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w1w2 · 3 months ago

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When We Get Older

Part 2 of Twin

Jennie x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 9k

Synopsis: Y/N thought leaving was the only way to protect Jennie. Years later, with time lost and feelings still raw, one final encounter could either close the door for good or open the one they’ve both been too afraid to walk through.

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The hallway outside her apartment was sleek and quiet, the overhead lights humming softly, casting a glow across polished floors, too clean, too calm, like the stillness before a storm that knew exactly where to strike. Y/N hesitated with her hand on the doorknob, her knuckles pale against the metal. She told herself she was only catching her breath. But the truth was, she already knew who would be standing on the other side.

When she opened the door, the air shifted.

Jennie was there.

She looked like the version of herself the world never got to see. Her makeup had been scrubbed away, her skin clean but flushed, hair pulled back loosely with damp strands clinging to her temples. A hoodie hung open over her frame, sleeves pushed halfway up her arms, revealing hands clenched tightly at her sides. But nothing about her posture was relaxed.

Her body was still, but her eyes were alive.

Too alive.

There was a sharpness in them, a crackling intensity that bordered on fury, but didn’t quite fall into it. Not just anger, not even betrayal. It was something else, something deeper. Y/N saw it instantly, like the moment light catches a fracture in glass you hadn’t noticed before. It was pain. Old and familiar. The kind that had been carried too long to be softened by time.

Neither of them said anything.

The space between them pulsed with the weight of everything left unsaid. It wasn’t the silence of peace. It was the silence that formed when two people were standing on opposite ends of a memory neither of them could let go of.

Jennie didn’t step forward, didn’t cross the threshold, but she looked Y/N in the eye with such precision it felt like a challenge. Or maybe a plea, buried somewhere inside the wreckage.

When she spoke, her voice didn’t waver, but it carried the weight of someone who’d run out of ways to keep herself from breaking.

“Say it to my face.”

Y/N swallowed, but her throat was already tight, her chest aching with a familiar tension. She had been rehearsing excuses, quiet little sentences she thought might be enough.

But now? None of them came.

Jennie’s expression didn’t shift, not really, but her eyes were moving, searching, scanning Y/N’s face like she was trying to find proof of something, anything, she could still hold onto. Something that might make this hurt less.

And Y/N saw it, clear as day. That look she hadn’t seen in years, the one that came right before Jennie shattered. Not with tears, not with drama. Just silence. Just a kind of quiet that felt final.

Y/N stood there, her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the door, the wordless echo of Jennie’s voice still ringing in her chest.

She didn’t answer.

Not yet.

Y/N blinked, mouth parting, the start of a word catching on her tongue. “I—”

But Jennie didn’t let her hide in hesitation.

“No deflecting.” Her voice was sharp, but not loud, controlled in that way people sound when they’ve been rehearsing their pain too long to let it crack openly. “I read it. I want to hear it from you.”

Y/N’s breath stalled. Her throat tightened as the question settled into the space between them.

Too solid. Too heavy.

She stepped back just slightly, like instinct told her to get away from the heat. The hallway light slipped off her face, shadows rising to meet her like a shield.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said quietly, too quietly, like if she kept her voice low enough it wouldn’t count as a lie.

Jennie laughed under her breath, a disbelieving sound, brittle and bitter at the edges. She shook her head, slowly, like the motion itself was a warning.

“Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t shut down and pretend like it doesn’t matter. If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t have kept it. You wouldn’t have held onto it all these years. You wouldn’t have put it in the bag.”

Y/N didn’t speak.

She couldn’t. Her hands were trembling at her sides now, fingers curling in on themselves as if she could grip the silence and hold it back.

Jennie took a step forward.

“Say it.”

Y/N’s lips parted, but no words came.

Jennie didn’t look away. “Say it.”

“I can’t,” Y/N whispered.

Jennie’s jaw clenched. “Why not?”

Y/N exhaled through her nose, jaw tight. “Because it doesn’t change anything.”

Jennie’s eyes narrowed, like the words physically stung. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means it was just a letter,” Y/N said, flatly now. “Something I wrote a long time ago. You read it. That’s enough.”

The lie hung in the air between them like smoke.

Jennie stepped forward, her voice rising, not louder, just sharper, like disbelief had finally turned into something closer to anger. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to throw it at me and pretend it meant nothing.”

Y/N’s lips twitched, almost a flinch, almost a smirk, but not quite either. Her voice was low. “Maybe it didn’t.”

Jennie’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes did. They flicked, just once, like she was trying to find the crack, the weak spot, the truth Y/N kept swallowing.

“I wrote it when I was—” Y/N started, but the words caught. She stopped herself mid sentence, her mouth snapping shut like she’d yanked the leash on her own heart.

Silence.

Jennie didn’t blink. Her voice dropped, steady and precise, aiming straight for the place Y/N had just tried to hide. “When you were what?” she asked. “Heartbroken? In love? Alone?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She didn’t look at her.

She didn’t need to.

Jennie’s voice cracked, quiet but cutting. “Go ahead. Say it. Because that’s what I read. That’s what you wrote. We were in love, and you left anyway.”

Still, Y/N didn’t speak.

Jennie shook her head, the hurt spreading through her like slow poison. “God, I thought maybe,”

She stopped herself, her voice faltering for the first time, then dropped lower, rougher.

“I thought maybe you’d changed.”

Y/N’s head lifted at that, eyes wide, mouth twitching toward something, maybe protest, maybe apology, but Jennie pushed through.

“I thought maybe,” she continued, voice unsteady now, “if I gave you one real chance, one last chance, you’d finally say what I never stopped needing to hear.”

“Jennie,” Y/N started, but her voice cracked on the name.

“No.” Jennie held up a hand, firm but trembling. “Don’t give me another almost. I’ve had enough of it.”

She inhaled sharply, breath catching in her chest before it left her in a slow, ragged exhale. Her eyes were glassy, but no tears fell. She had cried already, long before. What was left was worse.

“I waited,” she said. “I waited for you to come back. To call, to fight. Every time I released a song, I wondered if you’d listen. Every city I toured, I hoped I’d see you in the crowd. I told myself you needed time. That maybe someday you’d be ready.”

She looked away for a moment, like the next part hurt too much to say while looking at her.

“I did all of this even though I didn’t want to admit it to myself.” Her voice dipped lower, the words quieter, slower. “I told myself I was over it. I tried dating, I tried moving on. But I always left first. Always found a reason to run.”

She looked back at Y/N, eyes glistening.

She blinked, and a tear finally slipped down, trailing fast down her cheek, as if it had been waiting for permission.

Jennie’s voice dropped to a whisper, the final strike laced in softness. “When Rosie told me you were there, when I realized you’d come all that way and still couldn’t face me. I thought maybe, maybe this was it.”

She let out a soft, bitter laugh, more breath than sound.

“I thought maybe you came because you still cared, because something in you finally cracked. And even after all this time, I wanted that to be true.”

She smiled then, but it was hollow, like muscle memory. “But it’s not. You’re still the same. Still not ready.”

Y/N’s chest heaved with a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “That’s not fair,” she said, voice raw. “You don’t know everything.”

Jennie’s eyes flared, and for the first time, there was real anger in her voice.

“Fair?” she repeated, the word bitter on her tongue. “You think any of this is fair?”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was a punishment.

Y/N didn’t move.

She couldn’t. Her legs were heavy, feet rooted to the ground like even her body was afraid of what would happen if she stepped forward. If she reached out.

Jennie stood still, watching Y/N like she was waiting for something, anything, to shift. A word. A hand reaching out. Even a breath that sounded like a beginning. But all she got was stillness, and the unbearable kind of silence that doesn’t settle, only thickens.

There was a flicker, the briefest parting of Y/N’s lips, like she might finally say something, might finally meet her in this awful, honest place, but the words didn’t come. Her shoulders stayed frozen, her hands useless at her sides, and whatever courage had brought her this far refused to move another inch forward.

Jennie’s hope broke quietly.

Not all at once, but gradually, like watching a light dim until there was nothing left. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, uneven rhythm as she absorbed what had been in front of her this whole time, Y/N wasn’t going to fight. Not now, maybe not ever.

“I waited,” Jennie said softly, her voice no longer sharp but frayed, tired. “I waited for so long.”

Y/N didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on Jennie’s, but whatever was behind them stayed locked away.

Jennie let out a shaky breath, one that sounded more like surrender than anything else. “I thought if I saw you again, face to face, you’d finally say something real. That maybe something had changed.”

Her laugh was short, breathless, not really a laugh at all. “But nothing has, has it?”

Y/N stayed silent.

Jennie’s gaze dropped, her hand curling slightly at her side like she wanted to hold herself together. “You think you’re protecting me by staying quiet? You’re not. You’re just gone. You’ve been gone this whole time.”

Her voice cracked then, not with volume, but with weight, the exhaustion of years spent carrying what should’ve been shared. “And I can’t do it anymore.”

Y/N blinked hard. Her jaw clenched like she wanted to protest, to stop Jennie from slipping through her fingers, but the words never made it to her mouth.

“I’ll always love you,” Jennie said, and the ease in her voice was cruel in its honesty. “But I can’t keep waiting, chasing someone who never stays. I can’t keep loving a ghost.”

She paused, eyes shining now, tears held back by the thinnest thread of composure.

“God, I tried to stop,” she whispered. “I went on dates. I smiled through interviews. I told everyone I was fine. I almost believed it.”

Y/N looked like she wanted to speak, like her body was leaning toward her without permission, but it was too late. Jennie had already seen what she needed to see.

“I meant what I sang,” she said, steadier now.

And then she turned. Not in a rush, not out of anger, just because there was nothing left to wait for.

Her footsteps echoed as she walked away, soft but final, each one marking a little more distance, a little more absence, until all Y/N could hear was her own breath, shallow and uneven in the doorway.

She didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Only when the silence fully returned, when Jennie was well and truly gone, did she whisper, almost involuntarily, like a reflex against the collapse inside her.

“Stay with me.”

But no one was there to hear it.

And she knew, this time, it was truly over.

Y/N remained frozen, her eyes stayed locked on the empty space where Jennie had just been, as if staring hard enough could bring her back. But there was only stillness now, no footsteps, no voice, no warmth lingering in the air. Just absence.

Her hand was still gripping the doorframe, fingers curled so tightly around the edge that her knuckles had gone white. She didn’t notice. Everything in her had gone quiet, like her body was bracing for impact that had already come and gone, leaving only the shock behind.

She felt it in waves.

First came the hollowness, an ache that didn’t have a name, just a shape. It opened wide in her chest, stretching out until it reached her fingertips, until even breathing felt like a lie. Then came the weight, heavy and suffocating, curling around her spine, pressing into her shoulders like grief had physical hands and was holding her still.

And then the unraveling.

It wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t loud. It was small. Slow. A single thread pulled loose from the center of her.

Her knees gave out before she even realized she was falling.

She slid down the door, her back catching against it with a quiet thud, legs folding beneath her, arms wrapping around her torso as if she could hold herself together by force. Her breath stuttered, short and sharp, a choking sound that wasn’t quite a sob, not yet.

And then it broke.

A sound slipped from her throat, raw, ragged, involuntary. Not the kind of crying that’s meant to be heard, no. The kind that happens when everything inside you crumples at once and you can’t stop it, even if you tried.

She pressed her palms into her eyes, hard, as if she could push the tears back, could press the memory of Jennie’s voice out of her skull. But it didn’t work. Her shoulders shook, her chest ached with it, her whole body trembling from the effort of keeping quiet and still falling apart anyway.

Time stopped meaning anything.

There were no words, no thoughts. Just fragments. The sound of Jennie saying “I’ll always love you”. The way she had turned away. The echo of her steps.

Y/N’s breath came in ragged bursts, like each inhale was a question and each exhale was a loss. Her head dropped forward, forehead resting against her knees, hands still clenched, her whole body curling in on itself.

She didn’t know how long she stayed there.

Minutes. Hours maybe.

All she knew was the sound of her own breathing. Shaky, broken, trying to fill a space that Jennie had just emptied without looking back. That it hurt in places she didn’t even know were still alive.

Morning came like a mistake. Not with clarity or purpose, but with the dull, heavy persistence of time that refused to stop just because she had.

The sun poured in through the windows like it always did, lighting the apartment with gold she didn’t want. She lay in bed long after her alarm had gone off, watching dust drift through the air like it was all that mattered. Her body felt distant, like she’d sunk into the mattress in pieces.

She didn’t want to go, but she had to. Irene and Seulgi were counting on her, trusting her, with their music, their comeback. Just a few days ago, she’d been proud of the work they were doing. Now it all felt like a distant memory, something she’d dreamed but couldn’t touch anymore.

She got up slowly, not bothering with breakfast, barely touching her coffee. Her movements were quiet, efficient, hollow. She pulled on a hoodie that still smelled faintly of the studio and left the apartment without a sound.

At the company building, the familiar halls felt foreign. Too bright, too fast. Everyone around her moved with purpose, voices low, feet brisk, lives intact.

She arrived at the studio late. Not enough to raise alarms, but enough for Irene to glance at the clock and then back at her with something unreadable in her eyes.

Irene didn’t say anything. She just passed her a coffee, still warm, and gave her a look that lasted half a second too long. Not accusatory. Just watching.

Seulgi was already at the mic, headphones on, running a vocal warm-up with their engineer. She smiled when she saw Y/N, cheerful and grounding as ever, but even she looked carefully at her face before turning back to the booth.

Y/N felt it instantly. The way they both looked at her. The hesitation, the silent question between them, hovering in the air but never spoken aloud.

She didn’t blame them, she could feel it too.

She slid into the chair at the console, fingers landing on the knobs and sliders with muscle memory, but not intention. The screen in front of her lit up with layers of audio, harmonies, percussion, vocal takes she’d helped craft, and none of it meant anything.

She pressed play. Paused. Rewound. Nodded when Irene asked if a mix sounded balanced. Murmured a suggestion when Seulgi asked about reverb. But every word she spoke felt like it was coming from underwater, distant and muffled.

The music didn’t move through her like it used to. It didn’t pull at her chest or catch behind her ribs. It didn’t lift her or bury her or stir anything at all.

It was just sound, just work, just something to get through.

And in the moments where no one was speaking, where Irene was rerecording a harmony or Seulgi was reviewing her lyrics, Y/N let herself drift.

Not into thought, not into memory. Just into nothing.

Most nights, sleep didn’t come easily.

Y/N would lie in bed long after the city had gone quiet, the lights outside her window casting long, pale streaks across the ceiling. She’d watch them move, slow and aimless, like her thoughts. Her room was still, too still, the silence pressing against her like weight on her chest.

At some point, always later than she meant to, she would reach for her headphones. It has become a habit. A ritual. Muscle memory, as if her body knew where to go before her mind could stop it.

She unlocked her phone, opened the same playlist she swore she’d delete every morning. She told herself it was work related. That it was research, reference. But she hadn’t added anything new in days.

It was just Jennie.

Just Twin.

Her thumb hovered for a moment over the track, as if pausing could delay the inevitable.

Then she pressed play.

The first notes always landed the same way. Jennie’s voice rose like breath, not polished or pushed, but real. It didn’t matter how many times Y/N had heard it. It still caught her off guard, still tightened around her ribs. Still pulled her back to that night, to the look on Jennie’s face. To the sound of her footsteps as she walked away.

There was no production trick in the song, no vocal run or harmony that dulled the honesty of it. Jennie had stripped everything back. No filters. No armor.

Just the truth.

Y/N listened with her eyes open, staring into the dark like maybe she could summon Jennie’s face from memory if she focused hard enough. She didn’t cry anymore. That part of her felt dried out, emptied, like her body had used up its grief and left only the ache behind.

But the ache was always there.

She let the song finish.

Then started it again, and again.

It was the only way she could still feel Jennie, her voice in her ears, her breath in every line, her confessions wrapped in melody. Every word felt like something Y/N should have said first, but never had. And now it was too late. Jennie had put it all into the song instead, leaving it there like an echo Y/N couldn’t escape.

She wondered if Jennie knew what she’d done. If she understood how naked she sounded. If she knew what she’d left behind in the silence between verses.

More than once, Y/N had caught herself mouthing the words along with her, quietly, like a secret. Some nights, she pressed her hand to her chest without thinking, just to see if her heart was still there. Still beating, still breaking the same way.

Just the same song, again and again, until the sky outside turned a pale gray and her body gave in to sleep. Not from peace, but from exhaustion.

The knock came in one afternoon, just loud enough to cut through the music looping in Y/N’s headphones. She didn’t move at first, assuming it would go away. Packages got dropped off all the time.

But the knock came again, firmer this time.

Then a pause, and a voice.

“Y/N.”

She froze. The song was still playing, Jennie’s voice low and breathy in her ears, but suddenly, it felt too loud. Too close. She pulled the headphones off slowly, heart stuttering against her ribs.

Irene didn’t knock again. She used the spare key.

Y/N didn’t get up. She stayed where she was, on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, a glass of water on the floor next to her, an untouched container of takeout beside it.

When the door opened, the light from the hallway sliced through the dimness. Irene stepped in, letting it close quietly behind her. She didn’t speak right away. Just looked.

Y/N hadn’t changed clothes since yesterday. Or maybe the day before that. She wasn’t sure anymore.

Irene’s eyes swept the room once, the duffel bag abandoned near the door, the takeout boxes lined up in a row of untouched attempts at pretending she was still functioning.

And then she looked at Y/N.

“You’ve had that song on repeat for days,” Irene said at last, not accusing, just stating it the way someone would describe the weather. Certain. Unavoidable.

Y/N didn’t answer, she didn’t have to.

Irene stepped further into the apartment, setting a paper coffee cup on the table, careful not to knock over the mess. She sat across from Y/N, legs crossed at the ankle, jacket still on, like she hadn’t planned to stay, but had already decided she would.

“You look like hell,” she added after a moment, her voice quieter now, but not exactly gentle. “Like you haven’t slept. Like you’re still waiting for her to walk back through that door.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath and stared down at the blanket in her lap. She didn’t want to cry. She’d done enough of that in the first few days, violent, breathless sobs that left her hoarse and aching. Now, there was just pressure. Like her body had stopped trying to release it and just let it calcify under her ribs.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, the words brittle and barely formed, like they’d been buried too long.

Irene leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, hands clasped together. Her tone didn’t sharpen, but the softness disappeared. There was no room for that anymore.

“You’re doing nothing,” she said. “That’s the problem.”

Y/N’s eyes dropped further, her hands tightening around the edge of the blanket like she needed to anchor herself to something.

“She left,” she said, the words small but bitter. “I let her leave.”

“Yes,” Irene replied evenly. “You did. You stood there and watched it happen. And maybe that was the biggest mistake you’ve ever made.” She paused, then leaned in slightly, her voice lower but heavier now.

“But this? Sitting here in the dark, hiding behind guilt like it somehow makes up for what you didn’t say? This is what you’ll regret. Not the moment she walked out, but every second since that you’ve done nothing to take it back.”

The words landed like weight. Y/N flinched, not visibly, but something inside her pulled away, then leaned in, like she knew she needed to hear it. Irene didn’t look away, her gaze was steady.

“Jennie loved you,” she said. “And I think, if she’s not already trying to forget how badly that hurt, maybe she still does. But she’s not going to wait forever. Not after you gave her every reason not to.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. Her lips parted like she might argue, but the words stuck, thick and useless in her mouth.

“She gave you a chance,” Irene continued. “More than one, and you stayed silent. Now she’s not here anymore, she’s not around the corner, she’s not waiting, she’s continents away. You think you’ve got time to figure this out? You don’t. She’s done waiting for you to show up.”

She let the silence stretch then, like she knew the next sentence had to fall all on its own.

“This is it. If you want her, really want her, then go. Stop hiding behind your fear. Stop pretending you don’t already know what she means to you.”

The room felt heavier for a second, like the air itself had thickened.

Irene sat back slowly, not looking away, not apologizing. She had said everything she came to say. Whether Y/N moved or stayed still, that was on her now.

Y/N didn’t speak right away. Her throat was tight, like the words were there but stuck somewhere behind everything she hadn’t said for too long. Her eyes drifted toward the window, to the narrow slip of sky visible between buildings. It was a flat, colorless blue, the kind that meant nothing, didn’t promise anything. Her gaze moved to the coffee table, to her phone still lying where she’d left it hours ago. The screen was dark, but she knew what would be there.

The playlist. Twin.

Jennie’s name, glowing in white text like it was waiting for her to finally stop pretending she didn’t care.

She didn’t know what changed in that moment. Maybe it was Irene’s voice, calm but unflinching, maybe it was the way she hadn’t begged or pleaded, hadn’t tried to cheer her up or lie about the stakes, maybe it was the quiet, brutal honesty of it all. Irene had walked in, looked around, and spoken like she knew exactly where the pain was buried.

Or maybe it was the ache itself, the one Y/N had carried for weeks now, the one that had settled into her ribs and refused to let go. The ache of a voice she only heard in headphones. A look she only saw in memories. A love that had stood right in front of her, asking her to speak, and she hadn’t.

Whatever it was, something shifted.

“I don’t know if she’ll take me back,” Y/N said at last, her voice quiet and frayed at the edges. It wasn’t a question. It was grief.

Irene didn’t hesitate. “Then find out.”

Y/N looked at her, eyes red, lips parted like she was already bracing for whatever came next. But Irene wasn’t done.

“Jennie tried,” she said, her voice still even. “You know that, right? She tried to let you go. She dated, she smiled through it, she played her part. But she never stayed with anyone. Because none of them were you.”

The words hit like a stone dropped into water, quiet, but unstoppable.

“You weren’t just the one that got away,” Irene added. “You were the one she couldn’t replace.”

Y/N inhaled sharply, her shoulders trembling with the effort of holding herself together.

“So if you don’t do something now,” Irene continued, “someone else will come along one day. Maybe not better, maybe not even close. But they’ll be there, and they’ll say the words you were too scared to. And Jennie won’t keep waiting for the one who left her more than once.”

That was it.

That was the cut that went straight to the center. Y/N didn’t cry, not then. But something inside her cracked open wide.

She exhaled for what felt like the first time in days.

Not clean, not steady.

But it was enough to begin.

Jennie’s days had become a blur of tightly scheduled hours and artificial focus, the kind of structure designed to hold someone together just long enough to keep from falling apart. Coachella was approaching fast, and the world around her treated it like a countdown, every minute filled, every moment measured. There wasn’t space to breathe, let alone feel.

She arrived at the rehearsal space before most of the team, her hair tucked under a black cap, sunglasses still on, coffee clutched in one hand like armor. People nodded when she walked in, some greeted her with half smiles, others with professional distance. But they all said the same thing, that she looked focused, that she was locked in. And she was, at least in the way everyone needed her to be.

The mornings bled into afternoons without pause. Rehearsals ran long, choreography, stage blocking, lighting adjustments, vocal warmups that turned into full set run throughs. Each movement drilled into her until her body responded on instinct. Every transition was tightened, every beat refined. She never asked for breaks. Never hesitated. If someone called for a reset, she was already back in place before they finished the sentence.

During short pauses, while dancers caught their breath or stylists flitted between fittings, Jennie sat quietly in the corner, her water bottle resting on her knee, her face turned toward the ceiling like she could escape into the light fixtures. She didn’t scroll through her phone. Didn’t speak unless someone asked her a direct question. She didn’t need distractions, she was already distracted, even when she moved like clockwork.

Her body kept up. Her mind didn’t.

When the music played, she moved like she always had, sharp, fluid, precise, but something inside her felt distant, unhooked. She wasn’t in the music, not really. She was watching herself perform, going through the motions, hitting the right steps with the wrong kind of energy. Nothing she did was technically wrong. Her vocals were clean, her form was flawless, her timing never slipped.

But it didn’t feel like hers.

And though no one said anything, she could sense the quiet glances from her team, the way her manager tilted her head like she might say something but never did. Everyone could feel something off, but no one named it.

Jennie didn’t either.

She didn’t think about Y/N while she worked.

Not deliberately. But in the quiet between verses, in the beat before a chorus hit, she felt it. The weight of what she’d walked away from. The truth that she hadn’t been enough to make her stay.

So she kept going.

One more take. One more day. One more routine done to perfection.

It was easier that way, but it hurt just the same.

One night, after another day that felt more like endurance than performance, Jennie returned to her apartment well past sunset. The city outside had already gone soft and blurred, the skyline dark against a hazy glow, headlights dragging across the pavement in slow motion.

Her key slipped into the lock with practiced ease, the door clicking shut behind her as she stepped into the stillness. She didn’t bother turning on the lights right away. The soft spill of streetlight through the windows was enough.

She dropped her bag by the entrance, the thud muffled by the carpet. Her jacket slid from her shoulders a moment later, landing in a careless heap that she didn’t bother fixing. Her shoes followed, kicked off with her toes, one after the other, until she was barefoot, moving on instinct alone.

She crossed to the kitchen and opened her food delivery app without really looking. Her thumb hovered, then tapped through the same order she always made when she didn’t have the energy to think, simple broth, rice, nothing heavy, nothing complicated. She didn’t read the confirmation, she didn’t need to.

Leaning against the counter, she let her head rest against the cabinet above, eyes slipping shut. Her whole body ached, not with pain, but with accumulation. Fatigue layered on fatigue. Not the kind sleep fixed, but the kind that lived in her bones now.

When the sound of the shower running finally filled the apartment, it was a relief. Not because she wanted to be clean, but because the water was noise, steady, unrelenting, something that could drown out the quiet around her for just a little while.

The water came down hotter than she meant it to, but she didn’t adjust it. Let it hit her shoulders, her neck, her back, burning enough to feel something. She stayed under the stream until her skin was flushed, until the fog on the glass blurred even her own reflection.

When she finally stepped out, she moved slowly, drying herself with methodical care, like routine could ground her. She opened the drawer for something to wear and pulled out a pair of old grey sweats and a shirt buried at the bottom, a faded black tee, oversized and worn soft by years of washes.

It was the one Y/N used to tease her about, calling it “her sleep uniform,” claiming she could win awards in it for being the most unbothered. Jennie had laughed then, told her to shut up, worn it again the next night anyway.

She hesitated for just a second.

Then pulled it over her head. It didn’t mean anything, not really.

She sat on the edge of the couch, phone resting beside her, half watching the screen, half lost in thought, the silence humming around her like a low, constant frequency. When the delivery notification buzzed, she didn’t check it. She knew what it said.

She didn't move right away. Her limbs were heavy in that comfortable, post shower kind of way, and the thought of walking to the door felt strangely far. Eventually, she stood, stretching slightly, and padded barefoot across the room.

Then the knock came.

Not forceful, not hurried.

Just two soft, measured raps against the door, followed by a pause, then the quiet chime of the bell.

Jennie frowned, just barely. That wasn’t the usual knock. Delivery drivers rarely waited long enough to press the bell. Still, she moved toward the door, rubbing a hand gently along the back of her neck, not thinking much of it. She assumed they were just being thorough.

Another knock.

The same rhythm.

She reached for the lock, voice low and casual as she called out, “Coming,” though her tone lacked urgency.

The door opened with the familiar clunk of the latch, and she pulled it halfway open, expecting a paper bag, maybe a mumbled greeting, something routine, forgettable.

But it wasn’t food.

It wasn’t a stranger.

It was Y/N.

Standing in the hallway, hoodie pulled up, head slightly lowered. Her face was tired in the way travel and sleeplessness made people look older, her features drawn tight, eyes rimmed red, skin pale under the cool hallway light. She looked like she hadn’t eaten, hadn’t rested, hadn’t known how to stop moving for days. And yet she was there, standing in front of Jennie like she had every right to be, like she hadn’t shattered everything just two weeks before.

Jennie’s breath caught in her throat. The door stayed frozen in her hand, only halfway open, and for a long, impossibly long second, neither of them spoke. They just looked at each other, two versions of the same memory, shaped by silence and regret.

Something tightened in Jennie’s chest, sharp and slow, like her heart didn’t know if it should leap or lock itself down.

Her voice, when it came, wasn’t cold. Just distant. Strained in a way she couldn’t help.

“I thought you were the food.”

Jennie stepped back without a word, her eyes unreadable, the tension in her shoulders still wound tight. She didn’t offer softness, didn’t pretend any of this was easy, but she opened the door a little wider, just enough for Y/N to understand she could step inside if she really wanted to.

It wasn’t forgiveness, it wasn’t welcome.

But it was something.

Y/N moved slowly, almost like she thought the floor might vanish under her feet. Every step forward felt like it could be a mistake, and yet she took it, carrying herself across the threshold with the kind of quiet hesitation reserved for sacred places.

When she looked up, Jennie had already walked into the living room. She stood with her arms folded over her chest, her body angled slightly away, not out of rejection, but out of self preservation. There was a kind of stillness to her, the kind that came after too many false starts, too many heartbreaks endured quietly. She wasn’t tense, she was guarded. Braced.

Neither of them sat.

