Andrew’s name. It’s only ringing for two rings before the ringing ends and there’s a quiet hiss at the other end of the line. Neil double checks that he’s answered, because Andrew hasn’t said anything, and brings the phone back to his ear.

“Can you come pick me up?” His breathing is heavy, all of his anger drained out through his feet with every single step that he took to get further away from their dorm.

“Where are you?” Andrew is quick to respond, and Neil can hear him already picking up his keys.

Neil tells him the name of some bar that he can see, and Andrew hangs up almost instantly afterwards. Neil starts to put his phone away, used to the abrupt endings of phone calls, but wishing he would say something more. He puts his phone away and wonders why Andrew can’t just give him something. He’s not looking for a Love you! Bye! But maybe just an answer that let him know he was listening. but then it starts to ring again, and it’s Andrew, and Neil doesn’t say anything when he answers.

“I’m leaving now,” Andrew says. There’s something in his voice. “I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

“Okay,” Neil responds. “Thank you.”

Andrew hums in acknowledgment, but this time he doesn’t hang up immediately. He hesitates, but he’s somewhere outside now.

“I will always pick you up.” He says after a while, after he’s shut his car door and the engine has rumbled to life, and maybe it sounds like I love you, I care about you, I need you. Maybe it sounds like I need you to know that i can’t lose this.

“I know,” Neil says, and it sounds like I can’t do this without you. “Thank you.”

Andrew waits a second or two then before hanging up, and Neil waits for him by the curb. Andrew is there quicker than twenty minutes later. Neither of them say anything as Neil slips into the passenger seat, and neither of them say anything as they pull away. Neither of them say anything until Andrew has switched the engine off, and the car is sitting in its parking spot. They look at each other then, and maybe then they understand what’s happening.

“I’m not above telling you that I don’t want to leave here,” leave you. “But this was always a certainty. You’ve had plenty of time to prepare.”

“I thought that I had,” Neil tells him.

It’s the truth, in some way. He realises then that all of these little fights, and growing agitation, and this almost primal urge to push Andrew away was how he’d prepared. He’s been trying his hardest to soften the blow that it would have on him, and if he pushed him away first, then it wouldn’t hurt when he inevitably pushed him back or let him go. Only, that was never going to happen, and that’s what made it worse - nothing could happen to them now that would not bring them back to each other. So when Neil pushed and pushed and pushed and Andrew was constantly hitting a wall instead of a door, all they were doing was filling the room with resentment.

They sit in the car then and talk about the reality: Andrew was moving away in just a few weeks, moving further away than they’d ever been apart. The truth was that regardless of whether or not Neil decides to spend the summer with him, August would come, and Neil would go back to PSU, and Andrew would stay wherever it was that he was staying. They’d been fighting more in a subconscious test with each other, to see if one of them were going to give up, to see it this was the thing that would finally tear them apart. They talk about that, too, as difficult as it is for Andrew to be honest about that kind of thing. Neil asks him if he thinks it would be better for them to break up, to give each other space, to let Andrew flourish on his new team and meet new people and grow into himself as a professional exy player. It’s the first time either of them have acknowledged the possibility out loud with each other, and it destroys Neil to ask it, and it destroys Andrew to hear it.

Andrew thinks about how Exy was supposed to be the deal with Kevin: how he was supposed to come off his meds, and Kevin would give him purpose, and he would find something to live for in the sport that would not love him back. Instead he gave him Neil. That was his something to live for, and while he’d started to learn how to live for himself, and he would eventually survive without him, he didn’t want to. He couldn’t. He would sooner give it all up just to keep him, and Neil knew that was the truth.

Neil thinks about how Neil was supposed to be temporary. Now it was the future, it was Andrew, it was a long and successful life. Neil Josten did not have an expiry date anymore. He could have things that were his own, things to keep, things to live for.

They knew it wouldn’t be easy, but as the evening went on, and they stay in that car and talk about the future, they’d truly come to the understanding that neither of them can lose each other. They will always be half of one another, and no amount of distance can change that. It’s hard conversation after hard conversation, and it’s emotional in the way that Andrew and Neil get emotional. All the fighting ends up being a catalyst for possibly the most personal, deep, intimate discussion they’ve ever had. There’s lots of silences and voices that threaten to raise but stay low. There’s a lot of questions, and answers, and questions without answers, too. Buts it’s needed. Andrew could not leave PSU without them having this conversation. If he had, I think they would’ve struggled a whole lot more with the distance, and the conversations they would have afterwards would’ve been far more difficult.