The room, dimly lit by the soft glow of a floor lamp in the corner, felt heavier than it should have. The quiet between them wasn’t peaceful, it pulsed, almost alive, thick with everything left unsaid. They stood only a few feet apart, but the distance felt like a chasm.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d let me in,” Y/N said at last, her voice low and scratchy, like she hadn’t used it for anything real in days. Maybe weeks.

Jennie didn’t respond right away. She simply looked at her with the same expression she’d worn at the door, calm on the surface, unreadable underneath. Y/N couldn’t tell if she was trying not to feel or trying too hard not to show what she was feeling. Either way, the silence stretched long between them.

Y/N let out a breath that shook as it left her. Her eyes dropped to the floor, guilt flickering in her posture like a shadow cast across her chest.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Fair.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward, it was familiar, heavy, like they’d been here before, a hundred times, in a hundred different silences.

“I should’ve said something back then,” she continued, her words hesitant but steady, each one chosen carefully, as if she was trying not to fumble what little chance she had left. “That night at the concert, or when you came to my place. I should’ve said it all, but I didn’t. I just froze, I always freeze.”

Still, Jennie said nothing, but something in her eyes shifted, an almost imperceptible softening, or maybe it was just exhaustion.

Y/N looked up, met her gaze, and didn’t let go this time. “I left YG because I was scared,” she said, her voice beginning to shake again, but not faltering. “Not of us, not of how I felt about you. I was scared of what staying would cost you.”

Jennie’s brows drew together ever so slightly, not in anger, but like she was trying not to break before she understood the full truth.

“I knew how hard you fought for everything you had. I watched you work yourself past breaking, bend yourself into everything they needed you to be. You survived what would've crushed anyone else. And I knew, deep down, I knew, that if we got caught, if anything leaked, it wouldn’t be just me who paid the price. You would lose everything.”

Her voice caught in her throat, and she paused, breathing through it.

“I thought maybe if I left first, without explanation, maybe that was the one thing I could do for you. The only way I could protect you. Even if it meant losing you.”

Jennie still didn’t speak. She didn’t move either. Her arms were still folded, but her fingers had uncurled slightly, her knuckles no longer white. Her gaze hadn’t left Y/N’s face.

“I wasn’t built for that life,” Y/N said softly. “Not the cameras, not the lies, not the pressure. But you were. You were made for it Jennie, and I didn’t want to be the reason they took it away from you. So I told myself I was doing the right thing.”

She blinked hard, her vision blurring for a moment. “I wrote that letter after I left. Not because I wanted to explain, but because I needed to say it, even if you never read it, even if you never forgave me.”

She paused again, voice lowering, almost a whisper now. “I kept it. All those years, I held on to it like maybe, one day, I’d see you again. And maybe I’d find the words.”

Her chest rose and fell with effort, the emotion swelling under every word. “But I didn’t. When it mattered, I stood there and let you walk away.”

Jennie’s eyes flicked down for a moment, and her jaw tensed, a muscle tightening just beneath her cheekbone.

Y/N took a small step forward, not enough to close the space, but enough to show she wasn’t running this time. “I should’ve fought for you, I should’ve said something, I should’ve come back sooner. But I was selfish. I let my fear win.”

She took a breath that sounded like it hurt. “I’ve been trying to live like it didn’t break me, but it did, you did. And not because you hurt me, but because I walked away from the one person I loved more than anything.”

Jennie’s eyes slowly lifted again.

Y/N didn’t look away. Not this time.

“I’m still in love with you.”

The words didn’t fall, they landed. Heavy. Irrefutable.

Jennie’s expression didn’t change, but her body stilled, like something in her stopped bracing. Like she finally let the blow land.

“You’re it for me,” Y/N said, her voice sure now, strong in the way things are when they’ve been held in too long. “You always have been. I tried to forget, I told myself it was better this way. But it wasn’t, it never was.”

She shook her head slightly, eyes glinting, shoulders curling in like the weight of it all was finally too much. “I’ve been running from this since the day I left. And I can’t do it anymore. Not if there’s even the smallest chance you’ll still let me say these things. Let me mean them.”

The room was so quiet, Y/N could hear her own heartbeat, racing, unsteady, loud in the stillness Jennie hadn’t yet broken.

She stood there, breathing through it, waiting, hoping, afraid to ask for more, but more desperate not to say less.

Jennie didn’t speak, not right away.

Her arms remained folded across her chest, elbows tucked in close like she was holding herself together out of sheer muscle memory, the way you do when your body still thinks it needs to protect your heart. Her weight shifted subtly from one foot to the other, her eyes no longer on Y/N but somewhere just past her, focused on a spot over her shoulder, far away, like she couldn’t quite bring herself to meet the moment directly.

It wasn’t anger keeping her quiet anymore. It wasn’t even doubt. It was something else. Something more fragile.

She was trying to breathe around the ache in her chest, trying to stay still while her entire world tilted again, quietly this time, without the shield of pride or the distraction of fury. Just the truth, settling over her like dust. Slow, relentless.

Her eyes glistened, a fine shimmer that caught the edge of the lamp light but never quite fell. She blinked once, slowly, but whatever emotion threatened to break through didn’t make it past the surface.

And yet she still didn’t say a word.

That silence, the kind that doesn’t push you away, but doesn’t pull you in either, landed squarely in Y/N’s chest. She felt it twist through her ribs, hollowing something out in her that had already been scraped raw from the inside.

Her breath caught, just barely, but it was enough.

She didn’t cry, she didn’t ask. She just nodded, once, and then again. Something in her gave way with that second nod, something she’d been holding up for far too long, and it fractured without ceremony.

“Okay,” she said softly, the word barely more than a breath. It wasn’t anger, it wasn’t resignation. It was acceptance, spoken like someone who’d prepared for this before even knocking on the door.

Her body turned slightly, just enough to face the door, shoulders already tightening in anticipation of walking out again, one last time, she thought. The final time.

“I just needed you to know,” she said, her voice low and strained, like she was saying goodbye without actually using the word. “I don’t expect anything. I never did. I just—”

Her voice faltered, the thought trailing off before she could find an ending that wouldn’t shatter her. She swallowed hard and stepped forward, her gaze already fixed on the doorknob like it was the only thing in the room she could afford to look at.

And that’s when Jennie’s voice came, sudden and sharp, but not loud. Just hoarse and cracked at the edges, like it had been torn from somewhere deep inside her.

“Do not fucking leave.”

Y/N froze.

The room pulsed around her, everything slowing in the space between that sentence and the next breath she took. She turned, slowly, unsure if she’d imagined it.

Jennie was already moving.

The distance between them collapsed in a few uneven steps, fast, ungraceful, almost clumsy in the way urgency makes you forget how to carry your own body. Her arms weren’t reaching in warmth or apology. They were reaching in desperation. Her hand caught Y/N’s wrist, fingers curling tightly around it like she was terrified the moment might vanish if she didn’t hold on hard enough.

“Do not walk away from me again,” she said, and this time her voice was a whisper dragged across broken glass, raw, honest, stripped of every wall she’d ever learned to hide behind. “Not this time, please.”

Her other hand came up, cradling Y/N’s face with a tenderness that barely masked the tremble in her touch. She leaned in before Y/N could respond, before another silence could rise between them, before fear could come clawing back.

The kiss that followed wasn’t careful, it wasn’t composed.

It was everything that had been waiting between them, years of silence and guilt and longing compressed into a single, desperate collision. It was aching and unsteady and impossibly familiar. Their mouths met like they remembered exactly how to fit together, like time hadn’t passed at all. Like every breath they’d taken since their last kiss had been leading back to this one.

Jennie kissed her like she needed to remember. Y/N kissed her like she didn’t want to forget.

Neither of them held back.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together, breath mingling in the stillness that followed. Jennie’s eyes were closed, her lashes damp, her hands still holding on like she didn’t fully trust that Y/N was real, like letting go would undo the moment.

Her voice came soft, almost too quiet.

“You don’t get to come back and say all that and just leave,” she whispered, her words fraying at the edges. “You don’t.”

Y/N didn’t reply, not with words. Her fingers slid up to rest against Jennie’s wrist, anchoring them both in place. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away.

She didn’t have to say anything.

Later, they lay in the quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything. Not words. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t empty, it was full. Full of everything they didn’t have to explain anymore.

The bedroom was dark, save for the soft glow bleeding in from the streetlamp outside Jennie’s window. The world outside moved on, cars passing below, distant music leaking from another apartment, the city pulsing like it always did, but none of it felt close. It all stayed outside.

Inside, it was still.

They hadn’t turned on the lights. They hadn’t spoken much after the kiss. No deep conversation, no declarations. Y/N’d changed out of jeans and into softer clothes, sweatpants, a long sleeve tee that still smelled faintly like detergent and a life lived alone. The distance between them, once vast, now barely existed at all.

Jennie lay on her side, facing Y/N, her hand finding hers in the dark like it had always known the way. Their fingers were threaded loosely together, resting between them on the sheets. Not tight, not possessive, just connected. A quiet tether, the kind you don’t think about until you realize how long you’ve needed it.

Y/N lay flat on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her other hand rested over her stomach, rising and falling slowly with each breath, her body more relaxed than it had been in years, even if she didn’t quite know what to do with the calm. Their legs brushed occasionally, knee to calf, foot to shin, just small, unspoken reminders that they were still here. Still touching, still real.

Their heads almost met in the dark. Close enough that if either of them breathed a little deeper, they’d collide.

For a long time, they didn’t speak. Not because there was nothing to say, but because for the first time in what felt like forever, silence wasn’t something that needed to be filled. It wasn’t avoidance, it wasn’t fear. It was peace, permission. The space to simply exist without pressure, without pretending they weren’t still holding onto one another like it was the only thing that made sense anymore.

Jennie’s voice came so quietly it was almost part of the dark. “I was angry with you for a long time,” she said, and it wasn’t bitter or accusatory. Just honest, like naming it out loud was part of letting it go.

Y/N didn’t move. Her eyes stayed on the ceiling, but her fingers curled a little tighter around Jennie’s. “I know,” she said, and there was no defense in it, no tension. Just the truth.

Jennie’s thumb moved gently over Y/N’s knuckles, slow and steady, like she didn’t even realize she was doing it. “But I think what made it worse was that I never stopped loving you,” she continued, her voice still soft, still low, but shakier now. “Even when I tried, even when I told myself I should. Nothing worked, no one else ever felt like you.”

Y/N turned her head slightly, her eyes adjusting to the dark, until she could make out the curve of Jennie’s face, those lashes, that brow, the mouth she’d just kissed like it was home. Her forehead brushed lightly against Jennie’s, just enough to close the space between them. “Same,” she whispered, the word catching on something in her throat. “I thought I could move on. I tried. But it was always you. It was only you.”

Another pause.

Not heavy, just full. Full of the time they’d lost, full of the ache they’d carried alone, full of the tentative hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late.

Y/N let out a breath that didn’t hurt, her eyes closing for a moment like she was finally allowing herself to feel the weight lifting off her chest. “We lost a lot of time,” she said. Her voice wasn’t sad. Just quiet, reflective. Like someone counting years not by calendars, but by the echoes they’d left behind.

Jennie nodded once, her eyes closed now, her body a little closer than before. “We did,” she said, and there was something in her voice that broke, just the smallest crack, like softness splitting through armor.

Their hands stayed linked, unmoving, and then Jennie gave the smallest squeeze, barely pressure, more like intention. When she spoke again, it was barely louder than the hum of the street outside, but the words still cut through the dark with perfect clarity.

“Let’s not waste another second.”

Y/N’s eyes opened again, blinking slowly at the ceiling that no longer felt like it was pressing down on her. Her body turned slightly, just enough to close the final distance between them, her head tilting to rest against Jennie’s, their noses brushing, breath shared in the space where everything else had finally quieted.

And in the softest voice she’d used all night, one that carried every ounce of certainty she’d been missing for years, Y/N whispered, “Okay.”

Morning arrived quietly, like it didn’t want to wake them.

Soft sunlight crept through the edges of the curtains, tracing slow golden lines across the sheets. The air was warm, still tinged with the comfort of sleep, the kind of hush that only came after long nights filled with too much truth and not enough time.

Jennie stirred first, her body shifting slightly beneath the weight of an unfamiliar warmth. Her eyes blinked open, not out of urgency, but from instinct, the natural pull of day meeting skin.

And the first thing she felt was arms around her.

Y/N’s arms, wrapped fully around her torso, holding her with a kind of quiet desperation, like even in sleep she couldn’t let go. Jennie’s back was pressed snugly against her chest, and Y/N’s face was tucked into the curve of her neck, her breath slow and warm against the skin there. Their legs were tangled beneath the covers, limbs woven in the kind of intimacy that came without thought.

Jennie didn’t move, not even a little.

Her eyes fluttered fully open, adjusting to the soft morning light, and the reality of it all began to settle, not as a question, not as something she might have dreamed, but as fact.

Y/N was here. Still here, still holding her.

And not gently, not loosely, but firmly. Like she didn’t want to risk the world taking her away again.

Jennie exhaled slowly, her body relaxing even further into the curve of Y/N’s hold. She didn’t feel the usual urgency of mornings, no pressure to check her phone, no sharp reminder of a schedule waiting to pull her apart.

Y/N shifted slightly behind her, her arms tightening for a moment as if she sensed something changing. A soft sound escaped her lips, not quite a word, not quite a sigh. Jennie felt it against her skin, and her heart ached with a tenderness so quiet it almost didn’t hurt.

She let her hand slide gently over Y/N’s forearm, brushing against the curve of her wrist, grounding herself in the touch.

A small smile tugged at her lips, not bright, not wide, but real. Soft, steady. The kind that doesn’t announce itself but lingers, because it finally has room to.

She stayed in that moment, body still, eyes half lidded, breath syncing with the one behind her. Y/N stayed wrapped around her, asleep but present, her hold saying more than any apology ever could.

I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

And Jennie, who had learned to live without hope, let herself believe it this time.

There was nothing to say, but it was clear in the way their bodies fit together beneath the morning light, in the way their chests rose and fell in tandem, in the way Y/N’s fingers curled just slightly tighter around her, even in sleep.

This time, they’d stayed.

And this time, they weren’t letting go.

Jennie closed her eyes, letting herself sink deeper into the warmth wrapped around her, her heart slowing, steady in a way it hadn’t been in years.

“So this is what it feels like,” she thought. “To finally come home.”

And with her cheek pressed against the pillow, her voice barely more than a whisper, she let the words fall into the quiet.

“We did make it right when we got older.”

A pause. A breath.

The truth.

#kpop imagines #girl group imagines #gg x reader #kpop x reader #jennie x fem reader #jennie x reader #blackpink jennie #kim jennie x reader #jennie kim x reader #jennie kim x fem reader

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sheriffaxolotl · 3 months ago

Text

Better (Abby Anderson x f!reader)

Warnings: Smut (18+ MDNI), cheating, use of words like cunt/pussy Wordcount: 8.4K A/N: This is my first time writing a smut between two characters. So, might be good, might be bad. Please let me know! Critique would be hugely appreciated ! ❛ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━･❪ Part 2 ❫ ･━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ❜

Summary: She could be a better boyfriend than him.

The bass thumps through the house like a second heartbeat, a dull, relentless pulse that rattles the windows and your skull. You already regret coming. The lights are low and tinted too red, and the air smells like spilled beer and too much cologne. Solo cup in hand, you snake your way toward the kitchen, phone raised like a shield, pretending to text someone—anyone—just to avoid making eye contact with the half-drunk crowd grinding to music that hasn’t been cool since high school.

Your boyfriend is nowhere to be seen. Said he’d just stepped out for a second—over thirty minutes ago. Classic.

You lean back against the edge of the counter, shoulders tense, trying to melt into the cabinetry. You scroll through the same three notifications again, wondering if anyone would even notice if you slipped out the front door. Maybe you’d just Uber home. Maybe—

A hand brushes your wrist. Warm. Intentional. And somehow, electric.

You look up.

Abby Anderson.

She’s standing just a little too close. Leather jacket slung over a tight black tee that hugs her just right, jeans riding low on her hips, and that damn smirk tugging at her mouth like she already knows something you don’t. Her hair’s pulled back loose, a few strands falling forward like she couldn’t be bothered to fix them before walking into the party and still managed to make it look effortless. Movie-scene levels of hot.

You’ve known Abby for a while—same classes, mutual friends, occasional gym hangouts—but she’s never looked at you like this.

Like the whole party’s just noise and you’re the only clear thing in the room.

“I can’t believe we’re finally alone,” she murmurs, her voice low and rough, barely audible over the music.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

She chuckles under her breath, the sound low and rich. “You always show up to these things with him. I almost didn’t bother coming tonight.”

Your eyes flick toward the living room, where bodies move in a blur of shadows and bass. Still no sign of him. Of course.

Abby’s eyes don’t follow yours. They stay fixed on you. Watching. Waiting.

“What are the chances?” she says after a beat, taking half a step closer. “Everyone’s dancing, the house is packed, and yet... he’s not with you.”

You feel it then—deep in your stomach. That fluttering, unsettling spark. You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or her voice or just the way she’s looking at you, like she’s trying to decide whether to kiss you or ruin your life. Maybe both.

You shrug, trying to deflect, suddenly too aware of the heat creeping up your neck. “You know how he is.”

Abby’s jaw tightens just slightly. “Yeah,” she says. “I know exactly how he is.”

Her gaze flicks down to your wrist again, to the spot where her fingers brushed you. She doesn’t touch you this time. Not yet. But her hand hovers, twitching, like she’s debating something.

You swallow hard, suddenly needing air that isn’t thick with perfume and tension. “You’re acting weird,” you say, half-laughing, trying to cut the tension before it chokes you.

“No,” Abby says, head tilting. Her voice drops, goes velvet-smooth. “I’m acting honest.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Honest?”

She steps in, just close enough that her breath brushes your cheek. You can smell the faintest trace of mint on her lips.

“I’ve been watching you,” she says, quiet but firm. “Every time you show up with him. Every time he disappears on you. Every time you pretend not to care.”

You don’t move. Can’t.

Her voice softens, almost like she’s afraid you’ll bolt. “I don’t know what he’s doing, walking away from someone like you. But I do know what I’d do if you were mine.”

Your heart skips. Then stumbles. “Abby—”

She cuts you off, not with words, but by gently—finally—sliding her fingers around your wrist again. It’s not forceful. Just there. Steady. Real.

“I could be a better boyfriend than him,” she says. No teasing this time. Just quiet conviction. “I’d show up. I’d stay. I’d make you feel seen.”

You exhale, the sound half a scoff, half an attempt to push down the sudden ache in your chest. “You’re drunk,” you say, but it sounds thin. Weak.

“I’m not,” she says, stepping even closer, crowding into your space, but not unwelcome. “I’m dead sober. And I’ve been thinking about stealing you from him since the moment I saw you tonight.”

Your heart skips.

“I could be such a gentleman,” she adds, her voice like velvet now. “Plus—” she grins— “all my clothes would fit.”

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Abby shrugs, not letting go of your hand, “but I’m not wrong. You know I’m not.”

You should say something clever, something to shut her down or laugh it off. But instead, you glance down at your phone again—three unread texts from your boyfriend.

Where r u

Be right back, chill

Don’t start drama pls

You lock your phone and slide it into your pocket.

“I don’t need to tell you twice,” Abby says, reading your silence like a damn novel. “You know all the ways he falls short.”

She tilts her head, studying you with that steady, unreadable gaze that makes your stomach twist. “If I could give you some advice…” Her voice is soft now, like it’s meant only for you, cut off from the noise and heat around you.

You meet her eyes, hesitant. “Yeah?”

Her mouth quirks into a subtle smirk, but there’s something deeper behind it—something that feels like truth. “I’d leave with me. Tonight.”

Your heart lurches. Your lips part, some weak protest fumbling to the surface, but she cuts you off before it can form.

“Ladies first, baby,” she murmurs, her voice rough velvet. “I insist.”

You freeze—not because you’re unsure, but because everything in you is sure, and that’s the terrifying part. The confidence in her words, the closeness of her body, the way she’s just there, so solid and real—every inch of her feels like something you’ve been aching for without even realizing.

You look at her. Really look.

And all you can think is: Why the hell am I still waiting on someone who never looks at me like this?

Abby watches your face shift. Watches the storm behind your eyes and says nothing. Just steps closer, slow and patient, until there’s barely a breath between you.

“I never would’ve left you alone,” she says quietly, her words deliberate and low. “Not glued to your phone. Not standing in a corner like you’re invisible.”

It hits something deep in your chest.

The sounds of the party start to melt away—like someone’s slowly turning down the volume on everything except her voice, her presence. Abby’s hand finds yours again. Warm. Steady. She squeezes once, gentle. A question.

“Let me take you home,” she says.

You don’t respond. Not yet.

Instead, you stare at her lips. And she sees it—sees you falter forward an inch before stopping yourself. The air between you turns thick, charged with something neither of you says out loud.

Her eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Say it,” she whispers. “Or do it. But don’t run back to someone who keeps forgetting how lucky he is.”

You hesitate, just a breath longer.

Then you step in, heart hammering so loud you’re sure she can hear it. You reach up, fingers brushing the edge of her jacket—but you don’t kiss her. Not yet. You stop there, close enough to feel her breath against your skin.

She doesn’t move either. She waits. Eyes locked to yours. Letting you choose.

And you do.

You slide your hand up, curling your fingers into her lapel like a lifeline, and when you finally pull her in, it’s slow. Careful. Like the seconds are stretched out and folded in on themselves.

Your lips meet—tentative, testing—and the first touch is barely more than a breath, a question neither of you wants to ask too loudly. But then she leans in, and so do you, and suddenly you’re kissing her for real—deep, slow, and undeniable.

It’s not frantic. It’s not rushed.

It’s full of everything you haven’t let yourself feel. All the longing, all the frustration, all the what-ifs you’ve swallowed down night after night.

Abby’s hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw with a kind of reverence, like she’s afraid to wake you from a dream. You let out a shaky breath into her mouth, your whole body leaning into her without even meaning to.

And then she’s moving.

Her other arm slips around your waist, anchoring you to her like she’s afraid you might still vanish—and maybe a part of you is afraid too. But her grip is real, grounding, and suddenly there’s no room left for doubt.

Abby reacts instantly, her hand gliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as she pulls you deeper into her. The kiss changes, sharpens. From a question to an answer. From want to need.

You feel the heat of her body press flush against yours, her chest against your own, the contact dizzying in its intensity. She tastes like mint and something more—something wild and reckless, like the edge of something dangerous, something you didn’t know you needed until right now.

The kiss turns urgent. Desperate. Like you’re both trying to make up for every second wasted pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

Abby backs you up until your spine meets the edge of the counter, the cold granite biting into your skin, a jarring contrast to the fire catching between your bodies. You moan softly into her mouth, the sound swallowed by her lips, and she groans in response—a low, rough sound that vibrates through your chest and straight down your spine.

Her hands slip lower, slow and deliberate, testing the edges of your waistband before settling on your hips. She pulls you against her with intent, with heat, grinding you into the shape of her body like she’s carving you there.

And in that moment, it doesn’t matter that you’re still in someone’s kitchen at a party you didn’t want to come to. It doesn’t matter who’s in the next room or what excuses are waiting on your phone.

All that matters is her.

“You’ve been wanting this, haven’t you?” Abby breathes against your lips, voice rough, thick with something primal.

You don’t deny it. You don’t want to.

You don’t answer, can’t answer, because she’s already slipping her hand underneath your shirt, her fingertips grazing the soft skin of your stomach, sending shivers through you. You arch into her touch, your mind clouded, your body responding to her in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

Her lips trail down your neck, kissing a path toward your collarbone, and you can’t help but moan softly, threading your fingers into her hair to guide her closer. Abby’s hands are everywhere—on your hips, your waist, your back—and you feel like you might just crumble under her touch, the intensity of it stealing your breath away.

But before you can get too lost in the moment, Abby pulls back slightly, her forehead resting against yours, her breath heavy.

“Are you sure?” she asks, her voice low, almost a growl, like a predator checking if its prey is willing.

You blink, struggling to clear the haze in your mind. The answer is there, pulsing in the back of your throat, but the question feels so out of place, considering how badly you want this.

“I’m done waiting,” you whisper, voice shaky but resolute.

Abby’s lips curve into a wicked grin, and she nods, her eyes dark and focused on you. She leans in to kiss you again, but this time, it’s more deliberate, more controlled. She wants to take her time with you, savoring every second.

As her lips crash against yours once more, you know there’s no turning back now. Whatever boundaries you had left, whatever morals or hesitation, have already melted away in the heat of this moment.

And just as you feel yourself sinking deeper into the world Abby is pulling you into, her hand slides to the hem of your shirt, tugging it up slowly, her fingertips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"Upstairs," she murmurs against your lips, voice thick with need. "Right now."

You don’t hesitate. Grabbing your jacket from the back of the counter, you take her hand.

Abby’s hand tightens around yours as she leads you through the sea of bodies, her grip steady and possessive, pulling you away from the kitchen and deeper into the maze of the house. The music pulses louder as you pass through rooms, the air thick with the mingling scents of alcohol, sweat, and cheap cologne, but none of it matters.

Not when she’s so close, her body brushing against yours with every step, every shared glance that makes your stomach flip.

You can feel her warmth, the steady rhythm of her breathing, and you’re so close now, your senses overwhelmed by her presence. As you reach a quieter hallway at the back of the house, Abby doesn’t slow down. She pulls you into a room at the end, one that’s been abandoned by the partygoers, a cozy little study filled with mismatched furniture and the dim glow of a single lamp in the corner.

The door shuts behind you with a soft thud, and the moment the latch clicks, Abby doesn’t waste any time. She spins you toward her, her lips capturing yours in a kiss so intense that it leaves you breathless. The quiet of the room is a stark contrast to the chaos outside, and every kiss, every touch between you both feels amplified in the stillness.

Abby’s hands roam freely now, sliding down your sides and over your hips as if she can’t get enough. She pulls you closer, her chest pressing against yours, and you feel the heat of her body in the way she holds you—firm, urgent, like she’s afraid you might slip away.

You respond with equal hunger, your hands finding their way to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair. She lets out a soft groan when you tug her closer, and you revel in the sound. The tension between you two is palpable, thick in the air like static before a storm, and you can’t think about anything else but her.

“You’ve got me all to yourself now,” Abby murmurs against your lips, her voice a low, husky whisper that sends a shiver down your spine.

You nod, your own words stuck in your throat. All that’s left is the pull of her, the heat that rises between you both like wildfire.

Without another word, Abby’s hands move to the hem of your shirt, tugging it upward with a slow, deliberate motion that has your heart racing. The cool air brushes against your skin, and you shiver in anticipation, watching her eyes darken with something raw and intense as she takes in every inch of you.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” she mutters, her voice thick with desire, and you can’t help the rush of heat that floods your cheeks at her words. You’ve never heard her sound like this before—this unguarded, this raw. It makes something inside you ache in a way you didn’t expect.

You step forward, closing the distance between you as you slide your hands under the edge of her jacket, lifting it off her shoulders and tossing it aside. The fabric of her shirt is soft under your fingertips, and you feel the heat of her skin as you press against her, feeling the outline of her muscles as your hands move lower, exploring.

Abby’s breath hitches when your hands graze over her waist, her lips finding yours again, hungry and frantic now. The kiss is full of promises you both don’t need to say out loud, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you like a thread pulling tighter and tighter.

The urgency in the air heightens, and every touch, every movement feels like it’s pushing you both closer to the edge. She guides you toward the couch in the corner of the room, but you don’t quite make it before your hands are on her again, pushing her against the nearest wall.

“Abby,” you gasp, voice breaking with a mix of desire and need.

She smirks, her lips curling into something wicked as she presses herself against you again, this time with more force. “I’ve got you now,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your ear, “and I’m not letting you go.”

Before you can respond, Abby’s hands slide firmly around your thighs, and with a sudden, dizzying movement, she lifts you. Your legs instinctively wrap around her waist as she carries you with ease, like your weight is nothing—like she’s meant to hold you. Her grip is strong, steady, and the muscles in her arms flex with every step as she strides toward the couch across the room.

You cling to her, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, your fingers tangling in the collar of her shirt. “Abby—”

She cuts you off with a kiss—slow at first, savoring it, like she wants to memorize the shape of your mouth, the taste of your skin, the sound you make when her lips graze yours just so. But it doesn’t stay slow for long.

By the time she lowers you to the couch, her body follows, pressing you down with a heat that makes your skin burn in the best way. Her mouth stays on yours, hungry now, claiming. Her tongue slips past your lips with a confident tilt of her head, and you moan into her before you even realize you’re doing it.

She swallows the sound like it’s a reward—grinning against your kiss as her hands trail down your sides, fingers mapping the curve of your waist with purpose. She presses her hips into yours, grinding slow and deep, and your back arches off the cushions in response, your breath catching in your throat.

Her hands roam lower, gripping your hips with firm purpose, then sliding up beneath your shirt again, this time with no hesitation. She breaks the kiss just long enough to tug it over your head and toss it somewhere over her shoulder. Her own comes off just as quick—revealing toned muscle and the kind of sculpted softness that makes your breath catch.