Ultimately that’s where they end the conversation sometime past midnight - with a semi newfound understanding of where they stand with each other, what they are, what the future means for them. It’s a fight that needed to happen, and in their own ways they apologise for the things that they said. Maybe they don’t say sorry, they just say everything is going to be okay, and distance will not be the thing that ruins this.

I don’t know. I really do think it’s a fight that’s needs to happen. I think it’s a terrible, angry, nasty argument, and they both feel awful about the things they said and did, but it had to happen. Yeah, could it have been communicated with words? Sure. But Andrew had to understand how afraid Neil was of losing him, he had to understand what Neil was doing to protect himself from it. And Neil had to understand that Andrew was always, always willing to fight for him, but he couldn’t do that if Neil wasn’t willing to see that he would.

[hellsslibrary]

PLEASPELALEPLARE SAY THAT YOU PLAY IN DOL??? I NEED HEADCANONS FOR THAT BITCHES ASAP WITH MALE TOP READER BECAUSE I FIXKUNG HATE FEM READERS ONE AAAAAAHADHHRHSS (SORRY I'M NOT ENGLISH BUT PLEASE)

Damn, imagine if we were mermaids and you had a dick with spikes, and I had a vagina like the Mariana Trench and ... (quotes from my husband day I adore him)

MASTERLIST is here.

#a.n. : see how desperate the person is? Gotta satisfy them, or their uterus/dick will explode and it will be my fault. Never thought I'd get a DoL request, but fuck yeah. Please give me more DoL requests.

Characters: School Love Interests (you're here), Other Love Interests (coming soon)

!!Warnings: switch!top!gn!reader (male leaned, although options with vaginas and penises are mentioned and reader is they/them and he like two times), bottom!characters (there are both cis and trans versions here, since I headcanon some of them as such, tho pronounces are he/him), honestly there are too many of them, considering the game itself is built. So the are below all the characters. Whitney's part has a bottom!reader clause, but it's marked so you don't have to read it (my husband extraterrestrialized this and I said hell yeah), reader is the player.

Kylar the Loner.

!!Warnings: pregnancy, size difference, mention of kidnapping, bondage, role playing, dirty talk, smells, underwear stealing, humping, mention of full body pillow, erotic drawing, he is delulu yandere.

My sweet cupcake, what can I say about you, honestly... It seems to me that he definitely should have a kink for the difference in size. Like, even with the smallest player's physique, he's still only a little taller??? And considering that with the biggest player, he looks like Thumbelina, you can't say that he doesn't. This guy was definitely fantasizing about how a player would pin him to something with this huge body (or a small body too, you'll be stronger than this guy anyway, it seems to me... If he's not hysterical, of course, hehe).

His hygiene definitely improved after he met the player. Like, just to impress them and not look like a mess (he's still a mess). So he definitely has a fucking jungle in his pants. And he's quite comfortable with it, although if you ask him to remove them, then of course he will. But yes. The tough, black jungle is right there. He's VERY hairy.

Uh, if we're going to talk about penis size, then it seems to me that he has an amazingly large penis for his height. Would I say about 7.3 inches? It's also curved to the left, because that's how I feel. If we're talking about pussy, I think it's surprisingly pale compared to the rest of his body, and he has a surprisingly large clitoris on his own. And if you're a genius like me and you're choosing tirs for a male character, then fuck, he's got a C-cup (there's a lot that could be hiding under his hoodie, lol).

Definitely the most talkative during sex. He's also whiny, especially the first time he loses his virginity (and especially if the player is also a virgin). Fuck, the king of dirty talk!!! It may be very strange, nasty and focused on how you impregnate him (or vise versa), but no one could talk to you like that, he could write you a fanfiction while riding on your dick and at the same time manage to hack into the Pentagon and brew spicy noodles and would not see any problems in it.

I think he has sensitive ears. Do you know this dialogue where he says that the player's ears are not as sensitive as in his dream??? Usually dreams reflect reality (I don't believe in this heresy, but I need a reason), therefore someone must have sensitive ears and it's definitely him, if not the player. I can just imagine how he would twitch and blush if you could bite his ear and whisper something there.

An unequivocal fetish for smells. Are you saying he's stealing the player's underwear for nothing??? Absolutely not. I doubt very much that he uses it on his genitals, as he thinks that the smell will be erased sooner, so he practically suffocates himself in the fabric, inhaling this smell. Even if the player smells like grandma, or absolutely disgusting like garbage, or like something sickly sweet right up to the point of getting sick in the head, it's still the best smell in the world (as long as it's not the smell of someone else's sperm).

Role-playing games??? This guy literally played some kind of wedding with us after the kidnapping. He was also literally acting in a skit (even if not in the role he wanted). He would definitely be a fan of this thing. And would especially love something old-fashioned or fantasy!! Type vampire × human, aristocrat × servant, vampire × werewolf. And something else where the player's attention will be completely on him, as well as in the dominant plan (he likes it when the player takes control, come on), such as policeman × criminal, concubine × king, husband × husband/wife (these two were invented by my hubby, lol still true).

He definitely has something to do with bondage (you can't say no, this guy literally tied up a player in his basement and rode on their dick/fucked them and whatever else). And he would definitely like to be tied up by a player, especially if the player is already many times stronger and could break him like a match. Although it's fucking nice for him to keep himself in power, too.

He would definitely like the same things that his partner would like. It doesn't matter how dangerous or vile it may be (without examples, everyone has their own degree of understanding of this). But fuck, seriously. You could say, like, "listen, I want to have sex in a swamp that's probably home to fifteen thousand different deadly bacteria, but you'd look too fucking sexy in mud," and he wouldn't hear anything except the part after the "but."

He would have loved humping. It doesn't matter what it is. Are you telling me that this person has a full-height player's pillow and he has never rubbed against it??? And didn't attach a dildo/flashlight to it??? Fuck, absolutely not. He'd love to rub his genitals against something, especially if it's not a player's thing, just so he can imagine how their skin would feel under them and all that.

He would cum in seconds (in my game, he cums in just two or three actions from the player????). Seriously, he would cum even without stimulation in the initial stages, just from the voice or from the overly sexy look of the player in front of him. His poor virgin brain would just explode.

He loves to draw a player in erotic poses or situations (canonically) and show them this. And then play it back, especially if the player himself reduces it by saying, like, "Oh, it looks sexy. Do you want to repeat it?" He will literally melt into a puddle.

Would never admit it, but he loves it when a player kisses/licks/strokes his scars, bruises and scratches. He doesn't find these parts of himself attractive, so what if his partner did it?.. Ka-sploosh!

And finally, the strange headcanon! I think he has a birthmark somewhere that slightly resembles the silhouette of a player... To make him believe even more in fate, love at first sight, and all that.

Sydney (nevermind which).

!!Warnings: body writing, mention of body fluids, reading as erotic event, size difference, hair pulling, pregnancy, cum on the face, semi public sex, sex in clothes, mention of mythical creatures, sadomaso kinda, wax.

So. Let's talk about Sydney as a whole, since his "personalities" differ only in their overall "emancipation"!

An unequivocal one hundred percent fetish for writing on the body, canonical, yes. But why doesn't anyone talk about it? No one wants such a handsome man to write all sorts of things on them??? Absolutely anything, because he would have written anything if the player had asked politely. And I would let him write anything on me if I were you, I'll be honest, especially those stupid emoticons. >:(

Not exactly sexy, but intimate! If a player had a lot of tattoos, they would definitely like to paint them over, like coloring books for children. I thought it was cute, so let it be here.

Canonically loves the taller player, so... The library, his desk, the evening, the two of you, he's sitting on the counter, you're pressing him against it, pawing him, kissing him, it doesn't matter what you do there, as long as he clings to you, while staring at you with those beautiful amber eyes.

Incredibly caring after sex, when he gets used to it all. He will definitely make sure that the player is satisfied and has finished as much as he wanted, he will definitely hug and praise the player if they need to, feed or drink the player if necessary and wash too. He will absolutely fall in love three times more if they do it in return.

During sex? Even better. The guy would definitely bring you to orgasm with his mouth/fingers/toys/friction, that is, without penetration, at least once. Unambiguous additional stimulation if you need it and when he learns your erogenous points. One hundred percent praise to any side of your body if you find it unattractive.