You stare for a beat, eyes raking over her, lips parted.

“Eyes up here,” she teases, breathless but grinning, and leans down to kiss along your jaw, down your neck, her hands anchoring your hips like she’s claiming them. “Or don’t. I kind of like the way you look at me.”

You barely manage to bite back a whimper as her teeth graze the sensitive spot beneath your ear, and your hands find the curve of her back, nails digging in when she grinds her hips down into yours.

“Abs…” you whisper, but there’s no question in your voice—just need.

Her voice is a low growl at your ear. “Tell me what you want.”

“You.”

She hums in approval, kissing down the slope of your collarbone. “Then lie back, baby,” she says, one hand already guiding you down again with firm, gentle pressure. “And let me take care of everything.”

And you do—because her weight between your thighs, her hands on your body, her mouth claiming yours over and over—it’s the first time you’ve felt wanted in so long.

And Abby doesn’t just want you.

She knows exactly what to do with you.

The push of her thigh between your legs has a moan coming from your mouth that is nothing but desperate. Clearly enough that it causes that wicked smirk to come back to her lips as she leans over you more, gently grinding the muscle against your core as you mutter a low ‘fuck’ as your brain short circuits from the small action.

Her smirk deepens as she watches the way your breath stutters, how your hips instinctively roll against her thigh. Abby leans in, her lips brushing your temple before trailing a slow, deliberate path back down to your neck. She presses a kiss just beneath your jaw, then another, softer one at the hollow of your throat. “You’re so responsive,” she murmurs, voice low and full of pride. “I barely touch you and you’re already trembling.”

You are, and there’s no point in denying it. Your body feels like it’s caught fire—heat blooming at every point where her skin touches yours.

The steady grind of her thigh is both grounding and electrifying, like a steady beat beneath the chaos. And Abby? She’s completely in control. Patient, confident, like she’s been waiting to have you like this and she’s going to take her time now that you’re here. One of her hands slips under you, sliding along the small of your back, the warmth of her palm sending a fresh ripple of sensation up your spine.

The other brushes up your side, fingers tracing the curve of your ribcage before splaying out across your chest, over your racing heart. She looks down at you like she’s taking a mental snapshot, something she wants to burn into her memory. “You’re beautiful like this,” she says softly, the heat in her eyes belying the gentleness of her voice.

Your fingers clutch at her shoulders, dragging her down for another kiss—messier now, fueled by everything swirling between you. Abby leans into it, one hand slipping down, finding the waistband of your jeans with practiced ease. She works the button open, her touch confident but unrushed, like she wants to savor every second.

The zipper gives with a soft sound, and she eases the denim down your hips, eyes never leaving yours as she does. Her gaze lingers, hungry and reverent all at once, like unwrapping a gift she’s waited too long to hold.

Abby doesn’t pause—doesn’t need to. The way your body reacts, the way your breath catches under her touch, is all the answer she needs. Her mouth finds yours again, deeper this time, less like a kiss and more like a claim. You melt into it, fingers threading through her hair as she presses closer, one hand keeping your bodies flush while the other explores every inch of skin she can reach.

“You drive me crazy,” she growls against your lips, her voice rough and low like it’s been dragged over gravel. “Been thinking about this—about you—way too long.”

You can feel it in the way her fingers grip your side, in how her lips move along your jaw, down your throat, like she’s trying to map every inch of you by memory. Every breath is heavier now, laced with tension that’s been building for far too long. The couch creaks beneath you as she shifts, her knee nudging yours apart just slightly, just enough to steal your breath.

Her mouth trails lower, leaving a trail of heat behind, and her hands never stop moving—firm, sure, and undeniably hers. You arch into her instinctively, your head tipping back with a quiet gasp as your hands tug her closer, needing more.

“Just like that,” Abby murmurs, a crooked grin tugging at her lips as she watches you fall apart beneath her touch. “Look at you.”

Your eyes flutter open just enough to catch the way she’s looking at you—like you’re something rare and burning, something she's wanted for longer than she’d ever admit. That look alone sends another shiver down your spine.

She leans down, lips brushing your ear, breath warm and wild. “I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

And just like that, she’s slipping from your grasp—her hands sliding down, thumbs catching the edge of your underwear as she eases it away. Every movement is unhurried and deliberate. Her mouth doesn’t stop for a second—leaving soft, lingering kisses along your neck, across the curve of your chest, down your stomach. Each one lights a spark under your skin, and by the time she settles between your thighs, you’re already breathless.

Her eyes meet yours—dark, intense, unwavering. “Just like that, baby,” she murmurs, her voice all velvet and fire, “keep your eyes on me.”

The way she’s looking at you… it’s too much and not enough all at once. Like she’s reading every unspoken word etched into your bones, every need you’ve barely admitted to yourself. Her grip tightens on the backs of your thighs, anchoring you, steadying you, and when her breath fans across your weeping cunt, a shiver rocks through you. The sound that escapes your lips is a tangled mess of a gasp and a curse, and her fingers only press deeper, holding you in place.

Then she leans in, and the first press of her mouth to your pussy pulls a ragged cry from your throat. “F–fuck, Abs—” But she doesn’t relent. She doesn't even pause.

Her tongue moves with intention, slow and devastating, tasting every inch of you. Every glide, every flick, every swirl against your clit builds you higher, and there’s no room left in your chest for anything but the sounds she draws from you.

The low sound that rumbles from her throat when she sinks deeper sends another tremor through you. She presses closer, one strong arm sliding beneath you to keep you right where she wants you. You’re gasping now, hips jerking, chasing the rhythm she’s setting—your body flushed with heat, your legs starting to tremble.

And then she hums—just a little—and it sends a jolt through your cunt, right to the base of your spine. Your hands find her hair, fingers twisting tight, a plea caught in your breath as your eyes squeeze shut.

It’s happening so fast—and you feel it building, barreling toward something you can’t stop. And maybe you don’t want to.

Because it’s not just her mouth.

It’s what she sees.

It’s the way she shows up.

It’s the way she touches you like you matter, like your pleasure isn’t an obligation, but something she craves—something she’s been waiting to give you from the second you started settling for less.

Your boyfriend hasn’t looked at you like this in months. Hasn’t listened. Hasn’t asked what you need. And when he does touch you, it’s half-there, distracted, like he’s checking off a box, not trying to feel you. Not like this.

Not like Abby.

Abby, who’s on her knees for you like she worships at the altar of your body. Abby, who doesn’t need to be asked twice. Abby, who touches you like she’s making up for every lonely night, every unanswered message, every time you told yourself, “This is just what relationships are sometimes.”

Her lips seal tighter, tongue circling with a purpose that makes your toes curl. You gasp, broken and breathless. And then she slides a finger into you—slow and full and just right—and your back arches off the couch like a current’s shot through your spine.

“Abby, please,” you manage, voice barely a whisper, frayed and desperate. “I’m so close.”

She doesn’t stop. If anything, she doubles down. She knows your body like she’s memorized it in dreams, and now she’s playing every part like a symphony rising to its crescendo.

Your thighs tighten around her shoulders, your hands gripping her as you fall apart with her name on your lips, everything crashing through you in waves.

“I’m gonna cum—oh fuck, Abby—”

The first crest hits you and then everything else after that is lost in the chaos. You lose track of everything—where you are, what you are, who you are—you only exist as a bundle of nerve endings, every single one firing all at once and your entire world turns white.

Somewhere in the distance you hear Abby moan, a sound so filthy it might have pushed you over the edge all over again if your body wasn't already wrung out, your chest heaving, your lungs burning.

Your legs fall open, sliding off her shoulders, limp.

Abby wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and then crawls up next to you, wrapping you in her arms, a kiss pressed to your forehead. Your head falls back against the arm of the couch, your hands slipping from her hair as you try to remember how to breathe.

"Fuck," you sigh, your eyes still closed.

Her hand settles on your knee, thumb brushing along the line of your thigh. "I think that's the most I've heard you swear," she murmurs, the sound of her voice and the warmth of her palm against your skin making it impossible not to open your eyes.

"That's because it's the best I've ever had," you reply, a smirk tugging at your lips.

Abby doesn't even bother trying to hide her grin, preening at the sentence. But she also doesn't just let the energy between you settle. "Told you, I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else." She said, before one hand was wondering up your chest and the other one was lowering down your thigh again.

You can't help but shudder, the promise in her voice alone enough to get you riled up all over again. "You're really not wasting any time," you laugh, but when her fingertips slip between your folds again, you're the one who shudders.

"Not when I've been thinking about this for far too long," she replies, her fingers sliding deep, and you have no choice but to give yourself over to her.

Abby doesn't hold anything back. And you're more than willing to meet her head-on.

By the time she eases back, the room is thick with the sounds of you falling apart, the air hot and heavy. There's a faint sheen of sweat across her shoulders, and her lips are swollen, cheeks flushed.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," the words fall from your lips without thought, and her answering grin is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

She leans in, and when her mouth covers yours, the taste of you lingering on her tongue, a shiver runs down your spine. "Not as gorgeous as you are," she whispers, before her mouth is moving down your neck, fingers tugging the cup of your bra down before latching around your left nipple.

"Oh fuck!" You hiss, her teeth sinking into the tender flesh, the sharp pain melting into pleasure.

She takes her time, alternating between rough bites and soothing licks, her hand sliding up and down your side, her thumb grazing the swell of your breast. Then her mouth is gone, her hand is also gone from you, wrapping around the back of your thigh, spreading you open.

"Look at you, so ready for me," Abby murmurs, her eyes drinking you in. "Really should have taken you out of here, bet you would look even better takin' my strap."

The mere thought of it is enough to make your thighs tremble, and her responding grin is sinful. "Oh, you like that idea, huh?"

"Yes," the word rushes out of you in a breathless rush, and her hand squeezes your thigh.

"Next time, baby," she promises, and then she's lowering herself back down, and her mouth is everywhere.

The slide of her tongue, the nip of her teeth, the warmth of her breath—it's intoxicating, and it's only a matter of moments before you're falling apart again, a hoarse cry slipping from your lips.

You don't even notice she's stopped until her hands slide down your thighs, soothing you. It takes a moment for you to regain the ability to speak, and by the time you've got your eyes open, she's leaning over you, her hair falling around her shoulders.

"Hey," her voice is gentle, a crooked smile curling her lips. "You with me?"

"Yeah," the word falls from you in a slow exhale, and her smile grows.

"Good," She mumbled, her eyes looking over your features. The sound of the party can be heard faintly through the door, but all you can do is look at her. Practically fully clothed besides that black sports bra clinging to her chest, Abby towers over you like a storm still crackling with lightning. Her jeans ride low on her hips, the muscles in her stomach flexing with each slow, controlled breath, and there’s something in her eyes that makes your pulse spike all over again—hunger, satisfaction, and just a hint of smugness.

Her braid’s messy now, strands of gold clinging to her flushed skin, and her chest glistens faintly with sweat. She’s never looked more raw, more dangerous, more real. Every inch of her is tense with heat and control, like she could devour you all over again if she wanted to—and God, you want her to.

Abby braces herself on either side of your head, arms trembling slightly from restraint. Her eyes flick over your face like she’s memorizing every expression you’ve made—every breathless whimper, every broken plea. She dips her head, brushing her lips along your jaw, the ghost of a smile curving into something darker.

“You’re a fucking dream like this,” she mutters, low and rough, voice rasping like it’s been dragged through fire. “Can’t believe I get to be the one to wreck you like that.”

You shift beneath her, hands gliding up her sides, mapping out the lean definition of her torso. Every breath she takes is steady, but you can feel the tension still thrumming in her body—like she’s barely holding herself together.

Then you move, catching her off-guard. With a quick twist and a shove, Abby lets out a low grunt as you flip her onto her back against the couch cushions, her braid falling across the armrest, her legs bent awkwardly before she relaxes into the plush seat with a laugh—surprised, breathless, and completely at your mercy.

You straddle her thighs, palms pressed to her chest, and lean in close, your lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“It’s my turn now.” You whisper, voice low and rough with want.

Abby’s smirk falters, just barely. Her eyes search yours, pupils blown wide, and she licks her lips, her chest rising faster beneath the cling of her sports bra. One of her hands grips your thigh, tight, anchoring herself as if she’s trying to brace for what’s next.

There’s still heat in her gaze—always—but now it’s tinged with anticipation, curiosity, a rare flicker of surrender.

You roll your hips forward slowly, deliberately, and her breath catches in her throat.

“I want to ruin you back,” you murmur, eyes locked on hers. “Want you to feel what I did. Every second.”

Her hand slides up your back, nails scraping lightly through the sweat-slicked skin. “Then take it,” she growls, low and eager. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She lifts her hips, pushing up to meet you, and you grind down into her with a low groan, pressing your body against hers. You bury your face against her throat, mouthing at the damp skin, and she tilts her head back, exposing her neck for you. You bite down, sucking at the soft spot beneath her ear, and she hisses through her teeth, hips rolling into yours, her breath growing ragged.

Your hands move up, tangling in her hair, and she gasps, fingers digging into your hip as you drag your mouth along the curve of her throat, biting, licking, marking her. Abby arches up into you, panting, and the feel of her chest heaving beneath yours is enough to make your toes curl, heat racing along your spine.

Your hands fall to her chest, and you drag the tip of one finger slowly across the edge of her bra. Abby bites her lip, groaning, her eyes fluttering shut.

You drag your palm over the curve of her breast, and she lets out a muffled curse, her other hand clamping down on your waist. Her nipples pebble under your touch, and she arches her back, straining against the fabric.

You smile against her throat.

Your fingers loop into the elastic of her bra, and without needing words she lifts her arms up as you pull it over her head. You toss her bra aside, barely catching the way Abby’s eyes darken as they rake over your face. Her chest rises and falls with each breath, bare now beneath your touch, her skin warm, flushed.

You lean in, kissing just above her heart, then lower still, your lips tracing the line between strength and softness. Her skin is flushed, damp, and hot beneath your mouth, every shift of your touch dragging another breathless sound from her lips.

Your hands move down, slipping past her ribs to the waistband of her jeans. The denim is stiff, rough against your fingers, but you pop the button with a slow flick, dragging the zipper down until it parts with a soft rasp. Abby lifts her hips without hesitation, wordless and eager, her eyes never leaving yours.

You ease the jeans down, the tight fabric clinging to her thighs, then her calves, and finally off her ankles. You toss them aside, and it’s then, as you settle back between her legs, that you see it.

Her underwear are soaked — a dark stain blooming at the center of the thin cotton, clear in the low light. A slick line gleams along the edge where the fabric meets her skin, proof of her arousal along the curve of her inner thigh.

Your thumb drags along the edge of the fabric, tracing the damp line, smearing the evidence of her desire. She smells like heat and sweat and something sweeter, and your mouth waters as your gaze drags up to meet hers.

“Fuck,” you murmur, rough and low.

Abby’s mouth curls into a smirk, flushed cheeks and bright eyes betraying the heat roiling just beneath. “Yeah,” she breathes, voice rough. “That’s for you.”

You kiss the edge of her hip, then move lower with intent. Her thighs tremble under your touch, fingers twisting in a couch pillow, breath catching as you lean close enough to drag your tongue over the front of her underwear, teasing and unhurried.

When your teeth graze her gently through the soaked fabric, she gasps—sharp and broken—and her hips rise into your mouth with instinctual urgency. You slide your hands up her muscular thighs, thumbs hooking into the elastic at her hips.

She lifts herself again, silent but begging, and you don’t keep her waiting. You pull her underwear down slowly, watching the wet fabric stretch before slipping free. The scent of her hits you — heady, sweet, and utterly intoxicating.

You press another kiss to her bare hip, then glance up. Abby’s eyes are half-lidded, chest heaving, lips parted with anticipation.

She swallows hard. “Come on, baby.”

Your breath fans hot against the inside of her thigh, and she shivers beneath you, the muscles there taut and twitching. You drag your mouth lower, tasting salt and skin and the slick heat she’s drenched in. Your thumbs press gently into the creases of her hips, holding her open, steady, as your tongue finally slips through the soft hair and glides over and dips into her waiting pussy.

Abby chokes on a breath—sharp and desperate—her hips jolting, one hand flying to your shoulder, the other still gripping the pillow in a white-knuckled clutch. You hum against her, slow and deep, the vibration making her gasp again, and you feel the flex of her abs under your hands as her body tries to curl toward your mouth.

“F-fuck,” she stammers, voice cracking, head tipping back into the cushion behind her. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t plan to. You flatten your tongue, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up through her slickness, then in steady, relentless circles, building her up with every flick, every press, every slow drag through the slick heat of her cunt. Abby’s legs tremble around your head, thighs twitching with every pulse of pleasure, and you hold her open, anchored by the grip of your hands at her hips, the flex of muscle under your fingers.

She’s soaked—utterly dripping—and you can feel it coating your mouth, your chin, the skin by her thighs now slick with it as she writhes beneath you. You moan into her, the sound low and full, and she lets out a cry that cuts off sharp as her back bows off the couch.

“God—” she gasps, breath hitched, eyes squeezed shut. “Your mouth—fuck, your mouth feels so good—”

You hum again, lapping at her with rougher strokes now, your pace no longer teasing but hungry. Abby’s hands are in your hair, gripping hard, hips grinding against your face, chasing every movement you make. When you suck her clit between your lips and flick it with your tongue, she lets out a strangled whimper, thighs clamping down for half a second before you press her open again.

You glance up, just to watch her fall apart. Her lips are parted, glistening with spit, her chest heaving, sweat gleaming along her collarbone and between her breasts. She looks wrecked—utterly undone—and you’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

“Please,” she pants, voice barely a whisper now. “Please don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

You don’t.

You slide one hand from her hip, dragging your fingers down the trail of soft hair under her belly button, guiding over the hair between her thighs, circling lower until you find her entrance. She’s soaked, your fingers sliding in with ease, and she jerks with a sharp inhale, her whole body tightening. You curl your fingers just right, tongue and hand working in perfect rhythm, and the sound she makes is almost guttural.

“Jesus—fuck—!” Abby’s voice breaks, breathless and high, her hand slapping against the couch cushions as her other grips your arm like a lifeline. Her thighs are trembling violently now, her hips stuttering, bucking.

She’s so close.

You feel it in the way she clenches around your fingers, the way her moans lose all rhythm, the way her nails dig in as though she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will.

And when her whole body locks beneath you, when her moan turns strangled and her back arches off the couch—you want every second of it.

You press your fingers deeper, curling them just right, and suck harder, flicking your tongue in tight, ruthless circles. Abby lets out a sob of a sound, hips jerking up into your face, and you feel the pulse of her around your fingers—a deep, clenching rhythm that starts low in her belly and ripples outward like a wave crashing through her.

She’s coming. Hard.

Her thighs clamp around your head, trembling with every pulse. Her nails rake down your back, not gentle, not careful, but desperate—anchoring herself to something as her body breaks open around the pleasure. She gasps for breath, her voice caught somewhere between a moan and a curse, chest heaving like she can’t quite get enough air.

“F-fuck—oh my God—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—”

You don’t. You keep going, pushing her through it, over and over, licking her like she’s everything you’ve ever wanted on your tongue. Her legs are shaking now, uncontrollably, her whole body trembling with aftershocks that just won’t quit, her hips twitching with every stroke of your tongue, every curl of your fingers still buried inside her.

And then—finally—she collapses.

Her body goes slack all at once, like the tension’s been wrung out of her completely. She sinks back into the cushions, chest rising and falling in shallow, stuttering breaths, one hand falling from your shoulder to rest limply on her stomach. Her skin glows, flushed and glistening with sweat, and there’s a dazed, bliss-drunk look in her eyes as she blinks down at you.

You slowly withdraw your fingers, licking them clean as she watches with parted lips, too wrecked to do anything but breathe.

You press soft kisses to her inner thighs, then climb up her body, your mouth tracing the path of her sweat-slick skin until you're hovering just above her. Her arms slide around your shoulders instinctively, pulling you close, and when your lips meet hers, she moans against your mouth.

“Jesus,” she breathes, still trembling, her voice barely a whisper, yet so full of raw honesty. You can feel the slight shudder that runs through her as she pulls you closer, her fingers threading into your hair, as though she never wants to let go.

You settle next to her, propped up on an elbow, and gently cradle her against your chest. She’s warm and pliant in your arms, skin still buzzing with the aftershocks of pleasure, her breathing gradually slowing as the moments stretch out in peaceful silence.

You press a kiss to her forehead, letting your lips linger there for a moment, then to the tip of her nose, and finally down to her lips, tasting the softness of her, savoring the sweetness of her kiss.

“Are you okay?” you murmur, brushing a strand of damp hair off her face. Your hand rests on her cheek, tender, as if afraid to disrupt the fragile quiet that’s settled between you.

She nods slowly, her eyes still half-closed, a soft smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Better than okay,” she whispers, her voice thick with satisfaction. “That was better than any dream I’ve had of you,” she says, eyes glowing with a mixture of exhaustion and satisfaction.

The words settle in your chest like a gentle weight, making your heart thump just a little harder than before. You press your lips to her forehead again, feeling the warmth of her skin under yours, the pulse of her heart still racing, but slowing.

“Glad I could make it better than anything you’ve imagined,” you murmur, your voice hushed with the quiet intimacy of the moment. You tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture gentle, almost reverent, as though you don’t want to disturb the peace between you.

Abby lets out a small, contented sigh, curling into you just a little more, her fingers still stroking over your skin in a way that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. “I didn’t know anything could be this... perfect.”

You chuckle softly, your chest vibrating with the sound. “We’ve got time to see if we can top it.” Your words are light, teasing, but there’s something in your voice that promises more — more time, more closeness, more moments like this.

Her lips curl into a soft grin, a small, playful spark returning to her eyes despite the exhaustion hanging on her. “I’ll hold you to that,” she whispers, her hand drifting back to your side, tracing the curve of your ribs, the feeling of her touch so familiar now, like a rhythm you’ve always known.

As the quiet settles between you, Abby’s fingers continue their slow exploration of your skin, the touch soothing, grounding. But then, after a beat, she pulls back just slightly, tilting her head to meet your gaze. There’s a shift in her eyes, something that’s been building in the subtle movements, in the way she watches you like you’re both caught in a secret, shared between the two of you.

She clears her throat, her voice now low but filled with a quiet, vulnerable intensity. “I’ve been thinking…” she starts, her words softer, but heavier, like she’s working her way up to something important.

You lift an eyebrow, your heart picking up a beat at the change in her tone. You sit up slightly, giving her your full attention. “Yeah?” you mumble gently, a part of you already knowing where this is going.

Abby takes a breath, her gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips, then back again. “I don’t think you should stay with him,” she says, her words deliberate but filled with raw honesty. “Not when you could be with me.”

Her words hang in the air for a moment, thick and charged with an unspoken promise. You stare at her, the weight of the moment slowly sinking in. She doesn’t say it in an angry or demanding way — there’s no rush, no pressure in her voice. She just sounds... sure. So sure, like she’s been thinking about this for a while, and she wants you to hear her, really hear her.

“Abby…” you start, but she holds up a hand, stopping you before you can say more.

“Don’t,” she whispers, her voice tender but full of longing. “I’m not asking you to drop everything overnight. But I think you deserve better than what you have right now. I think you deserve someone who’s gonna make you feel like you’re the only one in the world. And... I want that to be me.”

You feel your breath catch, her words slowly winding through your chest, tightening with every beat. You can see it in her eyes — the vulnerability, the hope, the desire — and you realize, in this moment, she’s asking for something more than just this night. She’s asking for you, all of you, not as an option, but as someone who could choose her, choose this.

“I think I could be happy with you, Abby,” you finally say, your voice steady but full of emotion. Your heart is pounding, the reality of it all settling in as you look at her, knowing she’s speaking the truth. There’s no denying the chemistry, the pull between you — it’s been there from the start, only now, it’s deeper, more real.

Abby smiles softly, her eyes lighting up with a mix of relief and hope, like she’s been holding her breath, waiting for you to finally say it. “So…” she trails off, her fingers brushing over your cheek, a playful glint in her eyes. “Will you break up with your boyfriend? And be mine, officially?”

The question lingers in the air, sweet and simple, but it feels like the start of something new. The kind of thing you can’t take back — and for the first time, you realize you don’t want to.

You smile back at her, heart full, the weight of the world suddenly feeling lighter. “I think I already am,” you whisper, your hand reaching out to cup her face, drawing her closer.

And as your lips meet again, slow and tender this time, you know without a doubt — this is just the beginning. Notes:

A/N: This is my first time writing a smut between two characters. Critique would be hugely appreciated ! Literally based off the song 'Boyfriend' by Dove Cameron

#abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson x reader #Abby Anderson x reader smut #abby anderson smut

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arc-misadventures · 3 months ago

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It's My Turn

Jaune: Okay... we've got another demon to defeat... Based on the reports I got from the guild, they're a mid level demon, specializes in wind magic.

Ren: A wind demon? Those are rare. Most demons tend to specialize in dark, and shadow magic, but rarely do they specialize in one type of the four primordial elemental magics.

Jaune: Which is why were adventures were called in.

Ren: The Demon Hunters couldn't beat this demon?

Jaune: No, the Demon Hunters specialize in anti-demon magic. Mainly light magic, and fire magic.

Ren: Cleansing, and purging?

Jaune: Pretty much. They couldn't deal with a demon that flies, can avoid their attacks with wind magic, and even deflect them back at them. Well, mostly the other two part, most demons can fly after all. Most, Demon Hunters, don't have similar training that we paladins have. We are trained to have a much more diverse list of skills, and magic in at our disposal.

Ren: Do those skills involve bard levels of seduction?

Jaune: Not everyone demon we fight we sleep with, Ren. We have standards.

Ren: Sure, whatever. Let's go kill this demon.

~~~

Ren: The winds picking up.

Jaune: We must be getting close.

Ren: Alright, how are we going to do this?

Jaune: Lighting magic. It's too fast of an attack for most people to doge, even a demon in flight that specializes in air magic would have a tough time dealing with it.

Ren: Bow, and Shield? Only this time I'm the shield?

Jaune: Think you can do it?

Ren: I can try.

Jaune: Alright then... Let's do this!

Jaune: Prepare to die foul demon!

: Oh~? The Demon Hunters failed so now they send in a pair of adventurers? How cute~!

Jaune: You should be careful! A paladin is leagues above some puny little Demon Hunter!

: Oh~? I've never fought a paladin before~! Alright then... Come one puny paladin! I Reese Chloris will kill you!

Jaune: Bring it bitch! Let's go, Ren?

Ren: ...

Jaune: Ren, let's do this.

Ren: ...

Jaune: Ren?

Ren: ...

Jaune: D-Did you...?

Reese: I didn't do anything...

Jaune: Okay? Hey, Ren! (Snap! Snap!) Oi! Snap out of it!

Ren: Hu, wait what?

Jaune: What happened, you just spaced out on me?

Ren: Ahh... uhh... Time out! I need to have a word with my friend!

Jaune: Time out?! Do seriously think demons will allow a time out?!

Ren: Shut up, and come with me!

Jaune: Whoa hey?!

Reese: Okay...?

~~~

Jaune: Okay, start talking, why did you call a timeout in a literal battle with a demon?!

Ren: How do you do it?!

Jaune: Do what?

Ren: How do you seduce a demon!

Jaune: Excuse me... the fuck did you just say?

Ren: You've seduced several demons before, how do you do it?!

Jaune: Okay, hold up... You... want to smash that demon?

Ren: Is that hard to believe?

Jaune: You wanting to smash a human is hard enough as it is, but a demon?!

Ren: What, I'm an elf we don't have sex drives like you humans do!

Jaune: Elves don't have a sex drive until they enter in what human years would be in there thirties. And, from my experience, elf woman have a hell of a sex drive!

Ren: That's not true!

Jaune: Not true?! Ren, in the eleven kingdom, The Everwood Dynasty, one third of the population are half elves!

Ren: Well, I want to smash the demon girl! Are you going to help me, or what?!

Jaune: ...

Jaune: Haa... Okay... here's what you do... This is the secret elven male seduction technique, so pay attention!

Ren: How do you know a secret elven male seduction technique?

Jaune: Elven courtesans. Now pay attention!

Ren: Yes!

Jaune: Okay... Take off your hood, and show off your face. Give the demon a side eye glance, and throw her a wink.

Ren: And, then what?

Jaune: Smash.

Ren: Hold up... The secret elven male seduction technique: Is to show my face, give her a side eye, and wink at her? That's it?!

Jaune: Elven males have an unfair advantage... Now, shut up, and smash the demon!

Ren: Okay, okay...

~~~

Ren: Hey, Demon! Uhh... Reese?!

Reese: Oh, your back... Where's your friend?

Ren: He left me behind to deal with you!

Reese: Oh? Tell me then you rouge, how do you plan to defeat me~?

Ren: Okay... take off my hood, and show my face...

Reese: Oh, you're an elf?

Ren: Side eye glance...

Reese: Oh~? Such vibrant pink eyes~!

Ren: And, the wink!

Reese: EEP~?!

Ren: ...

Ren: Did that work...?

~~~

Glynda: You told him the secret elven male seduction technique?

Jaune: The guy has never shown romantic interest before, he need advice, so I gave him some.

Glynda: Do you think it will work?

Jaune: It doesn't seem to effect elven woman such as yourself, Glynda. As for it's effects on other species of woman it seems to work. As It seems to have worked for, Ren...

Glynda: Oh my?!

Ren: Hey, Jaune...

Jaune: Ren. You look like shit, did you two smash, or did you have to kill her?

Ren: We... smashed!

Jaune: Oh, good for you, aaaand your falling...

(Thud!)

Jaune: ...

Jaune: You okay bud?

Ren: W-Worth it!

Glynda: I'll call for a priest.

Jaune: Good call...

///

Another art piece inspired from, @lar-mx

Link to ART

#rwby #jaune arc #lie ren #glynda goodwitch #reese chloris

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jxwl4k · 6 months ago

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.𖥔 ݁ ˖ flawless .𖥔 ݁ ˖

☘︎ . . . genre. fluff

☘︎ . . . pairings. bakugou x reader

☘︎ . . . requested? yes by anon

⤿ YN LN is the picture of perfection, brilliant, kind and impossibly talented. But behind her angelic smile lies a sharp tongue that she keeps hidden.

YN LN was perfect—untouchably so.

Her hair always shone like it had been blessed by the heavens, her grades were flawless, and her quirk—a dazzling ability to manipulate light into solid constructs—was nothing short of extraordinary. Every smile she gave was met with sighs, every word she spoke carried a melody of grace.

And it drove Katsuki Bakugou absolutely insane.

“Why’s she acting like she’s some kind of goddess?” he muttered under his breath as YN entered the classroom. Her angelic aura seemed to glow brighter when she greeted everyone. “Tch. Fake.”

YN, having heard him, maintained her kind smile, but her inner monologue flared to life:

“Fake? Oh, I’ll show you fake, you spiky-haired gremlin. Just wait until I—”

“Good morning, Bakugou,” she said sweetly, cutting her own thoughts off.

“Tch.” He didn’t even look at her.

“This brat’s gonna pay for ignoring me in front of everyone! I was blessed by God—this kind of disrespect would NEVER happen to me. I choose not to accept it!”

Despite her carefully curated reputation, YN had a side to her that no one knew—a competitive, hot-headed, and downright foul-mouthed streak that she kept buried beneath layers of charm. The only person who seemed to bring it dangerously close to the surface was Bakugou Katsuki.

It all started during a routine quirk demonstration.

“LN, Bakugou,” Aizawa called, looking as tired as ever. “You’ll be paired up to test each other’s quirks. Bakugou, go easy on her. LN, don’t let his explosions overwhelm you.”

Y/N’s smile didn’t falter, but her eye twitched imperceptibly. “Go easy on me? What am I, a toddler? I’ll obliterate him.”

Bakugou smirked. “Hope you can keep up, ‘Golden Girl.’ Wouldn’t want to ruin that perfect image of yours.”

Her fingers tightened into fists at her sides. “Of course,” she said with a laugh, though inside, she was seething. “You’re WAY off, idiot! I’ll wipe that smirk off your stupid face!”

The match began, and YN summoned a glowing shield of pure light, deflecting Bakugou’s explosions effortlessly. She countered with sharp, whip-like constructs, forcing him to dodge.

“Not bad,” he admitted grudgingly, sending another blast her way.

She sidestepped it with ease, her tone smug. “Oh? Did you expect me to just stand there and let you win?”

For the first time, Bakugou looked genuinely intrigued. “Hah. So you’re not just a pretty face after all.”

“A ‘pretty face’? That’s all he sees me as?! This guy—UGH!”

YN’s next attack was less restrained, her light constructs slamming into the ground with enough force to shake the arena. The spectators gasped, but she quickly composed herself, her sweet smile returning.

“Oops,” she said lightly. “Guess I overdid it!”

Bakugou, however, saw right through her.

After the match, YN sat alone, meticulously cleaning her gloves. Bakugou appeared out of nowhere, plopping down next to her with his usual lack of grace.

“What do you want, Bakugou?” she asked, her voice as light as ever.

He didn’t answer immediately, his sharp gaze studying her. “You’re not like them,” he said finally.

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You act all nice and perfect, but when we were fighting, you looked like you were actually havin’ fun. Like you’re hiding somethin’.”

Her hand froze mid-polish.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her tone just a little too defensive.

He snorted. “Whatever. Just don’t bother pretending around me. It’s annoying.”

She watched him walk away, her heart pounding.

“That brat! Who does he think he is?!”

And yet, for some reason, she couldn’t stop the small smile that crept onto her face.

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wandasaura · 14 days ago

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sick nights with maria

warnings — sir kink, domestic dominance, sickfic, cuddling, praise kink, spanish pet names, implied bratty reader, military/combat background, men/minors dni

“How are you feeling?” Maria creeps into the bedroom; voice soft, appearance hard. Her uniform has changed over the years. Camouflage and full-body tactical suits now denim and leather. She hasn’t changed though. Not much, at least.

You crane your head to peek at her — tall, easily commanding, warm. Maria radiates warmth, even when coolness clings to black leather in the hottest summer months. You don’t need words to express how you’re feeling. Maria sees it in your shoulders, and your complexion, and your fevered blank stare.

Maria frowns, earnestly and truly. The crows feet beside her eyes wrinkle with the display of affection. She’s heard all about your ailments, but the last three hours on the tarmac had been busy and engaging; she’d only been able to hope you’d magically healed since her last text. “Still no good, querida?”

“No, sir.” Your voice is hoarse, scratchy. You’re undeniably far away from here — this moment in your quiet cozy bedroom with her, and instead somewhere half-conscious and hazy.

It’s a fleeting thought in Maria’s mind that even in your sickly state, her title still rolls off of your lips obediently. You’re good for her; to her. So good.

“Your head still hurts?” Control comes naturally, easily. Maria takes it by the dick like it’s second nature to be the body everybody looks to in crisis and confusion. She says it’s different like this. With you. You’ll never really understand it. She likes that you don’t.

“Yes.” You whisper, hands clenched around the blankets, knuckles white. You’re tired. Exhausted even, beyond just ready for a couple hours of uninterrupted rest, ready for eternal darkness or her warmth, whichever comes first.

“Anything else?” She hums thoughtfully, patiently. There’s never a question in your mind if Maria cares. She doesn’t just tell you she does, she shows you.

It takes you a minute to find a response. Her eyes look so sharp with the backlight from the kitchen framing her features. They’re so blue. Almost cerulean. She’s an image of fine, meticulous beauty crafted gently not to please the public eye, but the careless version of herself that is buried so deep beneath trauma and scar tissue. You see her. All of her.

“My head. My eyes.” A swallow interrupts you. It’s dry, harsh — involuntarily albeit simultaneously forced. Maria winces in sympathy from the threshold. “My belly doesn’t feel too great either.” It’s a weak admission, layered with defeat, exhaustion.

“You’ve had to make so many choices today, huh, querida?” It’s a simple act of deflection, a mastered task not from Shield, or any kind of connection with Nicholas J. Fury, but her time in the army instead. The first seven years that shaped her passion for combat and full, all-powerful, control.

“Yes, sir.” Breathy, light. If Maria didn’t know you, all of you, every imperfectly colored-in inch of skin and spirituality, she would’ve called your appearance angelic. Maria knows you though, she sees you. You’re a little devil. Even now; even sick.

“Yeah? I know, sweetheart. You don’t have to think anymore. Let me do that for you.” Maria’s clean, too clean. Her fingernails are pale, olive-toned, but even. Her cheeks are pink and dusted with freckles. She’s been in the field a lot lately. Never quite ready to give up her position as right hand man. You’d never ask her to, but you know what too clean means. She showered on base, threw the same dirty clothes on with a grimace, and trudged home to you. “Okay?”

“You took a shower.” The words leave you, escape your mind and then your mouth, and they shower Maria in the reminder that you pay attention to her; that you know her too, just as well as she knows you. “Why?” The whine in your tone is accidental, petulant. Maria can’t help but smile warmly.

One step closer, and the sterling silver zipper keeping leather tightly touching gets unzipped. Three seconds closer and she’s halfway out of her pants, revealing navy blue panties the color of a uniform she hasn’t worn in almost a decade.

“Because all I want to do right now is get changed, and take care of my girl.” There’s no ounce of coldness, nor hostility, in Maria’s pointed deliverance of unnecessary explanation, but there’s an edge of finality that has your bones feeling fuzzy beneath your skin. Your lips pull downwards, your shoulders sag. “Sit up.”

“Why?” It’s a tiny moan. A small act of rebellion. It’s squandered by your quick movements to adjust your body against the pillows, the thick comforter falling around your waist to reveal a spaghetti strap tank top that fit better when it was purchased. Maria smiles. She thinks it’s cute.

“Because I know you haven’t had nearly enough water today, and I need to keep you busy while I change.” So nonchalantly does she make you feel small, tiny — not beneath her, never beneath her, but, it’s not entirely dissimilar either. It’s a comforting feeling. One that blooms from rays of pure sunshine in your core. “Okay?” Clarity. Maria likes clarity.

“Okay.” A forced breathy response, paired with the outstretching of your right arm. Your hand, polished with rings you unintentionally stack throughout the day both anxiously and restlessly, wraps around the glass of water she’d sat there for you last night. You’re not fooling anyone with the quick sips you take to hopefully distract from the fact you haven’t even refilled it since her endearing efforts, but she lets you believe that you are. If only because you’re quiet for the three minutes it takes her to fully undress and find a pair of soft pajamas.

“All done. Good girl.” She coaxes when her knee presses into the mattress, droplets of room temperature dribbling down your chin in an uncoordinated race. Her fingers sweep them away dutifully before you even register the wet sensation, but heat flames in the apples of your gauntly cheeks when it all catches up to you — the praise, the endearing care, the way she smells like cinnamon and vanilla even after gunpowder and antiseptics. “You were so braze today, bebé. You did it all on your own while I was with Fury, even when you didn’t feel good. And you were so patient. Let me take care of you now. Let me do the thinking.”

“Okay.” You whisper, letting her guide you into her chest, your back slowly reclining until it just feels right to close your eyes and surround yourself with her liveliness beneath your touch. The faint pulse of her heart, the static rushing of blood in her veins, the meticulous coordination of her breaths. It consumes you.

“Okay?” Maria questions, because she knows what that does to you. She knows how it does your head in to be overwhelmed with confirmation and unwavering attention. You nod, slow and dazedly with your eyes still closed, and Maria grins at you like the moon has done something spectacular in your hidden smile lines. “What’s my name, baby girl?” Simple. Easy. Claiming. Reminding.

With a hitch in your voice you find an answer in your quiet mind heavy from pain and a long day alone. “Sir.”

“That’s right, baby! You’re so smart, even when that head’s hurting you! My perfect girl, it’s okay. You can sleep now. I’ve got you.” Maria presses a long kiss into your crown and that’s enough to end your night, to surrender to darkness all around you until sunlight washes over the hardwood again and hopefully brings reprieve from the crushing pressure and chills.

#[ m ] — drabbles #dom!maria hill #maria hill #dom!maria hill x reader #maria hill x reader #maria hill x you #maria hill fluff #maria hill drabble #maria hill fic #minors dni ৎ୭

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letteremi · 17 days ago

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why, oh why, were you grouped with Satoru Gojo for this group project? It's like he's determined to make your life (and your face) a hot mess. ie. where you've been assigned a roleplay for a university assignment, and you land the 'desired' role of Satoru's partner. he's insufferable, but it turns out that, maybe, just maybe, he's a better partner than you thought.

pairing: gojo x fem!reader

warnings/tags: university au, swearing, suggestive content (16+), creepy man in alley, shoko as buffer, satoru with glasses, gojo is a little shit, protective gojo, banter, group project, satoru has a crush, fluff, slight angst??????

wc: 1.5 k

a/n: so like this was meant to be a drabble but now it's a oneshot-ish

When you landed a spot at Jujutsu University’s prestigious radiography course, you were not expecting roleplay to be one of your key assignments. Which brilliant, bright brain decided that play acting was worth 20% of your grade? And then again, which science-driven, ingenious professor made it so the three available roles in this little show were: the radiographer, the patient, and the patient’s partner.

Shoko, with her quick wit and even faster intellect, snapped up the role of radiographer before you could even protest. And as luck would have it, losing a game of rock paper scissors landed you the prime position of the partner, with Satoru Gojo as the ill-fated patient.

The man in question is now twirling a pen in his long fingers, legs propped up on the table beside his dimmed laptop, and leaning back in his chair like he’s on vacation, and not the dingy basement library of your university, where the air is stale, and the coffee is ridiculously overpriced and bitter. His glasses are pushed into his snowy hair, the ruffled strands chaotically tousled, as he hums aloud to the tune of we didn’t start the fire.

Aforementioned, disgusting coffee sits next to your buffering laptop right now, the hot, foul tasting liquid having cooled down — a testament to the hours that you’ve been locked in the study room.

“Say, my beautiful, gorgeous, amazing, lover,” Satoru drawls, as if on a soap opera stage, his legs sweeping off the table and onto the floor with a finality. “Do you agree with this line in your part of the script?”

Satoru’s icon flashes with menace and mischief after the sentence he’s clearly just typed.

“Please save him! Please save my devastatingly handsome husband! I don’t think I could live without the banging se—” You cut yourself off abruptly.

“Fuck you.”

“So close! Your line is actually: Satoru is the light of my life, my guiding star, my one and only. Doesn’t that give you the chills?”

You shoot him a look that could kill a lesser man. But unfortunately, your jibes and digs only seem to make Satoru stronger. “Shoko, is it too late to give him penile calcification instead?”

Shoko sighs like a long-suffering parent, pulling the laptop closer to her like it might shield her from the god-awful exchange between you and Satoru. “Sorry, I’ve already officially locked in our condition, but I like your thinking.”

An offended gasp escapes the boy’s lips, theatrical and dramatic for his audience of two.

“Betrayed,” Satoru croaks, slumping dramatically across the table as if mortally wounded. The pen he was twirling clatters to the floor, landing with the softest thud. “And after all we’ve been through together, too.”

You fold your arms, unimpressed. “The only thing you and I have been through together is a terrible bio prac.”

He presses a hand to his heart, which beats painfully in his chest. “Exactly. A bond forged in suffering.”

Bickering ensues, your sharp comments deflected with Satoru’s carefree banter with ease — the script long forgotten.

“Okay, you two, take a break.” Shoko cuts through, slicing through the squabbling like it's butter. “Get out, walk.”

“Anything to escape script writing,” you agree. “Even if it means having to spend time with him.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, though they lack real bite. “This is not how you treat the love of your life.”

But he doesn’t need any further prompting, leaping to his feet, extending his hand towards you like he’s your knight in shining armour, and not the devil trying to drag your GPA down. With a sigh, your icy-cold hands meet his warm ones, and you’re slipping out the glass door and ascending the steps, following his lead.

“Where are we going?” “To get some fresh air, genius.”

When the chilly night air meets your cheeks, you retreat into your puffer with a shiver. The neon lights of the cafe beam at you from the distance, reflecting like a beacon of hope in trying times. Satoru takes one look at your shudder-stricken form, and your longing gaze at the $3 coffee! sign.

“Be right back.” With that, he’s off, hands shoved into his pockets and hunched into his sweater. “Stay here, and….cool off, yeah?”

You stare at his back, slack-jawed. Did he seriously just leave you standing in the cold? Alone?

Seriously, what kind of man does that? Actually, now that you think about it, Satoru Gojo doesn’t count as a man…more like, your worst nightmares wrapped up in some gorgeous 6 foot something skinsuit.

The street is nearly deserted at this hour, all damp pavements and the occasional whoosh of a car flying past. You lean against the stone wall, dusted with lichen and moss, rubbing your hands together and wondering if Gojo is buying the entire cafe or just a single drink.

That’s when you sense it. The all too familiar unease that trickles down your neck, icing your spine with a chill that has nothing to do with the sub-zero temperature.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His breath is uncomfortably hot, too close, way too close.

Another creep. The joys of being pretty, female, and young. Woop dee fucking doo.

You flick your gaze towards the leering man, keeping your eyes sharpened as they could slice him to bits right then and there. An undercurrent of fear strikes you then, but you can’t let it show. You dig your own hands into your pockets, thumb your airpod case, hoping the bulge of your hand underneath your clothes is enough to imply that you’ve got some weapon hidden, and not just your favourite extrovert deterrent — noise cancelling feature for the win!

“Waiting for someone?” His gaze drags up and down your body in a way that leaves a sour taste in your mouth, the alarm bells in your head ringing with fervour now.

You straighten up, take a small step back. “Yeah, he’s on his way back.”

“Oh? Pretty girl like you shouldn’t wait all alone.”

He moves in closer.

Your stomach flips. The street lamp flickers, dousing you in darkness for a brief, fearful moment. When it alights again, he’s nearly on top of you, leering closer. His breath stinks like plaque buildup and alcohol.

Before you can back up again, a familiar voice slices through the tension like a blade.

“Pretty girl like her definitely shouldn’t be waiting with you.”

Satoru is there in an instant, his blue eyes glacial beneath his glasses, like he alone could freeze the pervert. He’s holding a steaming beverage like a weapon, one that he’s not afraid to dump onto the man if he takes another step closer. The other hand has found itself wrapped around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as he stares down. There’s a razor-sharp edge to him, a dark glint that sets your unease to rest.

The weirdo stops in his tracks, something like regret dawning on his face.

“You’ve got about three seconds to make better life choices,” Satoru continues, his voice light, but his jawline tenses in a way you’ve only ever seen when some guy debates him with the most incorrect facts you’ve ever heard, and his veins bulge in the low light.

The creep looks between the two of you, at Satoru’s threatening eyes, eyeing his firm body — which you could feel pressed up against you right now. Then, he backs up, hands raised like a child who got his hands caught in the cookie jar. “Whatever, didn’t mean any trouble.”

“Course you didn’t,” Satoru replies breezily, though he doesn’t waver until the guy melts into the dark.

And then he’s turning to you, expression softening as he holds out a warm takeaway cup like a peace offering.

“Sorry that took forever,” he says. “Didn’t think that’d happen.” Satoru exhales, his breath fogging the air. “You must be frozen by now.”

The cup is blisteringly hot against your frigid palms. “It’s okay. You have a terrible sense of time, by the way.” Fumbling your way back into the easy banter you’ve grown accustomed to when it comes to him, you did not want to rehash the details of that encounter.

He grins, eyes crinkling. “And yet, I’m right on time when it counts.”

And even though your heart is thumping, you can’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugs at your lips.

You take a tentative sip. “This is my go-to order?” You phrase it like a question, the tail end of your sentence lilting up in confusion, because no way did Satoru Gojo remember your favourite coffee order.

“Yeah, duh. That stupid drink label is always plastered across the cup when you slam it on the table. We’re well acquainted.” He says it like it’s nothing, but a pink fluster that has nothing to do with the weather, rises to his cheeks.

“You’re such a good partner,” you tease, and that’s when you realise Satoru’s arm is still wrapped around you.

“Come on, wife,” he mumbles, turning his cheek to avoid the knowing glint in your eye. “The project calls. Shoko must be wondering where we are.”

And so you walk back to the dusty library, descending the staircase with your hands warm and heart full.

And Satoru? Satoru never lets you go.

Not now, not ever.

Maybe it’s not so bad, being paired up with Satoru Gojo, after all.

#jjk x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x reader fluff #jjk angst #gojo x you #jjk #jjk fic #gojo x reader angst #gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #letteremi

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dreamdragonkadia · 7 months ago

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Hiii! Could I ask for a Percy x reader with something moon and ocean related? Pls. Like how the moon pulls on the tides. Anyways I love your writing 💗💗💗

Absolutely yes!!! And thank you for the sweet comment, it means the world to me. I’m so glad to hear that, and I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. <33 p.jackson x reader

At first, the joke was how you were the moon to Percy’s sun—complete opposites, but always together. It was something lighthearted, tossed around the campfire after capture the flag or whispered during sparring matches. But that never quite fit, not until Annabeth made the comment.

“You’re not just the moon,” she’d said one day, her voice thoughtful in a way that made you pause. “You’re the moon that pulls the ocean that is Percy.”

The words stuck, reshaping the joke into something closer to the truth. How you were the calm to Percy’s relentless energy. The pull that settled his restless tides when everything else felt like too much.

And after that, everyone saw it. The way Percy trailed after you some days, matching your pace with none of his usual impatience. The way you could touch his arm or murmur his name, and suddenly all that frenetic energy in him would still like the water under a calm sky.

The two of you had been like that for years.

It wasn’t just in the quiet moments, though. You saw it in fights, too—how naturally you moved together, falling into combat as if you were halves of the same whole. Percy would charge in while you covered him without hesitation. Your shield was always there when he didn’t see the incoming blow. Your blade found its mark in the space he created, your movements deliberate where his were wild and free.

“Perfect balance,” Grover called it once, chewing on his tin can. “Like one big cosmic metaphor.”

You’d rolled your eyes, brushing him off. But you couldn’t ignore the way Percy grinned at the comment, like he liked the sound of it. Like he didn’t mind being tethered to you like that.

The moment that finally made you realize how much it meant to both of you came one evening, just after a long day of sparring. You’d ended up by the lake—your usual spot—and Percy, as always, had followed. He dropped down beside you with a groan, flopping dramatically onto the grass.

“You’re gonna kill me one of these days,” he said, his voice muffled against his arm.

“You’re dramatic,” you replied, though you were smiling as you nudged him with your elbow.

Percy lifted his head, his sea-green eyes catching the soft glow of the setting sun. He just looked at you, his expression softening. It was rare, these quieter moments with him, where he wasn’t buzzing with energy or laughter.

“What?” you asked, raising a brow.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. Then, after a beat, he added, “It’s just… you always seem to know what I need before I even know it myself.”

Your heart gave an unexpected flutter at the sincerity in his voice. You opened your mouth to reply—something light to deflect it—but Percy spoke again.

“I mean it. You’re like the moon, pulling me back when I start to drift too far out. And I…” He paused, searching for the words. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

Something in the air shifted. The joke—the metaphor—suddenly didn’t feel so funny anymore. It felt real, and suddenly all too there, and a little terrifying.

You swallowed hard, your voice quieter than you intended. “You’d still be you, Percy. You don’t need me for that.”

“Maybe,” he said, his grin small but there nonetheless. “But I like having you around anyway.”

It was such a Percy thing to say—simple, honest—and it made something warm unfurl in your chest. You looked at him then, really looked, and realized just how close he was. His hair was still damp from training, and the faint sunlight turned his features soft.

“Percy—”

You didn’t finish whatever you were about to say, because suddenly he was leaning in, his eyes flicking from yours to your lips as if asking for permission. And you gave it, closing the gap between you.

The kiss was tentative at first, soft and mostly unsure, like neither of you could quite believe it was happening. But then Percy’s hand came up to cup your cheek, his touch gentle, and you leaned into him. It wasn’t some grand, cinematic moment; it was quiet, like the two of you had been building toward it for years.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, Percy rested his forehead against yours, his grin wide.

“Took us long enough,” he murmured, the laughter in his voice making you smile.

“Yeah,” you whispered back, your heart still racing. “But we got there.”

For a while, neither of you moved, content to sit there, the sound of the water lapping gently at the shore. Percy’s arm draped over your shoulder, pulling you closer like he didn’t want to let you go, and you let yourself lean into him.

Everything felt like it was exactly where it was supposed to be. The ocean and the moon, side by side.

#✨️by yours truly✨️#percy jackson x reader #percy jackson #pjo #percy jackson x y/n #bookish #percy jackson x you #pjo x reader

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h4nj1sunggg · 6 months ago

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who? minsung x fem!reader genre: drabble a/n: I'm so sorry for not posting much but my exam session is killing me, I'll be back in two weeks!! wait for me >:)

minsung poly! where y/n is looking for some cat's food in a small shop, talking on the phone with a friend about the crazy idea of being a cat mom in her 20s, totally not expecting to see minsung kissing gin the hall where cat toys are.. and they notice her after, her mouth open wide in surprised like 'what the actual fuck is that', them being confused but then they notice the freaking miso's photo card on your pic holder attached to the bag that you're holding up.

"calling you later," you whispers a the phone, trying to take a step back and going from where you were coming, when a voice stops you, "wait!"

Your heart races as you clutch the phone in one hand and your bag in the other, fully prepared to disappear back down the aisle. But before you can make your grand escape, the voice stops you.

“Wait!” It’s Jisung. Of course, it’s Jisung. His voice is unmistakable—soft yet commanding in a way that sends chills down your spine.

Every instinct in your body screams at you to keep walking, to pretend you didn’t see the two men you’ve idolized for years kissing in the middle of a cat aisle like it’s the most normal thing in the world. But your feet betray you, and you turn around, clutching your phone and bag like they’re shields against the chaos you just witnessed.

“What?” you croak out, your voice shaky. Your gaze is glued to a suspiciously fluffy cat bed on the shelf behind them, absolutely refusing to make eye contact.

“Hey, no need to act like you just saw a ghost,” Jisung says, his tone light but clearly uneasy. “We’re just… uh, hanging out?”

“Is that what they call it?” you mutter under your breath, still avoiding their eyes as your brain replays the scene on loop like a cursed gif.

Minho, who has been silent so far, steps closer, arms crossed, and raises an eyebrow at your reaction. “You look like we’ve traumatized you for life.”

You blink rapidly, gripping your bag tighter. “I—uh—nope, not traumatized,” you lie, your voice an octave too high. “Just… buying cat food. Totally normal day. Nothing weird happened. Haha!”

It’s a terrible attempt at deflection, and they both know it.

Jisung looks between you and Minho, clearly trying not to laugh. “Are you… scared of us?” he asks, tilting his head like a confused puppy. “We’re not gonna eat you or something.”

“That’s what someone scary would say,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself. You cringe immediately, heat rushing to your face. “I mean, no! I’m fine. This is fine. You guys do… whatever you’re doing. I’ll just…” You gesture vaguely toward the opposite end of the aisle. “…go that way.”

“Not before you explain this,” Minho says, pointing to the photo card of them hanging from your bag.

Your soul leaves your body. “Oh, that? It’s… uh… it came with the bag?” you try, wincing internally. Minho’s unimpressed stare tells you he isn’t buying it.

“She’s a fan,” Jisung says, grinning like he’s cracked some big mystery. “Right? That’s why you’re so weird right now—you know us.”

“Who? Me? A fan?” You laugh awkwardly, taking a shaky step back. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Minho rolls his eyes, clearly over the theatrics. “You’ve got Minsung’s photo card on your bag, and you’re buying cat food. Do you think we’re dumb?”

You open your mouth to argue, but all that comes out is a strangled squeak. The reality of the situation hits you all over again: you just caught two of your favorite idols making out, and now they’re grilling you in a pet store aisle.

“Nope. Nope, I can’t do this,” you mutter, shaking your head and taking another step back. “I didn’t see anything. This didn’t happen. You guys don’t exist. Bye.”

Minho and Jisung exchange a quick glance as you attempt to bolt, but Jisung steps forward, his hands raised like he’s trying to calm a frightened animal. “Wait, wait, wait! Just… can we talk? Please? We don’t bite. Minho looks scary, but I promise he’s harmless.”

“I am scary,” Minho deadpans, but the flicker of concern in his eyes betrays him.

You freeze mid-step, throwing them a look over your shoulder. “Talk? About what? How you were just kissing in public, where literally anyone could see you? What were you thinking?”

Minho’s jaw tightens. “We didn’t exactly plan on putting on a show,” he says coolly. “It’s not like this place is packed.”

“Packed or not, I saw it!” you hiss, jabbing a finger at yourself. “A fan. Do you know how risky that is? What if I wasn’t—” You stop yourself, realizing you’re dangerously close to spilling your entire identity as a devoted STAY. “What if I wasn’t, you know… normal about this?”

Jisung blinks at you, a little taken aback. “You’re not exactly being normal now, to be fair.”

You glare at him, and his grin falters as Minho nudges him hard in the ribs. “Not helping,” Minho mutters under his breath before turning back to you. “Okay, fine. You caught us. We get it. But you’re not going to, like… shout it from the rooftops or something, right?”

You blink at him. “Shout it from the rooftops? Do I look like someone who’s ready to start a scandal? I’m too busy trying to figure out how to scrub this from my memory.” You shake your head, exhaling sharply. “Seriously, what were you thinking? You’re Lee Minho and Han Jisung, not two random guys in love at a grocery store. You cannot just… make out next to the catnip and hope no one notices.”

Jisung winces, glancing nervously down the aisle. “Okay, yeah, when you put it like that, it sounds bad.”

“It is bad,” you emphasize, lowering your voice but still gesturing wildly. “Do you have any idea how many fans would lose their minds over this? You’re so lucky it was me and not some TikTok-obsessed fangirl ready to post a blurry video.”