He loves it when they cum on his face. Anyone with glasses likes it when they cum on their face, I said so (I know it's hard to rub it off afterwards, but anyway). Especially at the beginning, after he loses his virginity and he gives head to the player and when they finally cum, he blushes so incredibly hard from it. He probably cries a little too when he realizes that he's going to make the player cum.

He's not a fan of dirty talk in my opinion, especially early Sydney, but he would love it if a player whispered something to him about the future. That is, giving him a hint about something long-term, even if you whispered to him that he was going to get pregnant, even though he was a cis man, it would still be sweet.

I came up with the idea of a fetish, the name of which I don't remember, but fuck... Imagine reading books during sex??? Especially in terms of roles??? Especially if you both get in each other's way while reading your piece??? It's hot. He definitely likes it, especially since he has a pleasant voice, it should be good.

So, let's talk about genitals! The penis is definitely not too outstanding, since the guy has spent in a chastity belt practically all life so about 5 inches. If we're talking about pussy, then definitely tiny labia and the same tiny clitoris. If we talk about tits... A-cup? Maybe a B-cup? They're small but not tiny.

He definitely doesn't bother with his hair much, because before his relationship with the player, he literally wore iron underpants, lol. But he adheres to hygiene absolutely, and his hair is also completely shaved off after the start of the relationship.

I think he likes being pulled by his hair. Not much. They just tilt his head back during penetration, hold his hair during kissing/oral sex, and just stroke his head.

A canonical masochist, albeit a hidden one. Plus, he's a sadist. So.... Listen to me. Wax. I fucking want to drip something on this guy's body or have him do it, it doesn't matter. He would tremble so much, trying not to show how much he liked it, even though he was absolutely flowing during the process from a pleasant mixture of pain and pleasure.

Theoretically speaking, he would agree to a lot as long as it's not too traumatic, too public and as long as it doesn't contain any bodily fluids other than saliva and semen (he canonically despises blood... And everything else, yes).

And of course, his canonical pregnancy kink (why does everyone in this game want a baby, I'm crying, except Avery of course). Definitely, his pupils will turn into hearts if one of you can get pregnant (if not, then I think it will be easy to convince him that this is possible, because he is a very stupidly smart person).

Sex in clothes??? For some reason, it seems to me that he would like to look at the outlines of the player's body or at his own if they were in front of a mirror, for example. Just imagine what's underneath those layers of fabric, even if he's seen it all many times.

Semi-public sex. And no, not just the canonical library and the mall (I'm still disappointed that he can't be fucked somewhere on the beach or in a temple, not under certain conditions). He would worry that someone would see you, try to be incredibly quiet, cling to you as if you were the only thing holding him in life.

By the way, he's probably the quietest of the four. Most of time he just breathe heavily, maybe he whisper prayers or something about how well he feel. It's quite difficult to get full-fledged moans out of him.

Well, it's a strange hedcanon for my favorites... Would you definitely think of the player as some kind of mythical creature? It doesn't matter if it's sexy or not, just the fact that his brain slides to the player's body in the form of some vampire, ending with some nonsense with tentacles, and then realizing arousal and hoping that the player will enter the library today sounds funny.

Robin the Orphan.

!!Warnings: forest sex, bathroom sex, mutual masturbation, cockwarming, nipple play, voyeurism, mention of bruises.

It will probably be the most difficult, because he is very... A controversial character. I love him, but he fucking annoys me sometimes. Does a guy literally get offended if he loses a game or if a player pushes him away when trying to have sex with high confidence??? He's sweet, but what the fuck is that. I'm still taking his debt on myself though, considering he's probably the most adequate of them all.

Well, it doesn't matter. Let's start with the food kink? The guy is poor in his own way. So imagine if he ever sees a player's body strewn with even the cheapest snacks or sweets. The guy will literally explode on the spot. Even if it's just plain whipped cream.

Mmm, also role-playing games. These silly dialogues where we talk about the characters of some video game that they both play gave me this idea, especially considering that they mean each other there. So of course the captain player will fuck this elf or whoever it is.

He's definitely a voyeur. It doesn't matter if he's watching or if he's being watched (only by the player, of course). It just relaxes to some extent, and the trust, and just taking the shackles off those cheap clothes on him.