Minho’s expression shifts to something like mild panic, his cool demeanor cracking just enough to reveal a hint of worry. “Okay, okay, we get it. You made your point. But you’re not going to tell anyone, right?”

“Why should I?” you counter, crossing your arms. “I’m just saying, maybe next time, don’t risk it. Especially not in a pet store of all places.”

Jisung leans toward Minho, whispering loud enough for you to hear, “She’s scarier than my mom.”

Minho’s lips twitch into a smirk. “She’s got a point, though.”

You huff, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Look, I don’t want to ruin your lives or anything. I just… didn’t expect to see that when I came in here to buy cat food. So if we can all agree to pretend this didn’t happen, I’ll just—”

“You promise?” Minho cuts in, his sharp eyes locking onto yours. It’s not intimidating—it’s pleading.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “What, do you want me to sign an NDA or something?”

As you turn to leave, Minho suddenly calls out, “Wait.”

You freeze mid-step, again. Slowly, you turn back around, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “What now? Are you going to ask me to swear on my future cat’s life or something?”

Minho smirks faintly at your sarcasm but doesn’t take the bait. “No. I just think we should… exchange numbers.”

Your eyes narrow. “Exchange numbers? For what?”

“For… secret privacy,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Secret privacy?” you repeat, deadpan.

Jisung snickers beside him, biting back a laugh. “Wow, hyung, that’s not suspicious at all.”

Minho glares at him before returning his attention to you. “Look, in case something happens. You know, if you accidentally let something slip or decide to post about this.” He shrugs. “I’d like a way to contact you.”

You blink, processing his words. “So, what? You’re giving me your number as a bribe to keep my mouth shut?”

“More like insurance,” Minho corrects, crossing his arms.

“Insurance,” you echo. “Right. Because that doesn’t sound shady at all.”

“Hey, you’re the one who saw us kissing in a pet store,” Minho counters, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not exactly in the position to judge.”

You open your mouth to argue, but Jisung chimes in, grinning. “To be fair, he’s got a point. This is all a little… unconventional, isn’t it?”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Fine. Give me your number. But if you start spamming me with cat memes or asking for cat food recommendations, I’m blocking you.”

Minho pulls out his phone, his smirk widening. “Noted.”

“Wait, hold on,” Jisung interrupts, eyes sparkling with mischief. “If she gets your number, I should give her mine, too. For fairness, you know. And, uh, backup insurance.”

“Backup insurance?” you ask, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“Yeah, in case Minho forgets to text you or something,” Jisung says with a grin. “You never know.”

You roll your eyes but hand over your phone anyway. “You two are ridiculous,” you mutter as Minho types in his number, followed by Jisung.

“Ridiculous, but memorable,” Jisung quips, winking as he hands your phone back.

You stare at the new contacts saved in your phone, feeling like you’ve just signed up for something you’re not entirely sure about. “Okay. I’ve got your numbers. Are we done now? Can I go buy my cat food in peace?”

Minho nods, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. Just… don’t forget your promise.”

“And don’t forget to text us if you ever need cat advice!” Jisung adds cheerfully, earning another glare from Minho.

You shake your head, turning to walk away for what you hope is the final time. “I’m never shopping here again,” you mutter under your breath, clutching your bag tightly.

As you leave the store, you can’t help but glance at your phone again, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. You have the numbers of Lee Minho and Han Jisung in your contacts… and all because they couldn’t resist kissing in a pet store.

#minsung #minsung stray kids #minsung fluff #minsung drabble #minsung fanfiction #minsung fic #minsung x reader #lee minho #lee know #han jisung #han #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #han jisung fluff #han jisung skz #han jisung x reader #stray kids #han jisung smut #skz

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mydearestbeloved · 8 months ago

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Chapter 18 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

CW:

Inspired by @circeyoru ‘s “Future Power Couple”

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

"Do as you please." Jinwoo’s words were curt, as usual, his attention already shifting toward their goal.

You sighed, exasperated, as you turned to the demoness who stood hesitantly by Jinwoo’s side. "Esil, are you sure you want to come with us?" Your tone softened, expressing genuine concern. Even if you knew she would be fine, Esil’s decision to accompany the two of you into the heart of danger wasn’t one to take lightly still.

Esil met your gaze, her determination unwavering even as she fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. "Yes. I want to witness the outcome of your fight." Her voice held a mix of resolve and bashfulness. "Thank you for your concern, Lady (Name)."

You smiled at her earnestness, though you couldn’t shake your worry. "Alright," you said finally, letting out a resigned sigh. Reaching into your belongings, you retrieved a small, inconspicuous butterfly pin and gently fastened it to Esil’s cloak. The silver shimmer of the pin caught the dim light of the dungeon, its delicate form hiding the potent magic imbued within.

"For extra protection," you explained with a reassuring smile. Esil touched the pin lightly, her cheeks reddening slightly at your thoughtfulness.

---

The chaos of the battlefield was overwhelming. The shadow soldiers clashed relentlessly with the demon king’s forces, and the air was thick with the acrid smell of blood and magic. Baran, mounted on a massive wyvern, commanded his army with a ferocity that shook the dungeon.

"Jinwoo, don’t!" you shouted, panic seizing your chest as you saw Jinwoo take a reckless leap toward Baran. He aimed for the wyvern’s wing, intending to ground the demon king, but his attack was deflected by Baran’s immense mana shield. The force sent Jinwoo hurtling to the ground with a thunderous crash. Without hesitation, you cast a spell, softening the impact and cushioning his fall.

The wyvern’s shriek filled the air as Tusk intercepted Baran’s follow-up attack, forcing the demon king to dismount. Baran landed heavily on the ground, his presence emanating an oppressive aura that seemed to suck the very air from your lungs.

Damn this cursed space! you thought bitterly, your magic straining as you worked to heal the injured shadow soldiers, replenish Jinwoo’s mana, and shield Esil from the chaos. Your enchanted flowers pulsed with light, amplifying your magic, but even they struggled to keep up with the unending onslaught of the demon king’s minions.

The mark beneath your gloves began to sear painfully, and you felt its dark tendrils creeping further up your body. The once-contained corruption now spread relentlessly, slithering from your arms to your neck, staining your skin like ink on a canvas. The mark was no longer content to remain hidden; it demanded to be seen.

Jinwoo’s fight with Baran raged on, each blow exchanged between them shaking the dungeon to its core. Despite his prowess, Baran’s mana seemed limitless, his attacks relentless. You clenched your fists, frustration and desperation boiling within you. In the manhwa, Jinwoo had managed to find an opening, to brute force his way to victory. But now, faced with the reality of the situation, you couldn’t help but feel powerless.

There has to be something I can do, you thought desperately, your hands glowing faintly as you funneled more energy into healing and defense.

Just as despair threatened to take hold, the familiar interface flashed before your eyes.

[Keep up at it, Trial Player!]

[New Ascension Quest!

Help Player Sung Jinwoo defeat the Demon King Baran!

Objective: Absorb Demon King Baran’s mana.

Quest progression at 3%… 5%… 8%...]

The interface’s words sent a chill down your spine. Absorb Baran’s mana? The idea was as terrifying as it was tempting. You could feel the contaminated energy in the air, thick and heavy, like a storm cloud waiting to burst. Taking it in would bolster your strength, yes, but at what cost?

Still, the quest was clear, and there was no time for hesitation. You gritted your teeth and began to channel the corrupted mana toward yourself. The mark on your skin reacted instantly, flaring with searing pain as it spread further, black butterflies blooming across your body.

---

Jinwoo was forced back as Baran unleashed a devastating energy blast. The shockwave rippled outward, tearing through the battlefield. Jinwoo barely managed to hold his ground, his Wind Robe absorbing much of the impact, though it was clear the enchanted garment wouldn’t last much longer.

He scanned the battlefield quickly. His shadow soldiers were locked in combat, their numbers dwindling. Esil was unharmed, shielded by the protective barrier you had cast just in time. Relief flickered in his chest, but it was short-lived. His eyes landed on you, and his heart stopped.

Your gloves had been destroyed by the blast, revealing the blackened skin of your hands and arms. The corruption spread across your body like living ink, its edges forming the shape of fluttering butterflies that seemed to dance with malevolent intent. Your clothes were torn, exposing more of the cursed markings. Sweat dripped down your pale face, but your expression was resolute as you continued to cast spell after spell, supporting him and his shadows without pause.

What… what is that mark?! Jinwoo thought, panic gripping him.

Baran lunged at him, forcing Jinwoo to parry the attack. The demon king’s strength was overwhelming, but Jinwoo held his ground, driving his feet into the earth. The enchanted flowers at his feet glowed faintly, feeding him strength.

Between strikes, Jinwoo noticed something peculiar. The demon minions seemed to be weakening, their movements sluggish, their numbers thinning faster than they should. Then it hit him—You were absorbing Baran’s mana.

His grip on his dagger tightened, rage and desperation flaring within him. You were pushing yourself to the limit, sacrificing your safety to ensure his victory. He needed to end this, now, before it was too late.

Baran loomed before him, his laughter echoing through the battlefield. But Jinwoo wasn’t about to let the demon king win—not when you were risking everything.

“I won’t let you touch her,” Jinwoo growled, his shadows rising like a tidal wave behind him.

---

[Quest progression at 83%... 85%...]

Your breath hitched as you watched Jinwoo lose his daggers, forced to hold Baran’s next attack in place with his bare hands. The two clashed in a deadlock, the force of their struggle causing the ground beneath them to crack and quake. You could feel Jinwoo's mana surging, yet the weight of Baran’s strength was pushing him to his limit.

Just a little more...! you thought, your breath ragged. Your vision wavered as exhaustion bore down on you. The blackened marks now covered most of your body, snaking up your neck and over one of your eyes, down to the tips of your feet. The corruption burned, as if your very soul was being carved apart piece by piece.

Then, Baran opened his maw, preparing to unleash a devastating blast of mana at point-blank range.

"NO!" you screamed, the sound tearing from your throat. But before you could react, a small weapon flew through the air, striking Baran on his jaw.

It was Esil. Trembling with fear but steadfast in her resolve, she had thrown her blade to disrupt the demon king. The weapon barely scratched Baran, but the interruption was enough to catch him off guard.

Jinwoo’s eyes flashed, seizing the opportunity.

[Quest progression at 88%... 90%...]

Jinwoo surged forward, muscles coiling with raw power. With Dominator’s Touch, he ripped Baran’s hand clean off in a violent spray of dark ichor. "LET’S—" Jinwoo bellowed, rage and determination blazing in his voice.

Keep going, you willed silently, your head pounding. Your limbs felt heavier than stone, the corrupted mana leeching your strength as it crawled further across your skin. The ink-like marks coiled toward your chest, encroaching on your heart. Every beat felt weaker than the last.

[Quest progression at 92%... 93%...]

Jinwoo roared as he drove Baran back, the shadow soldiers rallying around him. Baran’s own forces were faltering under your sustained efforts, but the price was unbearable. Your vision blurred as dizziness swept over you, and your knees buckled.

Jinwoo’s next attack slammed into Baran’s jaw, forcing the demon king’s head back. With a final, earth-shattering blow to Baran’s chin, Jinwoo unleashed the full might of his strength.

"END THIS!"

The force of the strike tore Baran’s head from his shoulders, sending it soaring through the air. The demon king’s massive body crumpled to the ground in a deafening crash, his lifeless form radiating residual mana.

[Quest progression at 98%... 99%...]

You barely registered Baran’s defeat. Your legs gave out as the last bit of strength drained from your body. The corrupted marks reached your heart, wrapping around it in a vice-like grip.

"(Y/N)!" Jinwoo’s voice broke through the haze, filled with urgency and panic. You saw him running toward you, his figure blurring as your vision swam. Colors blended together, his face indistinguishable.

The last thing you heard before everything went dark was the faint chime of the system.

---

[Requirements fulfilled!

Commencing—]

Images flooded your mind, flashing too fast to comprehend. They weren’t your memories; they couldn’t be. Detached and disjointed, they sped past like fragments of someone else’s life.

Through it all, a single emotion took hold—boredom.

It was a strange, hollow feeling, as though the memories didn’t matter. You didn’t care to remember them once they passed.

What is this feeling?

As the images faded, you opened your eyes to an unfamiliar space. Gigantic white halls stretched endlessly, their pristine surfaces lined with intricate gold patterns. Everything exuded an air of divine majesty.

You tried to move, only to realize you couldn’t. You weren’t sitting—you were pinned in place. Looking down, you saw your body, or rather, the body you currently inhabited, impaled by spears of white and gold.

It's unpleasant.

Your breath hitched as panic set in. You felt liquid dripping from your mouth, warm and metallic. Blood? But the sensation didn’t match. It wasn’t your blood.

Your shoulders, back, and stomach ached with unbearable intensity. Each breath was a struggle.

Is this... pain?

The realization struck you like a hammer. This wasn’t your body, nor were these your thoughts. Your mind felt crowded, jumbled with emotions and memories that weren’t your own. The sense of disconnection grew stronger, suffocating you.

Make it stop.

You wanted to scream, but no sound came. The foreign emotions roared louder, a cacophony of anger, fear, and betrayal. They weren’t yours, yet they consumed you.

Make it stop! Make it STOP!

You tried to move, to claw at the spears pinning you in place, but your limbs wouldn’t obey. The pain intensified, radiating through every nerve.

HOW DARE THEY. HOW DARE THEY DO THIS TO ME!

The voice wasn’t yours. It reverberated through your mind, a furious bellow filled with rage and indignation.

ASHBORN! WHERE ARE YOU?!

The name struck you like a thunderclap. You knew that name. But before you could dwell on it, the tide of emotions drowned you again.

MAKE IT STOP! MAKE THIS PAIN GO AWAY!

The voices spiraled into chaos, their collective rage and despair threatening to consume you. The white halls around you blurred, twisting and distorting as your mind fractured under the weight of the foreign emotions.

ASHBORN! ASHBORN!

The name echoed louder, almost pleading, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming pain.

And then, just as abruptly as it began, your vision turned white. The voices fell silent, leaving only an empty ringing in your ears.

A single thought lingered, faint and distant.

In the depths of your mind, a laugh escaped, broken and static, as if coming from another entity entirely. You felt your lips move, mouthing words that didn’t belong to you.

"Even gods bleed red."

---

You gasped awake, your chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths. The cold, hard ground beneath you felt foreign yet grounding as you tried to process your surroundings. Two faces swam into view through the haze of your tears—Jinwoo and Esil. Both looked down at you, their expressions taut with concern and palpable relief.

Before either could say a word, a sudden surge of nausea churned in your stomach. Bile climbed up your throat, leaving no time for dignity or restraint. You twisted onto your hands and knees, head bowing low as the contents of your stomach forced their way out.

Your body trembled violently, your hands digging into the dirt as sharp pain coursed through your throat. Each heave felt like shards of glass scraping against your insides, leaving behind raw, burning tissue. Tears streamed down your face as you coughed and retched, your body unwilling to stop even as it emptied itself of everything you had.

A hand came into your vision, brushing your hair back from your face. The touch was firm yet gentle, preventing your hair from becoming sullied by the mess. You couldn’t turn to see who it was, but the steady presence behind you was enough to anchor your spiraling senses.

The retching continued, your stomach contracting painfully, wringing out more than it had any right to. When the onslaught finally subsided, you opened your tear-blurred eyes, your body shaking from the strain. You expected to see the ugly remnants of vomit mixed with blood on the ground, but your vision was immediately drawn to something unexpected.

Gold.

Amidst the sickly mixture, the faint shimmer of gold glinted in the dim light. Your breath hitched. What was that? Your muddled mind barely had time to process before your arms gave out, and you collapsed backward.

Strong arms caught you, breaking your fall. You sagged against a broad chest, your head rolling back to rest against a firm shoulder. Your breath came in shallow gasps, tears still rolling down your cheeks and dripping onto the ground.

A smooth, cool object pressed against your lips, and you instinctively flinched. But the steady hand holding it didn’t falter. Warm liquid slipped past your lips, sliding down your throat. You coughed as the unfamiliar sensation tickled the raw, torn tissue, causing some of the liquid to spill out and trail down your chin.

“Easy,” Jinwoo’s voice murmured softly behind you. His grip remained steady, the bottle tilted just enough to let the liquid flow again. Despite the burning itch, you swallowed, the warmth spreading through your body like a soothing balm.

Once the bottle was empty, it pulled away, leaving you gasping for air. Your trembling hands clung to Jinwoo’s shirt, clutching the fabric like a lifeline. His free hand patted your back in slow, comforting rhythms, grounding you as your strength began to return.

Minutes passed before you finally managed to lift your gaze. Jinwoo was already staring down at you, his dark eyes soft but clouded with barely concealed worry. His handsome features, usually calm and collected, were now tense.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm, laced with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

Your throat was too raw to respond, so you gave a weak nod. Your gaze drifted to the side, trying to avoid the intensity of his stare. That’s when your eyes caught something on the ground.

An intricate, empty bottle lay there, its silver detailing catching the light. Inside, only a faint hint of red liquid remained. Recognition hit you like a thunderclap.

The Holy Water of Life.

Panic surged through you, chasing away the lingering haze. Your body tensed, and your mind raced. Did Jinwoo use it on me? No... He was supposed to save that for his mother!

“Hey,” Jinwoo’s voice broke through your spiraling thoughts. His hand cupped your chin, gently tilting your face back toward him. “Calm down. There’s still five more.”

Relief washed over you, your tense shoulders sagging as his words registered. You vaguely remembered now—six Holy Waters of Life. In the manhwa, Jinwoo used one on his mother, one for Jinho’s father, and another on Go Gunhee after revising the timeline. Only three had remained by the end.

But now, one of those had been used on you.

You opened your mouth to protest, to apologize, but Jinwoo moved before you could. His arms shifted, one sliding under your knees and the other bracing your back as he stood, lifting you effortlessly.

“J-Jinwoo!” you yelped, squirming in his hold. “Put me down! I can walk!”

“Stop,” Jinwoo said, his tone brooking no argument. His grip tightened slightly as he began walking. “You’re in no condition to argue. Let’s go back.”

Your protests faltered, a mix of embarrassment and exhaustion rendering you silent. As Jinwoo carried you, you craned your neck, searching for Esil. The demoness stood a short distance away, her hands half-raised as if debating whether to reach out.

“Esil!” you called, your voice hoarse but carrying as much warmth as you could muster. She flinched at first but quickly recovered, her expression softening into one of cautious hope.

“I hope I can see you again soon!”

Before Esil could respond, the shadows around Jinwoo swirled, enveloping both of you in their cold embrace. The last thing you saw was Esil’s small, hesitant smile as she watched you disappear.

End Note:

Unfinished Draft of [23/11/2024] -

#solo leveling imagine #solo leveling #only i level up #solo leveling x reader #sung jin woo x reader #sung jinwoo x reader #jinwoo sung x reader #sung jinwoo #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jin woo #yandere sung jinwoo #solo leveling fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #reader insert #x reader #fem reader

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keepingitformyself · 8 months ago

Text

and my waves meet your shore

A/N: this one has been in the drafts for two years.... synopsis: natasha seems to have found silence in all the noise.

MASTERLIST

pairings: natasha romanoff x reader

genre: angst, fluff.

warnings: sad natasha :(

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

natasha romanoff has lived a very lonely ife.

however, as sad as it may seem natasha never once payed any heed to it. relationships and rapport had rarely been acknowledged by her superiors during her time in the red room. but if it ever was it was only to display the inconvenience it would bring to her life.

so as a stead natasha had only ever put her mind to the things she was instructed to, unfortunately companionship had never been in that spectrum for her.

her lack of agency had always made that easier for her. she was always taught to deflect at any first sign of fragility and she never needed anyone else because— well she was simply better off on her own.

still, thoughts of having any sense of togetherness or intimacy would sometimes cross her mind, but as soon as they came she was always quick to brush them off.

it took her some time to discard the habit of having that mentality.

natasha’s upbringing was one made up of unspeakable catastrophe, things one simply could not ever bear to speak about. she had taken too many falls, and she had shed too much blood and tears for a life she never intended.

but when she did manage to set herself free, plagued with nothing but the haunts of the past she left behind, with the very small amount of hope she had left in humanity, she rose slowly from the depths of a narrative she’d never spare a glance back at again.

and she had clint barton to thank for that. he would never understand the amount of gratitude she had towards the archer. he had given her a sense of family, a sense of home. he let her in and introduced her to his own life outside of what it meant to be on the light side of the fight.

he was her first shot at a real human relationship. her shot at a second chance.

it had flicked a switch inside of her whenever she saw clint hug his kids and kiss their cheeks. natasha had only ever known cruelty, she had never seen something so benevolent before.

she liked it whenever she got to see that side of him, the side that wasn’t so stoic and on high alert all the time, the side that wasn’t agent barton.

it changed her perspective when it came to the world. she had only ever seen the ugly in people. her experience with some of the most horrendous things had allowed for her to see the humanity in others.

but unfortunately, never in herself.

even after switching her allegiance to the avengers she still couldn’t bear the thought of the person she used to be, the one that was the exact opposite of who she is now.

she devoted herself to the fight and had made her own separate code to live by. it became a need for her to do only the great or good, so much so that she was willing to put her own life on the line if it ever came to it. her entire life became one of redemption.

natasha romanoff had lived a tragic life. no one would ever understand her and her troubled past, and no one had ever made the time to try.

that is until she met you.

she had met you in a weird time in her life. taking down what was left of shield also meant exposing who she was before her years as an agent at shield.

many people were out of a job after that. some moved on, others promoted into whatever secret agency would come next. you however, had been offered a spot next to the world’s mightiest heroes.

she was wary of you, of course. she had the right to be. it wasn’t everyday someone would show up out of the blue and offer her a piece of themselves.

you were like that a lot. natasha quickly learned you had no problem in sharing parts about you to make others feel better. sure, you weren’t someone who carried a large amount of baggage like the rest of them, but that felt refreshing to most of the team.

natasha never got to pick her battles before, until now. she’d always deny saying that she hated the fight more than she showed.

the truth is, natasha wasn’t ready for a fight much like this one, but nonetheless, it was still one she wouldn’t surrender to.

—

natasha has nightmares. bad ones too.

it’s the same thing every time they happen. she wakes up in the night and paces her room, it feels like a fire inside. the smoke that isn’t there manages to make her feel like it consumes her into its flames.

she feels helpless in its flames, she convinced herself that the lifetimes worth of nightmares is what she deserves. she cries and hopes that it ends soon, all she can do is hold her own until it passes.

suddenly, you barge in. you find natasha on the floor, looking frail and disrupted. you don’t waste a moment in rushing towards her.

you don’t even think about how you’ve never been in such close proximity to her. then you hug her. you tell her that she’s okay, that it’s okay.

she never pushes you off and it surprises you, natasha quickly figures that she likes to be held and you feel warm against her, so she lets you.

you kiss her dampened forehead and keep coaxing her, telling her anything and everything that you think might help her. you never push her into opening up, you understand the intimacy of it, natasha is thankful for that.

when you feel her breath steady and her cries have grown quieter you walk her back to her bed. you both look at each other for a moment and she breathes out before saying.

“thank you.” her voice comes out in a rasp.

you only nod, a small smile on your face. you make your way to leave until you feel her hand graze your own. you meet her eyes again with a furrow in your brows.

the look she gives you tells you that she doesn’t want this to be brought up again and that she trusts that it will remain between you both. your hand touches her own,

“you can trust me.” is all you say before leaving back towards where you came from.

when natasha wakes up that morning she finds that she hates her reflection in the mirror. she notices pieces of her old self when staring into her eyes.

she clenches the counter under her hands and squeezes her eyes until she musters up enough courage to walk out of her bedroom door.

when she makes her way into the busy kitchen she’s greeted instantly by everyone. she smiles and greets back, acting as if nothing had happened the night prior. that is until she feels a warm cup being pushed into her hands.

“morning, i made your coffee. i’ll serve you a plate in just a moment.” you greet the redhead with a smile. she raises her eyebrows in surprise and takes the coffee in her hands.

she sits besides clint and hums in contentment once she figures out that you made her cup just the way she liked it. black and one sugar.

you make breakfast easy for her to feel comfortable in. you act as if nothing had happened and continue to pass around jokes with the boys. natasha even passes you the ketchup bottle with a small smile when you ask for it. your mind cheers at the small progress you think you’ve made.

now, natasha knows that she can somewhat trust you and in the enlightenment of that she starts to loosen herself when it comes to you.

since then you’ve seen more of natasha around the building and you notice how she’s open to your company even more.

you now find the redhead sitting next to you during meals if she finds a space empty and she acknowledges you with a smile if you see her passing in hallways throughout the day.

one particular moment that really catches you by surprise is when you finally let yourself make the time to sharpen your knife collection. you hadn’t had the chance to since work piled up and it wasn’t until today that you were now allowed a free day.

and when you make it to your armory you find that all your blades and knives had been sharpened and cleaned. a note left by the redhead in your locker.

‘i know you haven’t had the time. -N’ you’re left shocked but don’t even question how she knew this despite never mentioning it to her.

two weeks later, she walks up to you in the middle of your workout. she taps your shoulder and you remove your earbud to turn towards her.

“hi!” you say too enthusiasticly, surprised she had walked up to you to start a conversation.

you’ve learned by now to never push for her attention, you let her come to you when she wants to. everything had to happen at her own pace if you want to be her friend.

she invites you for movies in her room later that night. a shy smile invades her face as she releases the sentence, you could tell she seemed a bit nervous at the idea of being in a room alone with you.

you agree as cooly as you can, careful to not overexcite your response in case she suddenly sees it as weird.

later that night you find yourself in bed with natasha, she shares her bag of skittles with you whilst she chooses a movie. you smile when you notice the stash of snacks she had hidden, a variety of skittles and reece’s. you make a mental note to gift her some more of her favorite snacks.

she makes you watch her favorite bond films, you never point it out but you know for most of the movies she had watched you instead.

the gears turn in natasha’s head. she watches you laugh and sees the fascination swirl in your eyes as you become invested in the action sequences.

she searches and searches for any sign of bad intention in you. part of her has not fully comprehended how someone like you had wanted to be involved with someone like her. she knows how patient you’ve been…but why?

she absolutely cannot help it that she feels this way, not when it’s been programmed into her to never be this vulnerable.

but every bone within her knows you’re anything but ill-intended. her mind just simply can’t wrap around the idea that someone seems to want to stay.

once the movie had finished you stayed back for a while to talk. you had no problem in taking charge of most of the conversation, you knew natasha was still adjusting to you.

she asks you questions, you answer.

you tell her about your family. you grew up in brooklyn, a cute brownstone in the park slope neighborhood. you had two older siblings, each four years older. a brother, a stockbroker and your sister who was an interior designer.

you notice the small quirk in natasha’s face when you mention your siblings, you decide not to question it.

until two weeks later. you’re in her room again and she brings it up during a harry potter marathon.

“i have a sister.” is all she has to say before you pause the movie.

“pardon?” you look at her, but she’s still staring at the screen.

“i have a sister, or had, i don’t really know where she is now.”

you tread carefully with your next question.

“do you think about her a lot?” the question finally makes her look at you.

“all the time.” she whispers.

you think of how devastating it may be for her to know someone out there was once a part of her.

“thank you for telling me.”

—————

after a solo mission to johannesburg you come back in very bad shape. you’d barely made it out by the time an airlift came to retrieve you.

and once you’re lifted into the jet by a combat med you don’t notice the worried redhead that’s in the jet waiting for you as well.

she grabs your face in her two hands, worried expression on her face.

you’re breathing heavy, and you’re clutching your stomach with the same arm that’s throbbing.

all you can really do is give her a bloodied smile.

you take a sharp breath in, “hey…” then your eyelids go heavy and you don’t really remember much of anything after that.

by the time you’ve landed it’s all a mess. everyone hears about your state, and the whole team is there to meet you at the landing dock when you’re being carried in a stretcher into the compound.

natasha only talks to three people until you wake up. steve to report everything to, and bruce and doctor cho for any inquiry on your state of health.

despite everyone’s efforts to convince natasha you’re fine, she’s stays put and keeps her eye on you through surgery. clint tries to get her to eat but his attempts fail, only met with complete silence. and wanda tries to tell her to at least freshen up for you, but she’s met with silence yet again.

it’s all honestly a bit off putting how eerily quiet she got. the team decides then, that when it comes to you it’s best to just let her be.

but she’s there again when you wake up in the med bay. she instantly hears your shift in breathing and wakes up only seconds after you do.

“you’re awake.” is the first thing she says.

and you in your disoriented state say,

“good. i’m really loopy still, so i can’t really tell if i’m dreaming or not.”

natasha lets out what sounds like a relieved sigh or a laugh, but it makes you smile, and you both stare at eachother for a few seconds.

you look at her, a grateful smile on your face.

the gears in natasha’s head turn. something about the way she found you almost twenty four hours ago had shifted something in her.

she was with steve when you reported you may need extraction as soon as possible. your breathing was ragged and you let out at strangled whimper before the line cut off.