He has a habit of biting the player's genitals when he gives them oral sex. He doesn't quite bite, but he chews, touches it lightly with his teeth. I'm not sure how it feels on a vagina, but on a dick? For me personally, it feels good, especially if that little bitch giggles at it.

The quietest during sex. He canonically doesn't even speak during it, lol (hopefully he'll learn one day). He probably just buries his face in the player's shoulder, hugging them, or buries his face in a pillow and just enjoys the sensations, breathing heavily.

I feel like he would really hate to sit still during this. That is, he would not be able to stay in the same position for a long time, or would not be able to tolerate for a long time if, for example, you rubbed against each other for several minutes without doing anything else. He would constantly try to turn you over or do something else.

A huge fan of jerking off. Mutual jerking off especially! He loves to put his feet on the player's hips while they rub their cocks against each other. He would have finished as quickly as possible from this. (This also works if you don't have a dick or he doesn't have a dick; he or you could get your dick lost on another's vagina, or scrissoring, of course)

A fan of outdoor sex!! I love the picnic event in the game, so... He will feed you deliciously (sandwiches with tea), and then he will throw you on the blanket and do whatever you want together. He just loves all this scenic beauty of forests, lakes and just vegetation everywhere.

Cockwarming... During the game... It would calm him down! He feels your cock inside him (or vice versa), feels this warmth, fullness, you are next to him and for some reason the game becomes easier and for some strange reason he becomes focused.

So, the genitals... The penis is definitely bent down, the head is very thick, the penis itself is thin, about 5.7 inches in size. If we're talking about a pussy, it's quite ordinary, but he would have large labia and a mole on them. Little tits... B-cup. Unambiguous. And he would also have very attractive puffy nipples.

And speaking of nipples. I think they're pretty damn sensitive. He loves when a player's fingers or tongue are on his boobs, squeezing the muscles there, and then squeezing those rosebuds, causing him a familiar knot in his stomach.

His pubic hair is fine. They are not particularly neat, but they are trimmed, he more than observes hygiene, everything is fine there. And his hair is surprisingly soft there, so everything is fine!!

The idea came up right now about strangulation. In my opinion, he would have liked it if the player had held his neck while they were doing this (maybe squeezed if Robin was completely relaxed). Although this kink will immediately disappear if he survives the abduction that occurs if you do not take on Robin's debt.

Sex in the bathroom!! I really like this scene. And Robin, too. He sees you completely naked, just for him, surrounded by water and foam, while you wash each other, fuck, and then wash each other again. Well, what could be better?

Loves body-to-body sex. Well, for example, where you or he are lying on top of each other or where you are hugging and your bodies are almost one hundred percent touching. It brings him the necessary and incredible comfort.

One more small clarification about voyeurism. The idea came up now that he would like it if a player watched him finger himself/jerk off. He would have come from this at the speed of light or faster (with high confidence, though, he would have put on a show at the same time).

He loves it when a player leaves light bruises of their hands. No hickeys or bites. It's the handprints. He finds them very attractive and a sign that the player fucking wanted him so much that they couldn't control their grip (your back would say the same thing about him lol).

And the strange headcanon, of course! He probably read some silly facts in history textbooks and asked the player to repeat them. And the player read the facts from biology... And of course they repeated them too! Not meiosis and mitosis, of course, and certainly not budding, but it's also an exciting activity with a cardio load!!

Whitney the Bully.

!!Warnings: size difference, praise kink, humiliation kink, riding, face sitting, mention of tattoos and piercings, fetish on virginity (?), maths (trust me, it's sexy), oral sex, mention of sex toys, BDSM, home porn, nudes.

My favorite cruel blonde is here, and we'll start big, of course. He would probably agree to any adventure that the player would suggest (it's kind of like even canon). Do you want to make him up and crossdress him? Please do it. Do you want to hug him or literally squeeze him like a plush toy in public? Oh, go on. But he will definitely fuck the life out of you afterwards.

He probably doesn't have an absolutely strict "no". If you want something, you'll get it, with his permission, of course. Starting with a threesome, ending with the strangest, most horrible, disgusting scene you can imagine.

There is a hidden kink for praise. He will necessarily blush too much if a player sincerely praises him during sex (especially if it is something external, given that he is not sure about his appearance). It will only make his actions faster, but damn it, he'll like it and it's obvious.