“i’m going.” was all natasha said before she headed off to pack a bag. she was there before the extraction team fifteen minutes later.

it was hard to think of anything else besides you, on her way to you. and it was hard to think of anything else besides being with you when she finally got to you.

it was something she couldn’t quite place, or maybe she could, maybe she wasn’t ready to face it yet.

you squint your eyes at the redhead next to you, noticing her deep in thought state. you almost think you see a twinge of something else besides relief in her eyes. but before you could question it almost robotically a mask is put back up.

“i’ll go get, cho.” is all she says before she clears her throat and leaves.

after that, you catch natasha around you alot. more than usual.

suddenly every partner mission you’re assigned to, natasha is there with you ready to go.

and you never find out, but she made steve promise to assign you both together. she never really tells him why, even when he asks she’s quite good at deflecting those questions.

and quite honestly, he didn’t have it in himself to question her, knowing she always had everyone’s best interests in mind.

it’s a little past midnight when you find natasha sitting on the compound’s balcony. the distant hum of the city mixes with the soft chirping of crickets, creating a quiet melody that feels oddly serene. she doesn’t startle when you join her, doesn’t even glance up, but you notice the slight tension in her shoulders ease as you settle into the chair beside her.

the silence between you stretches, comfortable yet charged with unspoken words. she’s never been much for small talk—her world operates on subtleties and actions rather than open confessions. you’ve learned to understand her language, the way she communicates through fleeting gestures and careful glances.

“i didn’t expect you to be awake,” she finally says, voice low and steady. her gaze is fixed on the horizon, as if the view holds answers she’s not ready to share.

“couldn’t sleep,” you reply, mirroring her tone. “too quiet.”

she huffs a quiet laugh. “you don’t strike me as someone who likes noise.”

“i don’t. but sometimes, silence is its own kind of noise, don’t you think?”

her eyes flicker toward you, studying your profile like she’s trying to decipher a code. you don’t push; you’ve never needed to. natasha unfolds on her terms, like a flower reluctant to bloom under artificial light.

“i used to hate silence,” she admits after a moment. “it felt… heavy. like it was waiting to crush me.”

you nod, not saying anything but giving her the space to continue.

“then, i realized it wasn’t the silence i hated. it was being alone in it.”

the admission hangs in the air, raw and unguarded in a way natasha rarely allows herself to be. you shift in your seat, careful to keep your movements unassuming.

“you’re not alone anymore,” you say gently, your voice barely above a whisper.

her head tilts, and for a brief moment, you see the war behind her eyes—the battle between wanting to believe you and the deep-seated scars of her past telling her otherwise.

“it doesn’t feel like it when you’re around,” she finally says, her voice soft but carrying the weight of her sincerity.

it’s a small victory, but one that fills your chest with warmth. you glance at her, and this time, she meets your eyes. there’s a vulnerability in her gaze, a quiet plea for something she doesn’t know how to ask for.

“you don’t have to carry it all by yourself,” you say. “not anymore.”

her lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile, and she looks back out at the skyline.

“i know.”

it’s not an overt declaration or a grand epiphany, but it’s enough. natasha romanoff doesn’t find solace in words. she finds it in actions, in the quiet moments shared with someone who sees her for who she is and stays anyway.

natasha hesitates, her fingers drumming lightly on the armrest of her chair. she’s rarely still for long—always poised, always prepared to move, to act. but tonight, she’s caught between the present and the thousand questions swirling in her mind.

her voice comes unexpectedly, low and careful. “when you were hurt on that mission…” she pauses, her jaw tightening as she fights the urge to retreat into herself. “…i realized something.”

you turn toward her fully, watching as she wrestles with whatever it is she’s trying to say. her hands rest on her lap now, and her gaze is focused on them as though the answers are carved into her palms.

“nat…” you prompt softly, giving her space to continue.

she exhales, a sound heavy with reluctance and resolve. “i’ve lost people before. more than i can count. and i always told myself it was… just part of the job. you can’t stop to feel when you’re in the middle of everything. you can’t afford to.”

you stay quiet, knowing this isn’t the moment for interruptions.

“but when i saw you…” her voice falters, her fingers curling into fists before relaxing again. “it wasn’t the same. i didn’t—” she stops, looks up at you with a rare vulnerability that makes your chest ache. “i didn’t know what I’d do if you didn’t come back.”

the admission is small, almost swallowed by the quiet around you, but it lands with the force of something much larger. you feel the words settle in your chest, warm and grounding.

you lean forward slightly, letting the closeness fill the space between you. “you don’t have to say anything you’re not ready for,” you offer, keeping your tone as gentle as you can. “but just so you know… i’m not going anywhere.”

natasha’s lips press into a thin line, her gaze searching yours as though she’s testing the truth of your words. slowly, her hand moves, and she brushes her fingers against yours. it’s tentative, a question wrapped in the smallest of gestures.

you respond by turning your hand over, letting her fingers slip into yours. it’s not much—a barely-there connection—but to natasha, it feels monumental.

“i don’t know what this is,” she admits, her voice trembling just slightly, “or if i even deserve it. but... you make me feel something i didn’t think i could anymore.”

your breath catches at her confession, the subtle weight of it more than you expected but exactly what you’ve been hoping for.

“i think you deserve a lot more than you give yourself credit for,” you reply, your thumb brushing softly over her knuckles. “and whatever this is, i’m okay with figuring it out… with you.”

she doesn’t respond immediately, but the way her grip tightens around your hand is all the answer you need. the silence that follows is comfortable, filled not with the weight of unspoken fears but with the quiet promise of something new.

natasha glances at you once more, her green eyes soft in the moonlight. “thank you,” she murmurs. it’s the second time she’s said it to you, but tonight it carries more meaning, more intention.

for the first time in a long time, natasha feels the silence settle.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow x reader #black widow #marvel #natasha romanoff imagine

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mggssocks · 2 months ago

Text

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: Fem!Kook!Reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: explicit sexual content, MC being kind of a bitch lol.

a/n: here's an extra long chapter to hold you over until I have the chance to start writing chapter five! also look at the scene matching with this gif and the end of the chapter (super proud of myself lol)

Rafe is sprawled across your bed. Comfortable. Too comfortable. He’s in his boxers- which are still damp, but not enough for him to care. Not that the two of you did anything. He just strolled in, stripped down, and claimed your bed like it was his birthright. He even tossed his clothes into your hamper without asking, like he lives here.

You’re lucky you’ve been doing your own laundry. If Chelsea -your parents’ maid- had been the one to collect it this week, she’d have a full-blown heart attack finding Rafe Cameron’s drenched designer jeans and clinging white shirt buried among your sleep shorts and socks. She’d tell your mother. And your mother would start planning your elopement or your funeral.

You kneel in front of the hamper now, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, trying to ball it up in yours. You shove it down deep, beneath your soft tees and cotton tanks, hoping it blends in when you load the washer later.

Your eyes flick up instinctively -just a glance- but you pause when you see him.

He’s lying on his side now, one arm propped under his head, completely focused on the TV. Fran Fine is mid-rant, exaggerated and nasal and ridiculous as always, and Rafe- Rafe Cameron of all people- actually chuckles.

Real. Quiet. Almost soft.

You mentally curse yourself because, God help you, you smile at the sound.

“You’re watching The Nanny now?” you ask, trying to shake off the warmth threatening to melt the iciness you’ve worked so hard to maintain around him.

He shrugs, eyes still on the screen. “She’s hot. And mean. I like her.”

“Figures.” You stand, brushing your hands on your thighs and leaning against your dresser.

“So, are you gonna tell me why you’re really here, or are you just planning on hiding from a hurricane in my bed all night?”

He glances at you, the humor flickering off his face just for a second. It’s quick. Almost invisible. But you catch it.

“Tannyhill lost power,” he says. It’s nonchalant. Too easy.

You narrow your eyes. “You have a generator.”

“It broke.”

“Convenient.”

His mouth tugs slightly to the side. Not a smirk. Something else. You don’t push- yet. But you don’t sit down either. You keep your distance, because even when he’s lying half-naked in your bed, Rafe has a way of making you feel like you’re the one exposed.

“You always deflect like this?” you ask. Your tone is light, but your eyes are sharp.

He stretches a little, but not lazily. Like he’s restless. Like there’s something crawling under his skin that he doesn’t want to name.

“You always interrogate your houseguests?” he volleys back, gaze fixed on the ceiling now.

“Only the ones who sneak in soaking wet, throw their clothes in my hamper, and then pretend they don’t have an agenda.”

Silence hangs for a beat. The laugh track from the TV fills the background. His fingers drum lightly on the blanket, a steady rhythm that’s meant to distract from the way his jaw tightens.

You don’t know what it is -can’t name it- but something is off. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just… off.

His chest rises on a slow inhale. “Can’t I just be here because I wanted to see you?”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“You ghosted me.”

His eyes finally meet yours again. This time, there’s no smirk.

“Yeah.” It’s all he says. But his voice sounds… hollow.

You shift, your arms folding across your chest like a shield. “You didn’t want to see me when you were with Sofia.”

The name hits the air like static.

Rafe looks away. Scrubs a hand down his face. He’s unraveling in micro-movements now. The twitch of a brow. The way his foot taps once, like he’s trying to ground himself.

You watch all of it.

And you realize he’s not just here for you.

He’s hiding from something.

And maybe you’re not sure what.

But the storm inside him feels a lot louder than the one howling outside your windows. You make your way toward the bed and let yourself fall backward, the mattress dipping beneath you with a soft thump. The fabric of your dress shifts as you land, the neckline gaping just enough to expose the slope of your cleavage.

You feel his eyes almost instantly. Of course he’s looking.

Rafe’s gaze settles in that small reveal like it’s a goddamn magnet, his head tilting just slightly to try and catch more than he should.

You groan- frustration painted over faint satisfaction that he’s even here.

You hate how much of you wants him to look.

“I can make you make that sound for real, if you want,” he says, voice thick with teasing, one hand creeping slowly across the mattress, reaching for your frame.

You roll to your side, deliberately facing away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

He huffs a low, amused breath. “You’re relentless.”

His head tips back and he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing like he’s trying to clear his thoughts- or erase them.

“You’re basically naked in my bed during a hurricane and still not telling me why you’re here.”

“Does there need to be a reason?”

“Yes.”

You flip back over, propping yourself on your elbows. Your legs kick lightly behind you, your nightgown slipping ever so slightly up your thighs. It’s innocent enough- except nothing about you looks innocent to him in this moment.

Your hair’s a little messy, your lips a little pouty, your tone annoyed but your presence undeniably inviting.

And Rafe can barely sit still.

“I can say anything,” he shrugs, eyes gliding over your legs, “but honestly? I just wanna put you through the mattress.”

It’s a dodge. A cover. But he’s not exactly lying either. Your legs stop swinging.

The warmth that pulses from the center of your body startles even you, and the way your thighs press just slightly together isn’t lost on him.

You study him for a beat. Trying to decide if that’s really it. If he just came here in the middle of a storm with soaking wet clothes -and those eyes that don’t miss a thing- just to get off.

You don’t buy it. So you shift. Slowly. Crawling over the bed until you’re straddling his hips.

He leans back on his elbows, a smug expression already blooming on his lips. He thinks you’re giving in.

You are- but not in the way he expects.

You slide one finger down his chest, stopping right above the waistband of his boxers.

“Tell me why you’re really here,” you whisper, lips hovering just above his, “and I’ll let you do exactly that.”

It’s a power move. But it’s not just a game. You need to know.

Because if he says the wrong thing, you’re pushing him off this bed so fast his wet clothes won’t even be put in your washer yet by the time he hits the front porch.

Rafe’s lips part. His hands grip your waist. You feel the shift in him almost instantly. His cocky mask falters, just slightly, and when he looks up at you now- he isn’t teasing.

He lets out a long, slow breath and gently lifts you off him, settling you beside him instead. You blink, caught off guard. His hand stays at your hip, grounding you.

“I saw your dad,” he says quietly.

You stiffen.

“In his car. With some woman.”

He swallows. His voice is different now- low, but not cruel. Careful, even.

“She was… younger. Blonde. Not like your mom. It wasn’t professional.”

Your throat tightens. But you don’t cry. You don’t say anything for a long moment- just stare at the ceiling, your chest rising and falling in careful, quiet breaths.

He moves closer, resting a hand across your stomach, thumb brushing soft circles into your side. You still don’t speak. But you don’t pull away either. So he stays. Holding you like it’s the only way he knows how to tell the truth.

You think.

Everything floods in at once-memories crashing into you like the rain against your windows. Every single day you’ve ever lived with your father as the backdrop… flashes in an instant. You remember being little, standing on his dress shoes while he spun you around the kitchen.

You remember the way he spoiled you-waking up to a brand-new car on your sixteenth birthday, thousands spent on impromptu girls’ nights just because you’d had a rough week. His voice echoing in your head, giving advice that always started wise but ended in rants. Rants that bled into pressure.

Pressure to be someone. To be perfect. To follow a path he traced for you before you ever chose it yourself.

All those speeches about honor. Discipline. Control. And yet he gets to blow it all up?

He gets to cheat on your mother. To destroy your family from the inside out. And somehow you’re the one who’s supposed to keep it together? Screw that. If he gets to live however he wants-why can’t you?

Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck this.

Before you even realize it, your body moves faster than your thoughts. You swing a leg over Rafe’s lap, straddling him again- and this time, your lips find his without hesitation.

It’s fast. Needy. Dizzy with heat and frustration.

Your hands slide up his chest, wet hair sticking slightly to your fingers as you kiss him like he’s the only solid thing in your storm.

But he stops you. Pulls back just slightly, breath heavy against your cheek.

“Woah, woah, woah-” his hands frame your waist, voice suddenly more serious. “You sure?”

His brows knit together. He’s not cocky now. Just searching your face like he’s trying to read the cracks in you.

Your hands slide into his damp hair, tugging slightly. Your eyes meet his, glassy but firm.

“I’m sure.”

You kiss him again- deeper this time. And this time… he doesn’t pull away. Everything is happening too fast for you to think straight, let alone wisely.

You’re about to have sex with a guy who’s been toying with your feelings- who’s made you question yourself more times than you can count.

And for what? Because your dad is cheating? Because everything feels like it’s falling apart and you need something -someone- to anchor you?

The rationale is gone. Slipped through your fingers and twisted up somewhere with the wind and the rain and the chaos of the hurricane outside.

All that’s left is impulse. Heat. The ache for control in a moment where everything else is spinning.

Your lips refuse to part from his, greedy and feverish, like letting go might shatter the spell. You shift, pressing into your knees, lifting yourself just enough to tug your nightdress up and over your hips. The fabric pools around your waist as your skin meets the humid air.

Rafe follows your lead, his hands moving with an eager kind of restraint as he pushes his boxers down, the wet fabric sliding over his thighs.

Your hand slips between your bodies, slow and intentional, fingers wrapping around him with a teasing touch that makes him inhale sharply through his nose. You trace him softly, deliberately, watching his face shift.

But then- he breaks the kiss. Breathless. Serious.

“My wallet’s in the car. I don’t have a condom,” he admits, his voice low.

You pause, logic flickering in your mind. You’re not on birth control. You should stop this- back out, or at least settle for something safer. Mutual pleasure. Hands. Mouths. No risk. But… yolo… right?

You hold his gaze, deadpan. “Your pull-out game better be A1.”

He studies your face, just for a second, then nods with that cocky, reassuring smirk. “It is.”

You lift yourself off the bed, positioning yourself perfectly over Rafe's rigid length, which still glistens from your wetness. You pretend the wetness between your thighs only started now- not when he first walked through the door, rain-soaked and smug, his shirt clinging to every inch of his body.

Sinking down onto him, your eyes flutter shut in pure bliss as your walls envelop his thick cock. Rafe's breath catches and his muscles relax into the mattress beneath him. You start slow, your hips rolling in a deliberate, sensual rhythm. But it doesn’t stay gentle for long-soon, the pace quickens, urgency building as you rock and grind against him, your movements growing more desperate, more unrestrained.

Your palms press firmly against his chest, grounding yourself against the steady rise and fall of his breath as you move harder over him. His skin is warm under your touch, muscles taut beneath your fingers, and you use his strength like an anchor, chasing that high.

The bed creaks in protest, shifting under the rhythm of your body, but you barely register it-too wrapped up in the overwhelming pleasure building low in your stomach.

Typically, riding isn’t your first choice in bed. Not even your second. Honestly? It’s probably your last. But tonight, with the way Rafe’s hands grip your thighs, the way his eyes are locked onto you like you’re the only thing that exists-it feels different.

The rhythm between you builds, your body rising and falling against his as the storm outside rages on, a chaotic symphony to match the one unfolding in your bedroom. The faint hum of The Nanny still plays in the background, Fran Fine’s voice comically misaligned with the tension in the room. But there’s only so much the TV can cover-only so many moans and stifled gasps it can excuse.

Your bed creaks beneath you, the headboard tapping softly against the wall with each movement. It’s not violent-just insistent. Focused.

Then you feel it bubbling up, the pleasure threatening to crest. You let out a moan- his name, breathy and high-and suddenly his hand is over your mouth, smirking underneath you like the smug bastard he is.

“Careful,” he murmurs, cocky and low, his eyes half-lidded. “You sound like you want your parents to know you’re getting ruined right now.”

“Shut up, smart ass,” you moan out, breath catching in your throat as you use what’s left of your strength to flip the both of you over. He lets you -chuckling into your neck- but the moment your back hits the mattress, he takes control again, slipping his hands under your thighs and shifting his weight so he’s hovering over you.

The smirk is still there, cocky as ever, but softened now by something else-something heavier.

He leans in, brushing his lips over yours just once before speaking, voice barely above a whisper.

“You like it better when I’m on top, don’t you?”

You don’t answer, but the way your legs tighten around his waist is more than enough. He grins, lowering his hips to meet yours again, slower this time- deeper. Your head falls back into the pillow with a breathy gasp.

“I knew it,” he mutters, lips trailing along your jaw. “You act like you hate me, but your body-” he pauses, pushing into you harder, “-she’s honest.”

You bite your lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction of another moan, but it slips out anyway. The storm outside rages louder, the windows rattling in their frames-but here, in this moment, the only thing that exists is him. And the way he’s ruining you.

“Rafe-I’m so close,” you breathe out, voice breaking on the moan that follows.

Before the sound can fully leave your lips, his hand covers your mouth again-smooth, familiar, like he’s done it a thousand times. The move is effortless, casual. His other hand stays braced beside your head while his mouth travels down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone. You gasp beneath his palm, nails clawing into his back without mercy, dragging red lines down his skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself to the moment.

There’s no explaining this if your parents come knocking. No “it was the TV” excuse that could cover the sound of the bed hitting the wall like this. Your muffled moans. The low growl of Rafe’s voice against your skin.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, lifting his head to look at you-his hand still on your mouth, his eyes locked on yours. “So damn tight- taking me so well. Just like I knew you would.”

Your eyes roll back and he grins through his own panting, watching you unravel beneath him. His pace falters just slightly, his own release not far behind. You can feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his breath hitches when your legs clamp tighter around his waist.

You’re dangerously close now- your body burning, your thoughts a haze of pleasure and disbelief that this is happening. That he’s here. That this is him.

And when you cum, it hits like a wave- your whole body shaking under him as you cry out into his hand, back arching, toes curling. Rafe swears low, pulling you in tighter, chasing his own high until he pulls out and releases -finally- collapsing on top of you, breathing hard, both of you soaked in sweat and silence except for the distant thunder outside.

His hand finally drops from your mouth. He presses a kiss to your shoulder- surprisingly soft. And for a moment, the only thing either of you can do… is breathe.

“So it’s official… your pullout game is strong,” you tease, your voice still breathless, a lazy smirk curling at your lips.

Rafe lets out a low chuckle, following your gaze as your eyes peek down between your bodies to where the evidence of him glistens on your stomach.

He grins, cocky and proud. “Told you it was A1.”

You swat at his shoulder, still catching your breath. “Don’t get cocky.”

He raises a brow. “Bit late for that.”

You roll your eyes and shift slightly beneath him, the hem of your nightdress bunched around your hips. You reach for the tissue box on your nightstand, but Rafe beats you to it. He leans over, grabs a few, and starts gently wiping the mess from your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world-like this is just… something you two do. It’s surprisingly tender for a guy who was just rearranging your insides.

“You’re smug,” you say, your voice softening as you lie back against the pillows.

“And you’re beautiful,” he replies without missing a beat. It’s so smooth it should annoy you, but the way he’s looking at you now- his tone more sincere than before- makes your stomach flip.

You study his face. He’s not smiling like before. His eyes have that unreadable expression again, the one that says he’s thinking too hard about something.

“What?” you ask cautiously.

He exhales, his fingers slowing on your skin. “About earlier…”

Your brows pull together.

“About your dad.” His voice is lower now, quieter. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have told you like that.”

You pause, a beat of silence stretching between you.

“It’s fine,” you say, even though it’s not. “I mean… it’s not like you cheated on my mom. He did.”

Rafe watches you closely, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re really okay or just pretending to be. You don’t give him much. You’re good at hiding it. You shrug. “Besides, I didn’t exactly seem heartbroken a few minutes ago.”

He frowns a little, like he doesn’t like that joke- but you’re already rolling onto your side, smoothing your nightdress back down like any trace of what just happened isn’t still lingering in the room.

“That’s how we’re coping now, huh?” he says, half-joking but half-serious.

You turn back to him. “Rafe, I have to live in this house with him. I can’t let myself spiral. So yeah, maybe sex and sarcasm are what I’ve got for now.”

He nods slowly, as if accepting your answer even if he doesn’t like it.

And then, after a pause, he says softly, “If you need anything…”

“I won’t call you,” you say with a smirk.

He laughs under his breath, then watches you for a long moment. “You’re kind of a menace, you know that?”

You slip back under the covers beside him, the silky fabric of your nightdress brushing against his skin. “You’re the one who came to my balcony during a hurricane and I’m the menace?”

That earns a crooked smile from him, one of the rare ones that almost looks sweet. Almost.

It’s 8 in the morning.

You and Rafe had fallen asleep not long after your… activities. You missed dinner entirely. Your parents probably wondered why you never came down to eat, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Rafe Cameron had been in your bed- half-cuddling you, though still somehow managing to keep a sliver of distance. Typical.

Now, you’re in the laundry room, shoving damp clothes into the dryer, subtly trying to bury Rafe’s jeans and shirt in the mix.

“You missed dinner.” Your mother’s voice slices through the quiet, and you jump so violently that you smack your head on the cabinet above the washer.

“Shit- ow!” you hiss, hand flying up to cradle the spot as you squeeze your eyes shut in pain.

“Watch your mouth,” she scolds, the spoon in her tea stopping mid-stir.

“Well, sorry, you-” you catch her death glare just in time and rework your words. “You startled me.”

Your heart is pounding, the sting in your scalp barely registering. Between your dad’s affair and Rafe hiding upstairs, you’re already fraying at the edges.

She lifts her chin. “Maybe if you weren’t sneaking around all morning, you wouldn’t be so jumpy. Why were you walking around at three A.M.?”

Your stomach drops. Fast and hard. Shit.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say quickly, turning your back to her as you keep transferring clothes into the dryer like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “The wind kept waking me up.”

That was a lie. The truth? Rafe had nudged you awake around three in the morning, grumbling that he was starving. You’d tiptoed downstairs like some sort of criminal to raid the pantry and bring him snacks.

“And you didn’t show up for dinner,” she presses.

You resist the urge to groan and instead take a deep breath, plastering on your most convincing fake smile. You turn to face her with a soft sigh. “Actually… I was thinking about what you said a few weeks ago. About my future. And I finally decided to start that diet you’ve been trying to get me on.”

She tilts her head, curious now.

“I mean, if I’m going to be taken seriously in the fashion world, especially designing for small figures, I should be able to fit into the clothes myself, right?”

There it was. The lie of the century, all to protect the fact that a boy -Rafe Cameron- was naked in your bed upstairs. And worse, you didn’t even want to be part of her designer world.

“Really?” she breathes, her voice suddenly bright, hopeful. “You’re doing the Valentina & Co. internship?”

She’s so excited, she loses that usual clipped, country-club composure. For a second, you almost feel guilty. Almost.

“I can’t believe this! Oh my god- this is huge. I have to go make some calls!” she says, already spinning on her heel with her tea sloshing in her cup.

You turn back to the dryer, letting your expression drop, eyes rolling hard. God, you love her- but she’s so easy to fool. So trusting. No wonder your dad thinks he can get away with screwing around behind her back.

You close the dryer door shut and hit the start button, pretending the churning inside wasn’t a metaphor for your entire life.

You slam your bedroom door shut and lock it, exhaling hard as your back hits the wood. You push your hair out of your face, fingers raking through it with more frustration than finesse. The sound startles Rafe, who’s standing by your keepsake cabinet, peering into your curated little shrine of growing up. His head whips toward you, but his attention is quickly drawn back to a photo-one of you, around eight years old, mid-sass in a pale pink leotard and tutu, hands on your hips, grinning at the camera like you owned the world.

“I didn’t know you did ballet,” he says, voice soft with genuine curiosity. His finger hovers over the frame, but he doesn’t touch it.

“For like ten years,” you reply, moving toward your dresser and yanking out a towel with more force than necessary. “My mom’s obsession with posture and poise. She thought ballet would mold me into the perfect daughter.”

Rafe finally looks away from the cabinet and toward you- toward the way your shoulders are tense, your movements rushed. His eyes flick down to your empty hands.

“I thought you’d bring me breakfast,” he pouts like a petulant child.

You shoot him a flat look. “Breakfast is the last thing on my mind right now.”

He flops dramatically onto your bed, arms splayed out. “It’s not the last thing on my mind. My stomach’s been crying since sunrise.”

You don’t smile, not yet. You gather your clothes and your towel, piling them into your arms, then pause at the edge of the bed.

“I told my mom I started a diet,” you say flatly, staring past him. “Said I was getting serious about the fashion industry… that I wanted to start fitting into the clothes I’m supposedly going to design.”

Rafe sits up slightly, brows furrowed. “Wait- what?”

“I lied,” you admit, the words falling from your mouth in a tired breath. “To cover for you. I panicked and said I was starting the Valentina & Co. internship she’s been begging me to apply for. And now she’s calling people. Setting things up. She’s… excited.”

He studies you for a second, eyes softer now. “But you don’t want that?”

“No.” You laugh without humor. “Not even a little.”

There’s a silence between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then Rafe stands and walks toward you, slower this time, careful. He lifts a hand to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “About everything. Your dad. Your mom. That you feel like you’re trapped in a life you don’t even want.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know. But I still hate seeing you like this.”

His hand lingers a second too long, and his eyes flick toward the bathroom door behind you. He smirks.

“You know,” he says, voice dipping just slightly, “showers are known to be therapeutic. Cleansing. Healing.”

You arch a brow.

“And you think joining me would help me heal?”

“Absolutely. Two bodies, one purpose,” he says with faux solemnity. “Let the steam melt our problems away.”

You roll your eyes but a reluctant smile threatens to break through.

“Fine,” you sigh. “But if you leave wet footprints on my rug again, I’m kicking you out.”

“I’ll be a ghost,” he promises, already starting to pull his shirt over his head with a grin. “Silent. Steamy. Respectfully naked.”

You shake your head and walk toward the bathroom, not bothering to hide the little smile tugging at your lips. Maybe the storm outside wasn’t the only thing slowly clearing up.

You stand quietly in your bedroom, a towel wrapped snugly around your torso, still damp from the shower. Across from you, Rafe is drying himself off, one hand gripping a towel at his waist, the other lazily running along his chest and shoulders. His skin is warm and flushed from the steam, water droplets still clinging to his collarbones.

You should look away- but your eyes trail over him anyway, from the slope of his shoulders to the curve of his back to the way his arm flexes as he dries himself. He’s casual about it. Comfortable. Like he belongs here.

And for a fleeting moment, it almost feels like he does.

But then your gaze shifts toward the French doors. Outside, the rain is softening-no longer slamming against the glass, just quietly pattering now, more of a whisper than a storm. The gray in the sky is still heavy, but light is starting to peek through.

Your heart sinks. He’s leaving soon.

Rafe seems to notice too. His head turns, following your gaze to the doors. A faint crease appears between his brows.

“Looks like it’s clearing up,” he says, voice low, almost reluctant. Then his eyes slide back to yours. “Are my clothes almost done?”

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out at first. Your throat feels tight. You know you should say something casual-keep it light, cool, distant. You don’t want to look like you’re wishing he’d stay. Like you care more than you should.

“Uh… I’ll check,” you finally manage, your voice soft and a little too quick.

You turn away from him, unwrapping the towel from your hair and shaking out the damp strands.

You move with more urgency than necessary, as if getting dressed will give you something to focus on other than the dull ache blooming in your chest.

You shimmy into a pair of underwear, tug on a white ribbed tank top, and step into your favorite overalls-worn in all the right places, soft with age. You don’t bother to style your hair, just twist it up in a loose clip as you glance over your shoulder.

Rafe is still standing there, towel low on his hips, watching you-not in a lustful way this time, but quiet. Like he knows what you’re not saying.

Neither of you speak for a beat. The sound of the rain fills the silence between you. Then you clear your throat, holding up your end of the lie. “I’ll go see if the dryer’s finished.”

You don’t wait for his reply. You just step toward the door, hoping he can’t read the thoughts spinning behind your eyes-he ones whispering that you don’t want him to go.

You’re curled up on Becca’s bed, sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand but unmoving. The lines you’ve started are light and hesitant, like your focus is somewhere else. Because it is. You haven’t added to the drawing in fifteen minutes.

Becca’s at her desk, flipping through a stack of magazines, pretending not to watch you, but she’s been sneaking glances every few seconds. Finally, she sets them down and swivels her chair toward you.

“Okay,” she says, folding her arms. “What’s eating at you?”

You blink down at the page, realizing you’ve been shading the same corner of a skirt hem over and over. You exhale, drop the pencil onto the page, and lean your head back against her headboard.

“Nothing,” you mutter.

Becca raises a brow.

You chew the inside of your cheek, then sigh- more to yourself than to her. “I caved.”

“Caved?” Becca repeats, tilting her head. “Caved what?”

You press the eraser of your pencil against your temple, tapping it in a steady, nervous rhythm.

“Rafe showed up on my balcony last night,” you say slowly. “In the middle of the storm. Like some absolute psychopath.”

Becca’s eyebrows rise. “Wait-what? Why?”

“He wouldn’t leave,” you mutter. “Said he couldn’t stop thinking about me. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. So I let him in and hid him in my room all night like some fugitive.”

She stares at you, eyes wide. “What the hell did he even want?”

You pause, your voice quieting. “He told me my dad is having an affair.”

Her expression shifts instantly. “Oh, Y/N…” she murmurs, rising from her desk and sitting beside you on the bed. Her arm wraps around your shoulders without hesitation. “I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head, eyes fixed on the worn edges of your sketchbook. “That’s not even the worst part.”

Her grip on you tightens slightly. “There’s more?”

You laugh bitterly. “Yeah. We had sex.”

Becca’s quiet, not surprised, just… waiting.

“I stayed in my room all night after that,” you continue. “Didn’t even come down for dinner. My mom started questioning me this morning-asking if I’d been avoiding food again. I panicked. Rafe was still in my room, hiding in my bathroom, so I just blurted out that I’d started that dumb diet again and-and that I wanted to do the Valentina & Co. internship.”

Her jaw drops. “You said yes to the internship? The one you’ve spent the last two years refusing?”

You nod, still not looking at her. “All because I didn’t want her to come upstairs and find out I had Rafe Cameron half-naked in my bedroom.”

Becca’s silent for a moment, then lets out a breath. “Wow.”

“I feel so stupid,” you whisper. “Like… what am I even doing? It’s been two and a half weeks. We’re not even anything. He shows up in the rain and suddenly I’m throwing away all my convictions-everything I said I wouldn’t do-for a guy who might not even give a shit.”

“You’re not stupid,” Becca says firmly. “You’re human.”

You finally look at her.

She shrugs. “Look, yeah-maybe it wasn’t the most rational series of choices. But you were caught off guard. The storm. Your dad’s affair. Rafe showing up out of nowhere. You’re allowed to want comfort. You’re allowed to feel something for someone, even if it hasn’t been that long. It doesn’t make your feelings any less valid.”

You look down again, your voice barely above a whisper. “But what if it was just nothing to him?”

Becca shakes her head. “Then that’s on him. Not you. You didn’t imagine the connection. He keeps coming back for a reason. And even if he never says what you want him to-what you deserve to hear-that doesn’t make you weak for hoping.”

You lean your head on her shoulder.

She rests hers against yours. “Also,” she adds, “I’m very impressed you managed to sneak Rafe Cameron past your mom. That’s like elite spy-level behavior.”

You smile, just a little.

“There she is,” Becca says softly.

Dinner feels like a performance you never agreed to audition for. The table is set perfectly, the lighting soft and warm, but none of it feels right. The silence is sharp, broken only by the occasional clink of silverware and the low buzz of your father’s phone, lighting up every few minutes with new messages he doesn’t bother to hide.

You sit across from him, jaw tight, appetite gone. Your mother, blissfully unaware of the minefield between you and him, offers a smile as she slices into her food.

“So,” she says lightly, “how are your designs coming along? Have you started anything yet for Valentina & Co.?”

You glance at her. You know she means well, but the question lands like a weight on your chest.

“I’ve only just decided to do this, Mom,” you say, forcing calm into your tone. “I need time.”

She nods, clearly trying to be encouraging. “Of course, of course. I just thought maybe you’d feel inspired with the rain and everything.”

Your dad chuckles under his breath. He’s still looking at his phone. “Time,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You’ve had plenty of time, if I remember correctly. Years of it, actually. Maybe if you’d taken things seriously from the beginning-”

You drop your fork with a quiet clatter. “I didn’t realize this was a performance review.”

That makes him look up. His brows lift, just slightly. “It’s not. But if you’re going to finally commit to something, I’d hope you actually follow through this time.”

You blink at him, your voice low and even. “Unlike some people and their commitments?”

The tension spikes instantly, your words landing harder than you intended. Your mom glances between you, brows tightening.

“Okay,” she says gently, “let’s not turn this into something it doesn’t need to be-”

“Funny,” you cut in, eyes still locked on your dad. “Because that’s exactly what he’s been doing.”

Your father stares at you for a second too long, like he’s trying to read something in your expression, but he clearly has no idea what you know. He leans back, arms folding slowly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You want to say it. You almost do. You want to slam the truth onto the table like a card he didn’t expect you to hold. You want to ask who he keeps texting and if she knows he wears his wedding ring while he’s doing it.

But not like this.

You push your chair back, scraping against the floor. “Forget it.”

“Y/N,” your dad starts again, but you’re already walking toward the stairs.

Your voice is clipped, your hands fists at your sides. “I’m not doing this right now.”

You don’t stop until you’re in your room, door closed, heart hammering. You’re not going to blow this in front of your mom. You’re not going to let him spin it or lie his way out of it. You’ll talk to him.

Alone.

And when you do, he’ll know you’re not a kid anymore.

Marie and Becca were never really friends- at least not in the way that counted. They didn’t dislike each other, but their relationship existed solely because of you. A mutual civility born from proximity. Their moms had a long-standing, mostly unspoken rivalry—something petty and suburban and wrapped in polite smiles-so growing up, they were rarely in the same room unless you were there to bridge the gap. Which is why, instead of hanging out at one of their houses, the three of you end up here- perched inside the wood-paneled sauna at the country club. A neutral zone. No one’s turf.

The steam curls thick around you as you lean your head back against the warm cedar wall, eyes closed, trying to let the heat melt away the hum of your thoughts. Sweat clings to your skin, your breathing slow and deliberate, but nothing inside you feels relaxed.

Not when Sofia is just a few doors down.

You’d seen her the moment you walked in. She was behind the bar, expertly mixing a drink without looking up. She hadn’t noticed you -or maybe she had and just didn’t care- but either way, her indifference hit harder than it should have.

You felt stupid. Like a stalker.

Becca had said it outright earlier this week, and she wasn’t wrong. “You’re obsessing over a girl who doesn’t even know she’s in the ring with you,” she’d told you. “It’s not a love triangle- it’s just sad.”

At the time, you’d laughed it off. Now, it just stung. Because the truth was, you had become obsessed- tracking Rafe’s behavior like it was a math problem you could solve if you just paid close enough attention. Whether or not she was there. Whether or not she meant anything.

It was pathetic. You feel the weight of it all pressing down on your chest, heavier than the steam.

“Hello?” Becca’s voice breaks through your haze, a little sharper now. “Are you alive in there?”

Your eyes blink open, heat-stung and dry, to find her and Marie both looking at you.

“You okay?” Marie asks, a little softer.

You nod quickly, sitting up straighter, swiping the back of your hand across your damp forehead. “Yeah. Sorry. Zoned out.”

Becca gives you a look like she doesn’t buy it, but she lets it go. She stretches her long legs out in front of her and says, “Wanna go to the bar?”

You hesitate for a moment, instinctively glancing toward the door like Sofia might be standing right outside it. Then you force yourself to nod.

“Sure,” you say. “What the hell.”

Because maybe pretending you’re over it is the first step to actually getting over it.

The three of you are dressed again, stepping out into the cool night air. The sky is navy and soft, the heat from earlier having surrendered to a light breeze. String lights drape overhead, casting a golden haze across the patio- warm, intimate, almost romantic. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses filters through the air, but you hardly register it.

The three of you walk toward the outdoor bar like you own the place. Not on purpose. It just happens- shoulders back, heads high, an unspoken confidence in your pace. You’re at the front, leading them without meaning to.

Your dress is something your mom would never approve of- baby pink and shorter than she’d like, hugging your hips just right. Your hair is down, wild in its natural texture. You didn’t style it. Didn’t try. And that’s exactly what makes it perfect.

You look like everything Sofia’s not. Everything she probably thinks you are. Kook perfection in a package that screams effortless, untouchable.

When you approach the bar, you feel her eyes before you see them. Sofia doesn’t acknowledge you. Not directly. But you catch the subtle shift when she notices the three of you sit down. A glance. A blink. And then nothing. Like she never saw you at all.

Becca takes the seat beside you, her long black curls falling over one shoulder as she adjusts the tight yellow midi dress clinging to her frame. She pushes her hair out of her face with a confidence that doesn’t need validation.

Marie sits on your other side, the soft glow of the patio lights highlighting her cheekbones. Her curls frame her face like a halo, and the powder blue shirt-and-skirt set she’s wearing makes her look like she stepped out of an editorial.

Together, the three of you look like a trio out of a glossy TV show- Powerpuff Girls: Coastal Edition. Or maybe Mean Girls, if they wore less pink and carried more edge.

You don’t mean any harm. You didn’t ask to come here. Becca suggested the sauna, and Marie tagged along, and then someone brought up drinks and here you are. Still, guilt coils in your stomach.

You -a kook- perched pretty at the bar, while she -a pogue- works behind it.

You don’t even know her. Not really. And yet your presence here feels like a silent challenge. A move you didn’t mean to make but made all the same. Becca, for her part, doesn’t seem to recognize Sofia. Maybe she was too drunk at the Tannyhill party. Or maybe she just doesn’t care enough to connect the dots. You do.

“Sofia,” the male bartender calls, drawing your attention. You glance up reflexively.

“Going on break,” he tells her, tossing a towel onto the bar before disappearing into the back.

Sofia nods, casual, and you immediately look away. Down at your phone. Pretending you suddenly care about the weather app. Your thumb scrolls without direction. Just something to keep your hands busy. The bar isn’t packed tonight. It’s laid-back, easy. The kind of slow night where one bartender is more than enough. Sofia stays behind the bar, alone.

You wonder if she volunteered. Or if it’s just what she does- handle things. You don’t know. You don’t know what she’s good at. What she likes. You don’t know anything. And that bothers you more than it should.

“What can I get you ladies?”

You look up. Sofia is standing across from you, hands resting loosely on the edge of the bar, eyes scanning the three of you. Her voice is calm. Detached. Professional in a way that feels a little too practiced.

You feel her eyes skim over you, but her expression doesn’t change. No hint of emotion. No flicker of recognition. It shouldn’t sting. But it does.

“Three shots of tequila,” Becca says before you or Marie can say anything.

Sofia’s eyes flick across the three of you, her expression unreadable. “Can I see some ID, please?”

You don’t say anything. Just reach into your Dior bag, digging through the soft leather for your matching wallet. You take your time- not intentionally, but the process feels exaggerated under Sofia’s gaze. You know she’s watching.

You pull out your ID, the one with the photo that somehow looks better than real life, and slide it across the bar. The edges are pristine. She doesn’t say anything, just takes it, looks it over, then holds out her hand for the others.

Marie’s already ahead of you, digging out her license with an easy smile. Becca moves slower, cool and unaffected as always, her yellow midi dress catching the light as she shifts.

Sofia gives the three IDs a cursory glance before setting them back down. “Three shots of tequila coming up.”

She taps the bar twice, not unkind, but sharp -more habit than hospitality- and turns her back to you, grabbing glasses from the shelf behind her. Her movements are efficient, distant. There’s no flair, no small talk.

You lean back slightly, trying to look unbothered. But there’s a weird pressure in your chest, like the air’s too thick. It doesn’t help that you saw her when you walked in- hair tied up, sleeves rolled, her shirt clinging to her back from the heat behind the bar. She hadn’t looked up. You don’t even know if she noticed you at all. Maybe it’s better that way. The clink of glass snaps you back as she places the three shots in front of you.

“Lime and salt?” she asks, voice flat.

“Obviously,” Becca replies with a raised brow, not realizing -or not caring- who she’s talking to.

Sofia nods and turns away again, reaching for a small dish of lime wedges and a tin of salt. She sets them down with a little more force than necessary. Not enough to be rude. Just enough for you to notice. She doesn’t look at you again. You don’t say thank you.

You can feel the imbalance hanging there- Sofia behind the bar, working a double, and you on the other side in a baby pink dress your mom would absolutely hate, sipping liquor you didn’t pay for. It’s not a crime, but it feels like one. She didn’t acknowledge you. But she saw the bag. The wallet. The card. The kind of life you come from.

You wonder if she hates you just a little for it. You hate yourself for caring. The three of you clink glasses together- Becca shouting something obnoxious and triumphant, Marie laughing so hard she nearly drops hers. You force a smile, play along, licking the salt from the rim of your glass before tossing back the tequila. It burns, sharp and unapologetic, clawing its way down your throat. You suck on the lime, your face twisting with the sour bite before laughter bubbles up. You let it out. You look carefree. Effortless.

But you feel her eyes on you.

You don’t look at Sofia directly, just glance past her- enough to catch her in your peripheral. She’s watching you, briefly, her gaze steady. You meet it, just for a second. Just long enough. Then she looks away fast, printing a receipt and sliding it to a couple at the far end of the bar like nothing happened. It makes something twist in your chest. Then the air shifts.

You glance around -more instinct than curiosity- and your pulse spikes. Rafe.

He strolls in like he always does, like the world belongs to him and it’s only right he showed up late to collect his prize. He looks annoyingly good, hair damp from the ocean or maybe the humidity, that familiar smirk already blooming across his face.

Your heart jumps to your throat as he walks straight to the bar. Straight to Sofia.

You look down at your lap, hands tightening around your phone. You don’t want him to see you here. Not like this. Not dressed like this. Not with your friends. Not at her bar.

You don’t want him to think you followed him. Or worse- that you followed her.

“Uh- bartender? Can we get another round?” Becca calls across the bar, loud and impatient, the way she always is when she’s been drinking. She isn’t trying to be rude. But she also isn’t trying not to be. You don’t look up. Not yet.

You can feel Sofia and Rafe still standing close, talking quietly, like you don’t exist. Maybe you don’t.

Still, something drags your eyes upward. And there it is. Rafe is looking at you. Not staring. Not smiling. Just… watching.

His eyes sweep over you- curious, almost confused. Like he doesn’t recognize you at first.

Which wouldn’t be surprising. You don’t look like the girl who yanked open a storm-drenched window and let him into her bedroom. Not tonight. Not in this dress. Not in this world.

Sofia notices his gaze shift and starts moving back down the bar toward you, her expression unreadable.

“You want me to start a tab?” she asks as she reaches for more glasses, her tone flatter this time, clipped. She doesn’t bother looking at any of you.

There’s something different in her voice now. Not hostile. Just… done. Like she’s tired of pretending this interaction is normal.

“Yeah, that’d be great actually,” Marie says quickly, her tone softening the moment, trying to fill the space Becca left jagged. Sofia doesn’t respond. Just nods and reaches for the bottle again. You look down at the shot forming in front of you, and for a second, you wish you hadn’t come at all.

“Nice dress,” you hear from your left. You look over.

Of course it’s Rafe- leaning against the bar like he owns it, like he owns the air between you. His eyes drift over your body, shamelessly. You feel the weight of his stare on your legs, on the stretch of skin your dress doesn’t bother hiding.

Marie is sandwiched awkwardly between you, clearly aware of the tension but trying not to make it worse. She leans back slightly, torso angled away, giving you both a clearer line of sight while pretending she’s still part of the conversation. You glance toward Sofia.

She’s noticed, obviously. Her movements shift- more deliberate, more performative. She starts wiping down an already-clean section of the bar with aggressive focus, as if the shine of the wood matters more than whatever’s happening three feet away.

“Thanks,” you reply, your voice clipped but polite, offering Rafe a brief smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

His stare lingers. Drops again to your thighs- the same ones his hands had gripped the other night. You wonder if he’s remembering it. You wish you weren’t.

He draws in a slow breath and straightens, his fist tapping the bar idly like he’s weighing something in his head. “Can I get you ladies a drink?”

Before Becca can chime in with another round of tequila, Marie answers for all three of you.

“Three dirty martinis.”

Rafe raises an eyebrow, amused, but doesn’t argue. He glances at Marie, then back at you, like she’s some minor interruption between points A and B. He gives a single nod and turns to the other side of the bar.

“Sofia,” he calls.

You hate the way he says her name. Too casual. Too familiar. Like he’s done it a hundred times. Like it means nothing. Or maybe like it means something.

Sofia doesn’t respond right away. For a second, you think she might pretend not to hear him. But then she turns, cool and composed, her expression unreadable.

“Yeah?” she asks, voice flat as she walks toward him.

“Three martinis. Dirty,” he says, jerking his chin toward the three of you. “Think you can handle that?”

Sofia doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t even nod. She just starts gathering the ingredients like she’s making drinks for strangers.

You wonder how often she’s done this for him. Mixed drinks. Mixed signals. He turns back to you while she works, his elbow resting lazily on the bar, his body still angled slightly toward yours despite Marie between you.

“You always dress like that when you’re not talking to me?” he asks, smirking.

You don’t dignify that with a real answer. Just sip your water and raise an eyebrow.

“You always follow girls into bars they didn’t invite you to?” you shoot back, your voice low and dry.

He laughs under his breath. “Touché.”

The tension crackles between you, thick and layered. And through it all, Sofia mixes the drinks quietly, like she’s not listening. Like she doesn’t care.But you know she does. Sofia slides your drinks across the bar, one by one.

Yours nearly tips as it skids too fast across the polished surface. You catch it just in time, fingers wrapping around the delicate stem before the liquid can slosh over the rim. It still teeters, dangerously full, but it doesn’t spill.

Rafe watches Sofia the whole time- his eyes trailing her as she turns away and resumes her fake cleaning routine, wiping at an already-clean glass with a rag that’s definitely just for show. She doesn’t look back at him, but she doesn’t need to. Her silence is loud enough.

“Thanks, Cameron!” Becca calls, lifting her glass with a playful grin. Marie joins her, offering a small cheers in his direction.

Rafe turns back to the three of you, nodding slightly. That classic rich-boy gesture that says you’re welcome without actually using the words.

Then his attention slides to you. Fully. Like he’s choosing you out of a crowd.

“No thank you?” he says, raising an eyebrow, that familiar smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

You exhale through your nose. “Thank you, Rafe,” you reply, more pointed than polite.

That catches Sofia’s attention. You can feel her eyes on you, sharp and cutting. You pretend not to notice as you take a sip of your martini. It’s cold, briny, and a little too strong- but you welcome the distraction. Part of you wonders if she spit in it. If she spit in his. Becca and Marie are giggling behind you, caught up in some private joke. Their voices buzz around your ears, distant, meaningless.

Then Rafe gives a small jerk of his chin. A gesture meant just for you. Like he’s summoning you.

Who the hell does he think he is? Some silent command like he owns you? Like you’re already his, just waiting to be called?

You hate yourself a little as you slide off the barstool anyway, murmuring a quick “be right back” to the girls as you make your way to him.

His gaze is shameless, dragging down your body now that you’re standing. The dress fits you like second skin. His eyes take their time, slow and appreciative, like he’s mentally peeling it off you already.

“What?” you ask, leaning an elbow on the bar, standing too close and not far enough all at once. You’re fighting the urge to smile, to flirt back, to fall into that effortless gravity he carries.

“I really like that dress,” he says, lips twitching as he brings his drink to his mouth.

“You called me over to tell me that?” Your eyes flick down to your martini. You bite your lip, hiding the way you kind of like that he did.

“Not necessarily.” He lets the words hang, and when you look back up, his blue eyes are waiting- steady and sure. “Come over to Tannyhill tonight.”

He says it like it’s a given. Like the answer’s already yes. Like you’ll drop everything just because he wants you to.

And the worst part? He’s right. But you don’t give in without a fight. You tilt your head, schooling your features into something vaguely unimpressed. “Why should I?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Sofia. Her eyes are still on you both, jaw tight. But she recovers quickly, switching back into customer-service mode as a new guy takes a seat at the far end of the bar. Her smile is fake. Her posture stiff. You can tell she’s listening.

And something about that -about her watching- feeds the part of you you’re not proud of. The part that spent too many nights scrolling through her Instagram, comparing yourself to someone who never even saw you. Now, you’re the one being seen. You hate it. You like it. You hate that you like it.

“I enjoyed the other night,” Rafe says simply.

“And what makes you think I did?” you blink up at him, feigning innocence.

“The scratches on my back,” he says- too loudly, too proudly.

You gasp and shove him, palm flat against his chest, but he laughs like it’s the best thing he’s heard all night. He stumbles back a step, dramatically, even though your push barely moved him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. One you try to hide by taking a sip of your drink.

He leans in again, voice low and laced with amusement. “I can’t stop thinking about the way you felt around me.”

Your breath catches. His eyes drop to your lips for a beat too long, and your body betrays you- stomach tightening, heat pooling low, cheeks flushing with the kind of embarrassment that has nothing to do with shame.

You shift your weight, glancing around like someone might’ve overheard. It’s not busy, but still- this is not a conversation you should be having out in the open. Especially not here. Especially not with her behind the bar.

“You’re such an asshole,” you murmur, shaking your head, playing it off even though your heart is racing.

He smirks. “You like that though.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Please. I’ve had better.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Name one.”

You open your mouth -ready with some clever retort- but then a voice cuts through the tension.

“Rafe,” Sofia calls, tone brisk but casual. She doesn’t look at him, just slides a receipt across the bar where he’d left a drink tab open. “Your tab’s still open. You want to close or keep it running?”

The question sounds neutral, but the air shifts. Just enough for you to notice. Just enough for it to twist in your stomach.

Rafe leans against the bar again, all lazy charm. “Keep it open.”

Sofia nods once, doesn’t smile.

Then her eyes flick to you. “You want to keep yours open too?” Her voice is polite- on the surface. But there’s an edge. Not rude. Not overt. Just enough to remind you of where you are. Of who she is.

You glance at your drink, then at her. “Sure,” you say, matching her tone.

She gives a tight nod, jotting something down, then walks away without another word.

Rafe watches her for a second, then turns back to you, his grin returning like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just stir up some invisible tension with nothing but proximity and a few whispered words.

“You were saying?” he asks, cocking his head.

You arch a brow. “I was saying that if you’re trying to get me back in your bed, you might need a new strategy.”

“Oh?” he leans closer again, lips curved. “Seems like this one’s working just fine.”

“I’m going back to my friends now” you start to turn away but his hand lands on your hip. Butterflies erupt.

“So you coming over?” He asks, his voice not subtle again. Sofia definitely heard that. Your cheeks continue to burn as your hands come over his, not reluctantly pulling it off.

“We’ll see” you turn away, walking away this time.

“I’ll see you tonight” he shouts after you.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You just slide back onto your stool, taking a long sip of your martini like your heartbeat isn’t still hammering in your chest.

Becca leans in first, eyebrows raised and lips twisted in amusement. “What was that about?”

“Is he obsessed with you now?” Marie adds, grinning into her drink. “Or are you playing hard to get?”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it off. “I’m not playing anything.”

Becca snorts. “Sure. That dress says otherwise.”

You start to reply -something witty, something dismissive- but you’re interrupted by the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat. Sofia.

She stands behind the bar, polite smile in place, but there’s something colder behind it now. She

doesn’t look at you directly.

“You girls want to close out your tab?” she asks, tone neutral but tight. Too tight. Like she’s holding something back.

Marie blinks, caught off guard. “Oh, uh… we were thinking about getting one more round actually- unless you’re closing soon?”

“We’ve got time,” Sofia says, still not looking at you. “Just figured I’d ask. In case you needed to be somewhere else.”

The comment lands heavier than it should. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe not.

Becca shrugs. “We’re good for another round.”

Sofia nods once and turns away, already moving toward the liquor shelf.

You watch her, the knot in your stomach tightening, and suddenly the victory of making her jealous doesn’t feel as satisfying as it did a few minutes ago.

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fandomnerd9602 · 2 months ago

Text

Home on the Run (4)

Yelena Belova x Venom!Reader

Set during Thunderbolts*

Alexei kept driving the limo. You and Yelena just kept yelling and ranting against the man.

“You left our children alone!” Yelena screams.

“What? No do no such thing!” Alexei argues, “I left little Natalie and Alex with their babushka.”

“We left you in charge for a reason, Alexei!” Venom adds to the argument.

You and Venom settle back in your seat, Ava just smirks at you.

“What?”

“Oh nothing. It’s just so adorable. Big hulking alien and a human host who are total homemakers.” Ava sighs, “I’m actually kind of jealous”

“How did you two do it?” Walker asks, “you seem so…secure in being civilians”

Venom and you look to each other and then to Yelena. “My kids, my wife, they’re my mission” you shrug. “Before I met Yelena I was…aimless”

Yelena perks up a little.

“We were the Lethal Protector.” Venom nods. “Before that…well we all have our demons”

“Da” Alexei sighs.

“But when I held my daughter for the first time…” you smile, “part of me just…wanted to change. I wanted to be more than a duo that bit the heads off bad guys”

Yelena’s eyes lower. Had she really allowed herself to sink back into her old ways? Red Room, CIA, was it all just about titles? Was she so close to losing you and her children?

“Yelena” Alexei’s voice snapped her back to reality, “I can see light in your eyes again. You have put together quite the little team here”

“Not a team” Ava retorts

“Yeah. Go Thunderbolts!” Walker says sarcastically.

“Thunderbolts?” Alexei begins to tear up, “you named the team after your little peewee soccer team?”

“No. No. It was a sarcastic remark by-“ yelena tried to deflect but Alexei kept rambling on and on.

“This has makings of great team who can rise up…” Alexei smiled, “and be the heroes on the Wheaties box!”

“They don’t put superheroes on Wheaties boxes” you answer back.

“Then we shall be the first!” Alexei states triumphantly.

“Six o’clock!” Walker called out as he raised his shield.

The gunfire of an incoming convoy wailed away at the red limo. Windows were shattering. Walker was trying to shield you all with his rip-off shield.

“What do we do?” Venom’s voice echoing in your mind.

You checked the AR-15 you stole from OXE and your two pistols. “Can you give me an opening, bud?”

“Oh yeah!” Venom quickly cut a hole in the roof.

“Hey! This is still limo!” Alexei called out.

You popped out of the makeshift hole in the roof, Venom’s tendrils popped out of your back and grabbed the pistols. The two of you worked in tandem, laying down cover fire.

Yelena popped out the side window and fired a couple rounds off.

Time seemed to slow down as the two of you locked eyes. It felt like the old days again. You, Yelena, and Venom, all working as the Lethal Protectors again.

It was like the two of you reignited that spark was again. Yelena gave you a loving smirk.

I missed that smirk.

Then the convoy cars started to explode one by one. Bucky came riding in on his motorcycle. All three convoy cars were brought to a crashing halt.

Bucky was about to shoot the limo when he spotted you and Venom. He chose instead to drive up next to the limo.

“Follow me” he practically ordered before giving you a little salute.

“Aye aye Winter Soldier!” Alexei said before following Bucky.

Bucky made you all stop in some long abandoned mechanics shop. You all stepped out of the limo a little uneasy.

You gave Yelena’s hand a gentle squeeze before walking to Bucky.

“Bucky!” Venom’s tendrils gave him a high five “long time!”

“Venom, (Y/N), you were working with OXE?” Bucky asks hesitantly.

“No. We were trying to get our wife back” you gesture to Yelena.

“Hi Buck” Yelena offers a playful smile.

Bucky looks at the ragtag group before him, “kind of a scruffy looking bunch, aren’t you?”

“We are greatest team ever assembled,” Alexei states rather proudly, “we are the Thunderbolts”

“We did not agree on that” Walker states as he takes a seat.

“Nope” Ava agrees.

“I kind of like it” you whisper to Venom.

“I like it too actually” venom seconds that. Lash just produces a tendril from Yelena’s back and gives a thumbs up.

First Bucky wanted you all to testify against Val in the impeachment hearings. But you and Yelena quickly redirected upon realizing what Val had in mind for Bob.

“We have to rescue him” Yelena states.

“All that power if left unchecked could be disastrous” you second.

“And Bob is nice” Lash adds

And then came the phone call from Bucky’s insider, Mel. Bucky’s face went pale.