A hidden romantic somewhere in the depths of his soul. He would sincerely enjoy the most ordinary vanilla sex from time to time (VERY rarely), where both of you just relax and fuck lying on the bed while he hugs one of his plush toys.

He is literally "the best sucker" in the game. He literally has an oral fixation. And probably a tongue piercing, because it's hot and suits him very well. Would give you such a wildly pleasant blowjob / cunnilingus/ rimming that your legs would then shake for a few more minutes.

Although he loves it when you do it. Even if you're a total virgin and absolutely don't know how to suck dick/eat pussy, he'll just love your enthusiasm for it. If you're lucky, he'll even cum from it or try on the role of a teacher and teach you where to put your tongue, fingers, where it's better to press, how and so on.

Face sitting!!! I want him to strangle me with his hips, my God.... Absolutely enjoys the sight of your face sinking between his thighs and would absolutely not mind drowning between yours, even if you are many times heavier/bigger (he is the epitome of the meme "he sat on my face and broke my neck").

Loves to hold grab the player by the waist. In non-intimate moments, his hand is most likely there (or on the player's ass lol). In intimate moments, he mostly grabs the sides / stomach of the player, because he likes him. It doesn't matter if you're overweight, if you're chiseled like an Adonis, or if it's just a waistline, he loves it.

He definitely has a thing for people with piercings or tattoos. Especially if they are intimate. That is, the piercings of the navel, penis / pussy / ass, nipples, tongue. Or tattoos on the lower back, ass, chest, genitals (and there are such things, yes).

He is the most unashamed LI, because he would do it anywhere, anytime, he absolutely does not care who is there and who is not there, he must do it. The player looks too sweet to resist.

The genitals!! The cock is very thick, VERY THICK. Although by itself it is slightly above average, maybe about 6.2 inches. The pussy is very beautiful (yes, I think he has an attractive pussy, but what?), probably a small clitoris. Tits... Either A-cup or D-cup, there is no between.

Hair... I don't think he has a lot of hair there in general, and he doesn't take much care of it, although he shaves it off when it becomes uncomfortable. But his hygiene is impeccable (do you have any idea how many people he fucks?).

Of course, everyone understands perfectly well that he has a kink for humiliating the player. But imagine what would happen if he praised them. It's just that one day it would slip out that the player is a "good boy" at a certain point in their sex and the player would come out of surprise (sorry, funny). He would use it later, very rarely, but so accurately.

Virgins turn him on. Or just people who don't know anything about sex. Well, more precisely, a player, he would hardly fuck with someone for one night who doesn't know what they're doing at all. So he's really turned on by all this, these pathetic attempts, these first successes, these first reactions and results, well, fucking sweet.

(Bottom!reader) My husband came up with a trick. You know, if he has a vagina (no matter what gender he is), he always wears a strap-on, or almost always. He has a huge collection of them, which he stole canonically from a sex shop and damn it, sooner or later he uses them.

Absolutely loves to ride a dick. Especially if the penis is huge or tiny. It just gives him a sense of some kind of pleasant satisfaction that he can hold onto something so huge or something so small, while still getting pleasure and delivering it in return.

A teaser to the core. He will play with your nipples, genitals, erogenous zones, will constantly kiss you, leave marks, rub against you, but will not give you what you needed until you take it yourself or start begging him.

I think he's a BDSM fan. Especially the dom/sub aspects, because he just loves to bend the player to his will, and of course he loves it even more if the player does it himself. If he's in love, he can switch roles if you want, he's not picky, but he'll still be bossy one way or another.

Uh, he'd be a fan of home videos. He would never show them to anyone, because they are only for his eyes, he just likes to watch them from time to time. Or your photos too, when you cum, fuck him or something like that.

He would love it if the player had a huge ass. He absolutely loves kneading it between his fingers, watching as it takes the shape of his palms. Would constantly slap it at any convenient or inconvenient moment.

A hidden kink for the size difference? He loves his partners bigger and taller. He likes to bend them to his feet, keeping the player on a leash (literally or not), even if they are high-rise compared to him.

And of course our favorite category. He loves to ask the player questions from time to time during sex, especially if they are barely thinking and the questions jump from "2+2?" to "find the minimum of the function y=x²-563x-89=0". Of course, he punishes the player in some way if they answer incorrectly, even if they understand that they will answer incorrectly. But if by some miracle they guess, then he will fulfill some of their requests.