“New plan. I’m taking you all to New York” Bucky sighs, “let’s go rescue this…Bob, team”

“Team? We are team?!” Alexei asks excitedly, “yes!!!!”

To Be Continued…

Tags @sparks123123 @julieromanoff @supercorpdanbeau @scarletquake-n7 @marveldcfandom @ma1egamer @multi-fandom-enjoyer @iamnicodemus @pinklawyerwinnerzonk @catswag22 @deafeningsharkslimeempath @revanshand @russianredassassin @texaswolf23 @wolfwarrior06 @baylegend6 @sweetheartlizzie07

#marvel #marvel fluff #marvel imagine #mcu #mcu imagine #mcu fandom #marvel incorrect quotes #incorrect marvel quotes #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts #yelena belova #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova x venom reader #venom #venom symbiote #venom x reader

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areyoufuckingcrazy · 3 months ago

Text

“Only One Target”

Captain Rex x Sith Assassin!Reader

Enemies to lovers. Slow burn. Tension, action, and banter-heavy.

⸻

Red lights flashed down the corridors as you rand through the Resolute. Alarms howled like wounded animals. Klaxons screamed warnings that had come too late.

You moved like a shadow, your twin blades igniting in a blur of crimson, slicing through the bulkhead doors as if the metal were paper. The heat of your lightsabers glowed against the durasteel corridor walls, the hum a deadly harmony beside the shriek of chaos.

Asajj Ventress moved beside you with elegant brutality, deflecting blaster fire, her snarling grin twisted with pleasure.

“The bridge is ahead,” she hissed.

“I know.” You moved low, quick. Efficient. No wasted energy.

Unlike Ventress, you weren’t here for blood. You were here for one thing.

Skywalker.

Your boots echoed against the floor as the pair of you tore through the security wing. Clone troopers scrambled to set up a defensive line, but Ventress was already leaping through the air, spinning and slashing with savage glee. You ducked left, deflecting two stun blasts aimed at your side and pressing through the chaos.

Your comm crackled with Dooku’s voice: “Your objective is Skywalker. Eliminate him if possible. Delay him if not.”

Simple. Clean.

But Jedi never made things easy.

A roar of deflected fire and steel clashed ahead—the bridge was sealed tight, but Skywalker was already on the move. You could feel it. That sickening shine in the Force. Hot-headed. Reckless.

Perfect.

Ventress cackled as she carved her way through a unit of troopers. “Skywalker’s mine, little assassin.”

You didn’t bother replying. She was always talking. Always posturing.

But Skywalker—he came for you.

He landed in front of you like a meteor, lightsaber igniting in that garish Jedi blue. His padawan flanked him, smaller but no less lethal.

“Stop right there!” Ahsoka barked.

“You should run, youngling,” you said calmly, blades still humming in your grip. “You’re not my target.”

“Good,” Anakin growled. “Because I’m yours.”

Your blades clashed.

He was every bit as unhinged and unpredictable as the reports had claimed. Each swing was raw power. Unfocused. A battering ram of fury and precision. But you weren’t trained for brute force—you danced. You flowed. And you matched him blow for blow.

Behind you, Ventress laughed, engaging Ahsoka. “Don’t get killed, darling!” she called to you.

You didn’t have time to respond. Skywalker was pressing harder now, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

“Who sent you?” he snarled.

“Ask your Council,” you hissed, pushing his blade aside with a sharp twist and driving a kick into his side. “Maybe they already knew.”

His anger was your shield, your rhythm. You circled him like a predator, redirecting each strike. But he was wearing you down. Sweat beaded on your brow. Your ribs ached from a graze. The hum of the ship told you more clones were closing in.

This wasn’t going to plan.

Suddenly, Ventress snarled. “We’re pulling out!”

“What?” you snapped, narrowly dodging a swing that would’ve taken your shoulder.

“The ship is crawling with clones! We’re surrounded!”

You turned—but it was already too late.

A stun blast hit your back like a hammer, and you crumpled to the floor with a gasp. Your vision sparked, flickering red and white.

Through the haze, you saw Ventress leap into the air, somersaulting toward an escape hatch. “Try not to die, sweetling!” she called before vanishing into the smoke.

Coward.

You tried to rise—only to find yourself staring down the barrel of several blaster rifles. White and blue armor surrounded you.

And in front of them stood a clone captain.

Helmet off. Jaw clenched. Eyes sharp.

He didn’t look at you like a person.

He looked at you like the monster under the bed had crawled into the daylight.

You smirked through the pain.

“Captain,” you rasped, voice dry and tinged with blood. “Nice to finally meet face-to-face.”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t shoot you either.

⸻

The cell was cold. Not the biting kind of cold, but that artificial kind—clinical, heartless, and designed to make you uncomfortable without leaving bruises.

You sat calmly, arms cuffed to the table in front of you, ankles bound beneath. Bruised. Bleeding. But your chin was high and your mouth curved in something far too close to a smirk.

Across from you stood Anakin Skywalker, pacing like a caged animal.

“Why were you here?” he demanded. Again.

You gave a long, slow blink. “Nice to see you’re up and walking. That kick to the ribs must’ve hurt.”

He stopped pacing, turned on you.

“Who sent you?”

“You already know the answer to that,” you replied sweetly. “But you’re not interested in truth, are you? Only revenge.”

He bristled. You leaned forward, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“You’re predictable, Skywalker. So much fire, so little control. I don’t even need the Force to see through you.”

He slammed his hand down on the table. You didn’t flinch.

“I will get answers out of you.”

You tilted your head, voice dropping like silk.

“Is that a threat? Or a promise?”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t play games with Sith.”

“Oh, but I do love when Jedi pretend they don’t have teeth. You came at me like a storm, Skywalker. That was personal. So… who did you lose?”

He stared at you for a long, tense beat.

Then he turned sharply and stormed toward the door.

“Rex!” he barked, voice echoing. The clone captain was already waiting outside.

Anakin didn’t look back. “She’s done talking. Make sure she doesn’t try anything.”

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving you in quiet, satisfied amusement.

⸻

Captain Rex entered the room like a soldier born from the word discipline itself. Helmet off. Blaster at his side.

You watched him with interest. The curve of his jaw. The quiet rage simmering beneath the armor. Fascinating.

“Still scowling,” you murmured, leaning forward. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me.”

Rex didn’t move.

“I don’t have time for your games.”

“No?” You arched a brow, voice smooth. “I thought I might be growing on you.”

“You’re lucky to still be breathing.”

You chuckled lowly, the sound almost intimate. “So I’ve been told. And yet… here I am. Alive. Tied down. At your mercy.”

Rex narrowed his eyes, but you saw it—the flicker. Just a twitch. Something unreadable passing through him.

“I’m not interested in whatever this is,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Your voice dropped to a velvet hush. “Because you keep coming back.”

Rex stepped forward, setting your stun-cuffed hands more firmly on the table.

“I’m only here because the General told me to keep you contained.”

You leaned in as far as the cuffs would allow. Close enough for him to feel the whisper of your breath against his cheek.

“And here I thought you were starting to enjoy our chats.”

He looked down at you—fierce, unreadable.

Then his voice dropped, cold and quiet.

“I’ve lost too many good men to people like you.”

Your smirk softened. Just a bit.

“I told you already,” you said, quieter now. “I didn’t kill your brothers. Not one.”

“Convenient.”

“True.”

The silence stretched between you like a taut wire. Dangerous. Tense.

“I’m not who you think I am, Captain,” you said finally. “But I won’t pretend I’m innocent.”

He didn’t reply. Just turned, walking toward the door.

You watched him, something unreadable flickering in your gaze.

“You can lock the cell, Rex,” you called after him. “But you’ll be back.”

He paused in the doorway, head tilted.

“Mark my words, Captain… you’ll come back. Even if you don’t know why.”

The door hissed closed behind him.

But you knew.

You always knew.

⸻

Captain Rex hadn’t come back.

Not once.

And it was driving you crazy.

Not because you missed him—no, that would be ridiculous. But there was something about the way he looked at you. That loathing. That fire. That control. You’d tasted the edge of his patience, danced along the blade of his restraint. You wanted to see what would happen if it snapped.

But instead, all you got were cold meals, cold walls, and clones who wouldn’t meet your eye.

Something had changed.

The cruiser was quieter than usual. Too quiet.

You sat in your cell, half-meditating, half-stalking the Force for answers—when the lights flickered. Once. Twice.

Then the alarms started.

Again.

You stood.

Outside your cell, down the corridor, came the distinct snarl of sabers cutting metal.

Then the scream of a clone dying.

You felt it before you saw her—Asajj Ventress.

So dramatic.

She moved like smoke—feral and graceful and cruel. Cutting down everything in her path.

“(Y/N), darling,” she sang, dragging her saber across the bulkhead. “Dooku thinks you’ve said too much.”

You arched a brow. “I’ve been locked up for two days.”

She grinned wickedly through the security glass. “He’s not much for trust.”

You stepped back as the wall next to your cell exploded inwards, shrapnel slicing through the air. A second later, the blast door behind Ventress burst open—and Rex charged through with a small squad, blasters raised.

“Don’t let her escape!” he barked. “Ventress is here—get the prisoner secured!”

Ventress hissed. “So much fuss.”

She threw out her hand, sending two clones flying down the hallway. Blaster fire lit up the corridor. You ducked as sparks rained from the ceiling.

Chaos.

And in chaos… came opportunity.

Your bindings were fried in the blast. Ventress might’ve been here to kill you—but she’d cracked open the door for your escape.

And you intended to walk through it.

You sprinted through the smoke just as Rex spotted you.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Stop—!”

But you were already lunging at him.

The fight was brutal.

He was stronger than you remembered. Faster. Smart. He fought with precision, training, and raw determination.

But you were sharper.

He aimed a blow to your ribs—you twisted, elbowed his jaw, then landed a swift kick that knocked him to the floor. He groaned, dazed.

You stood over him, panting, blood dripping from a cut above your brow. He looked up at you, chest heaving.

Disgust and fury warred in his eyes.

You knelt down beside him, fingers brushing the edge of his pauldron, and whispered:

“You really are hard to resist, Captain.”

Before he could speak, you leaned in—lips brushing his cheek in a slow, mocking kiss.

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

You smirked, breath warm at his ear.

“Tell Skywalker I’ll be seeing him soon.”

And with that, you were gone—vanishing into the smoke and fire.

Rex slammed his fist into the floor, jaw tight.

“Damn it.”

⸻

The shuttle descended through the clouds like a dagger slicing through silk.

You stood in the shadows of the ship’s hold, arms crossed, silent as Ventress piloted the last stretch home. Her usual smugness was absent. She hadn’t spoken since the escape. A rare show of restraint—for her.

You’d barely had time to process it all. The cell. The explosion. The fight with Rex.

The kiss.

You could still feel the heat of his skin under your lips. Could still see the fury in his eyes when you left him there, bruised and stunned.

Why you’d done it, you weren’t sure.

Maybe it was to mock him.

Or maybe it was something else.

You pushed the thought away.

The ship landed with a soft thrum. Dooku was already waiting.

He sat on his elevated seat, shrouded in darkness, back straight, fingers steepled. Regal. Cold.

The air buzzed with tension as you stepped before him, Ventress half a pace behind.

He stared at you for a long moment, then finally spoke.

“So,” he said, voice deep, smooth, laced with disapproval. “You return.”

“Alive,” you replied, offering a slight bow.

“For now.”

Ventress stepped forward. “Skywalker and his men nearly had her. I had to extract her myself.”

You snorted. “You also tried to gut me in the process.”

Dooku’s gaze slid to you, unmoved. “Your mission was simple: eliminate Skywalker.”

“I almost had him,” you said. “He’s just… more unhinged than I remembered.”

Dooku’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you engaged no clones. Left them alive. Odd, for an assassin.”

You met his stare. “They weren’t the target.”

“They were in your way.”

You were quiet.

Dooku stood, descending the steps like a judge preparing a sentence.

“You toyed with them.”

The words sliced like ice.

“You played a game you were not ordered to play. Especially with that clone—Captain Rex.”

You tensed.

Ventress glanced at you from the corner of her eye, smiling faintly.

Dooku continued. “Your emotions are tainted. Distracted. You lingered in the Force, and I felt the fracture.”

Your voice was soft but steady. “I completed the mission.”

“You failed the objective.”

His voice rose like thunder.

“You kissed the enemy.”

You blinked once. Slowly.

“I did,” you said.

Ventress gave a small, wicked chuckle. Dooku, however, was not amused.

He stepped closer.

“If you’ve grown soft… if you’ve begun to let sentiment guide you…”

“I haven’t.”

He leaned in, towering.

“You walk a knife’s edge, assassin. The dark side does not abide confusion.”

You tilted your head, voice low. “And yet it thrives on conflict.”

He studied you in silence. Measured. Calculating.

“Then make no mistake,” he said at last. “If you wish to remain useful… stop playing with your food.”

He turned, walking back to the shadows of his seat.

“Next time, you kill him.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you weren’t sure you could.

⸻

The holomap flickered blue, glowing across the surface of the table. Separatist movements. Naval placements. An entire campaign laid bare in lines and symbols.

Rex wasn’t looking at any of it.

He stood at attention, eyes fixed forward, jaw clenched.

But his thoughts were elsewhere.

Back in that hallway.

Back in the smoke.

Back to her lips brushing his cheek like a brand.

It made no sense. She was an assassin. A killer. She should’ve slit his throat when she had the chance.

Instead, she kissed him.

And now she was out there.

Alive.

And he hated that he kept thinking about her.

Across the room, Skywalker watched him with his arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“…You’ve barely spoken since the attack,” Anakin said at last, breaking the silence.

Rex blinked out of his haze. “Sir?”

“I said,” Anakin repeated, stepping forward, “you’ve been quiet.”

Rex shifted. “Just processing.”

“Hm.”

Skywalker studied him with that Jedi look—the one that peeled you apart without touching you.

“She messed with your head,” he said casually.

Rex stiffened. “No, sir.”

“She kissed you, didn’t she?”

That made him flinch. Just slightly. Just enough.

Anakin grinned, triumphant.

“Rex… my most dependable, rule-bound, chain-of-command clone… got kissed by a Sith.”

Rex scowled. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it?” Anakin leaned on the table. “You’ve been off since it happened. You volunteered to lead the recon mission to track her. You haven’t even joked with Fives.”

“That’s not evidence of anything.”

“You’re obsessed,” Anakin said bluntly. “And obsession leads to mistakes.”

Rex stepped forward. “I won’t make a mistake.”

Skywalker’s brow furrowed.

“Then tell me the truth. What happened in that hallway? Before she escaped.”

A pause. Tense. Thick.

Rex looked away.

“I hesitated.”

Anakin’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“…I don’t know.”

It was the only honest thing he could say.

Skywalker exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I get it,” he muttered. “You see something in her that doesn’t make sense. It throws you off. Makes you wonder if the whole enemy line is as black-and-white as they drilled into us.”

He looked at Rex again, this time with less judgment. More understanding.

“I’ve been there,” he added quietly. “Trust me.”

Rex met his gaze. “What do I do?”

Anakin stepped forward, voice low and deadly serious.

“You find her.”

A beat.

“And next time… you don’t let her walk away.”

Rex nodded once.

But he wasn’t sure which part of that command he’d actually follow.

⸻

“Sir, you’re gonna wanna hear this,” Fives said, stepping into the room with Jesse right behind him, both looking far too smug for just a routine debrief.

Rex didn’t even glance up from where he was cleaning his blaster. “If it’s another story about how you two flirted your way through an outpost again, I’m not interested.”

Fives smirked. “This time it wasn’t me doing the flirting.”

Jesse elbowed him, grin wide. “She’s alive, Rex. The Sith.”

That got his attention.

Rex set the blaster down slowly. “Where?”

“Outer rim—some cragged little rock of a world,” Fives said, tossing a datapad onto the bunk. “Scouts clocked her landing in a stolen Separatist fighter. Alone. No guards. No backup. Like she’s hiding.”

“She is hiding,” Jesse added, more serious now. “She’s off comms. No Dooku, no Ventress, no Separatist chatter. It’s like she vanished off the map and doesn’t want anyone to find her.”

Rex stared at the datapad. Her face flickered on the holo.

Still dangerous. Still wanted. Still—

He clenched his jaw.

“She’s bait.”

“You think it’s a trap?” Fives asked.

“She got away once,” Rex said. “She could be luring us in again.”

But he wasn’t sure he believed that.

Because something about the reports didn’t match the woman he’d fought. The woman who’d kissed him like a dare and disappeared in smoke.

She wouldn’t hide.

Not unless she was hiding from them too.

⸻

You stood at the edge of the jagged cliff, cloak wrapped tight around your shoulders as the wind howled against the rocks below. Blaster in hand. Saber hidden. Breath shallow.

Every shadow was a threat.

Every sound could be them.

You hadn’t slept in days.

Dooku’s disappointment had been quiet—crushing in its indifference. He hadn’t hunted you.

He hadn’t even tried.

You were nothing to him now.

Ventress had left you for dead. The Separatist cause—what little you’d clung to of it—was gone.

And yet, part of you was relieved.

No more commands. No more darkness threading your every breath.

But freedom came with silence. And silence, with ghosts.

You kept expecting to feel him—Dooku’s presence, that icy command in the back of your skull.

Instead, all you felt was that clone captain’s eyes on you, burned into your memory.

Rex.

You hated how often your thoughts returned to him.

To his defiance.

His strength.

His disgust.

That heat in his stare when you kissed him.

You’d told yourself it was just a game.

So why did it still make your chest ache?

You swallowed hard.

And then you felt it.

A presence in the Force. Close. Familiar.

And getting closer.

“They found me.”

⸻

Rex stared out the viewport, helmet clutched in his hands.

“Think she’ll fight?” Jesse asked behind him.

Fives leaned back with a grin. “She’ll flirt first.”

Rex ignored them.

“She’s changed,” he said, more to himself than to them.

Jesse raised a brow. “You sure about that?”

“No.”

But something told him this wasn’t the same assassin who once whispered threats like poetry and left him bleeding on the deck.

This woman was running.

And maybe—just maybe—she was running from herself.

⸻

The air was thin. Cold. The kind that bit into your lungs and forced you to breathe slow or not at all.

Rex moved like a shadow, rifle low, boots silent on the cracked stone. The trail was faint—half-buried footprints, a heat signature already fading. Whoever she was now… she was trying not to be found.

She should’ve known better.

She was good.

But he was better.

A flash of movement to his right.

He turned, fast—blaster raised, ready to fire.

And there she was.

Perched on the edge of the cliff like some half-feral creature, cloak torn, hair wild in the wind. Her saber was clipped at her hip, untouched. Not lit. Not raised.

She didn’t flinch when he pointed the blaster at her.

In fact—she looked tired.

“…Rex,” you said, voice rough, wind-swept.

The way his name sounded from your mouth—it sent something low and confused curling in his gut.

“Drop the weapon,” he barked.

You raised your hands. Slowly.

“I’m unarmed.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

You tilted your head, voice softer. “If I wanted to kill you, Captain, you’d already be bleeding.”

“And if I wanted to take you in,” he countered, stepping forward, “you’d already be cuffed.”

You smiled—sharp. Tired. “Then why aren’t I?”

Rex didn’t answer.

He studied you.

No backup. No escape route. No fight.

This wasn’t an ambush.

This wasn’t a trap.

This was… surrender.

“Where’s your army?” he asked.

“Gone.”

“Dooku?”

You scoffed. “Didn’t even notice I left.”

“And Ventress?”

A beat. Your jaw tightened. “She tried to kill me.”

That, at least, made sense.

Rex lowered the blaster just an inch.

“I’m not with them anymore,” you said, voice low.

“Why should I believe you?”

You looked at him.

Not smiling. Not teasing.

Just looking.

“I don’t care if you do.”

Another beat of silence.

And then, you stepped forward—only once, hands still raised.

“Just don’t call it in,” you said. “Not yet.”

He stared at you.

One word. One plea.

“Please.”

It wasn’t seductive.

It wasn’t tactical.

It was real.

And Rex felt something twist in his chest—guilt or rage or something else entirely.

The wind howled between you.

And he… didn’t pull the trigger.

Rex’s hand hovered over his comm. He could feel her eyes on him—watching, weighing. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

The truth sat thick between them.

“501st recon team,” he said into the transmitter. “Target trail went cold. Tracks disappear into the ridge. Visibility’s dropping—might have to call it for the night.”

There was a pause.

Then static cracked and—

“You lost her?” Fives’ voice came through, incredulous.

“Lost or let go?” Jesse muttered, too close to the mic.

Rex closed his eyes briefly. “Negative. She’s not here. We’ll regroup in the morning.”

Before they could push back, he shut off the comm and tucked it into his belt.

When he turned, she was already walking toward the small cave behind the outcrop, half-collapsed from age, half-hidden by a rockfall.

“Storm’s rolling in,” you said. “If you’re going to arrest me, you’d better do it inside.”

Rex followed without a word.

⸻

The wind screamed outside, carrying dust and rain in harsh gusts. But inside, the air was still—tense. Dry. The flickering firelight cast your shadows long against the stone.

You sat cross-legged near the flames, cloak shed, arms bare beneath the loose black tunic. Scars crossed your skin like old lightning—some faded, others fresh. A lifetime of battles carved in silence.

Rex sat across from you, blaster close, helmet beside him. Watching.

Always watching.

“You don’t trust me,” you said quietly.

“No.”

“Good.”

You smirked, dragging a finger along the edge of the cup you were warming with tea.

“But you didn’t call me in.”

“I should have.”

“But you didn’t.”

You looked up. Eyes meeting his.

And for the first time, neither of you looked away.

“I’m not your enemy anymore, Rex.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“No. But I can stop pretending I’m something I’m not.”

You exhaled, slowly.

“I left Dooku. I left the war. Not because I grew a conscience—but because I realized I was disposable. Replaceable. Just another weapon to him. Just another broken thing.”

Rex’s fingers twitched at that. He knew what that felt like.

You leaned back, gaze drifting to the fire. “I always thought loyalty was earned by killing for someone. But it turns out, it’s just something you can lose when you stop being useful.”

The cave was silent, save for the crackle of flames.

Then—

“You were never useful to me,” Rex said flatly.

You huffed a dry laugh. “No. I was a headache.”

“A dangerous one.”

“And yet… you didn’t shoot.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Why?”

Rex looked at you then. Really looked.

You weren’t the same woman who’d cut down Jedi guards in the halls of the Resolute. You were raw now. Scuffed. Not harmless—but maybe human.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“That’s honest,” you said softly. “I thought clones weren’t allowed to be.”

He flinched at that.

“I didn’t kill your brothers,” you added, more serious now. “I swore I never would.”

Rex didn’t respond right away.

Then, finally—

“I believe you.”

The words hung in the air like a confession.

You looked at him again, eyes darker now. “You gonna let me go in the morning?”

He hesitated.

“…I don’t know yet.”

Another pause.

Then you leaned forward, across the firelight, voice low.

“I still think about you, you know. About that kiss.”

His jaw tightened. “You only did that to get under my skin.”

You smiled. “Did it work?”

He didn’t answer.

You were closer now. Too close.

And maybe it was the firelight. Or the silence. Or the ache of too many choices unmade.

But Rex didn’t move when you reached out.

Your fingers grazed the edge of his jaw, feather-light. “You ever wonder if this would’ve been different… if we weren’t on opposite sides?”

He met your gaze.

“I don’t have time to wonder.”

“Maybe you should start.”

You leaned in—close enough to steal his breath.

Then, at the last second, you pulled back.

“Get some rest, Captain,” you said, curling into your cloak near the fire.

Rex sat stiff as stone, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.

And outside, the storm raged.

⸻

Fives squinted up at the ridge through his electrobinoculars.

“No way he lost the trail,” he muttered.

Jesse nodded. “You felt it too, right? The way he said it? That pause.”

Fives smirked. “He found her.”

“And didn’t bring her in.”

They shared a look.

“Think we’re gonna see her again?” Jesse asked.

Fives clicked his tongue.

“I think he hopes not.”

⸻

The storm had passed.

The wind was still sharp, but the sky was clearing—streaks of pale blue bleeding into the clouds like a fresh wound, wide and open. Sunlight spilled over the stone like a promise. Cold, but clean.

You stood near the edge of the ridge, cloak fluttering behind you, face turned toward the sunrise.

Rex approached, slow. Steady. Blaster holstered. Helmet tucked under one arm.

You didn’t look back at first. Just spoke, voice low.

“They’ll know soon enough.”

“I know.”

“They’ll think you let me go.”

“I did.”

Finally, you turned to him.

Eyes locked. That unspoken thing still between you—never named. Never safe enough to be.

“But you’ll lie for me?” you asked, more curious than hopeful.

“No,” he said, firm. “But I’ll say I hesitated.”

You smiled, just a little. “That’s fair.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then you stepped forward. Closer.

“This is the part where I disappear again.”

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t step forward.

Didn’t say stay.

Because he couldn’t.

You leaned in, eyes searching his.

“I meant what I said, Captain,” you murmured. “About thinking of you.”

And before he could say a word, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek—right over the scar that ran along his jaw. It lingered longer than the first. Not teasing this time. Not taunting.

Just real.

Warm.

A goodbye.

Rex didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And then you were gone.

Cloak over your shoulders, vanishing into the canyon beyond. No sound. No trace.

Like you’d never been there at all.

Except he’d never forget.

⸻

Jesse looked up first. “Incoming.”

Fives leaned on a crate, chewing rations. “He better not say she vanished.”

Rex stepped through the brush, helmet under his arm, face unreadable.

“You lose the trail again?” Jesse asked dryly.

“She was never there,” Rex said.

Fives snorted. “Yeah, sure. The wind just happened to blow out tracks in one direction.”

“I didn’t find her,” Rex said again, firmer. “She’s gone.”

They watched him.

Said nothing.

Jesse raised an eyebrow, but Fives elbowed him, letting it go.

And as Rex walked past them, calm and steady and very clearly not okay—Fives caught a glimpse of something under his ear.

A smear.

No, not a smear.

Lipstick.

Fives blinked.

Then grinned like a menace.

But before he could say a word, Rex tossed his helmet back on.

And muttered without looking back—

“Don’t.”

#clone trooper x reader #clone wars #star wars #star wars fanfic #star wars the clone wars #clone x reader #captain rex tcw #captain rex x reader #captain rex #rex x reader #tcw fives #arc trooper fives #jesse tcw #anakin skywalker #assaj ventress #ashoka tano

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wandamaximoffsbadgirl · 1 year ago

Text

Be Kind

But if you're gonna fight then do it for me (4)

Scarlet Witch x Witch!Reader x Wanda Maximoff

Summary: Your Goddess defends you, transforming her into something different.

Word Count: 2.6K

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, R calls SW Goddess, SW refers to R as pet, W calls R baby, R calls Wanda Mommy

A/N: The final chapter for these three. I loved them so very much and I hope you guys did too!

As a stray bolt of Doctor Strange's magic came hurtling towards you, you instinctively flinched, curling up into a defensive ball. But the Scarlet Witch was quicker. With a wave of her hand, she deflected the attack, her magic flaring brighter and more intense.

"Stay behind me, pet," she commanded, her voice distorted but unmistakably protective. You peeked up at her from your curled position, awestruck and terrified by her new form. The intricate, dark design of her mask and the raw power emanating from her made her look like a dark guardian, ready to do anything to keep you safe.

Doctor Strange hesitated for a moment, clearly taken aback by the Scarlet Witch's transformation. "Wanda, this isn't the way," he pleaded, trying to reason with her.

But the Scarlet Witch was beyond reason. "She is mine," she hissed, her voice echoing with power. "I will protect her at all costs."

With that, the battle resumed, even more intense than before. The Scarlet Witch's magic swirled around you, creating a shield that absorbed the impact of Doctor Strange's attacks. You could feel the heat and energy of the battle, but you knew that as long as your Goddess was there, you would be protected.

The battle raged on with neither side letting up. Spells clashed in the air, creating bursts of light and energy that lit up the field. The Scarlet Witch was relentless, her fury unmatched as she defended you. Eventually, realizing the battle was at a stalemate, she threw up a barrier and then summoned a portal.

With a swift motion, she picked you up effortlessly, her new form radiating both power and protectiveness. She hopped through the portal, taking you back home in an instant. You clung to her, feeling the warmth and strength of her body despite her fearsome appearance.

As you arrived back home, she held you tightly against her, her heartbeat quick and steady against your ear. Despite the distorted nature of her voice, you could hear the sincerity and determination in her words. "I won't let anyone take you from me, Y/N," she mumbled softly, almost to herself.

You nestled closer, feeling a mixture of fear and comfort. The Scarlet Witch, your Goddess, had fought fiercely to protect you, and in that moment, you knew that she would go to any lengths to keep you safe. The bond between you felt unbreakable, forged stronger through the fire of battle and the depth of her unwavering devotion.

You looked up at her, taking in her new appearance. Your hands moved up to cup her cheeks, feeling the black veins running down her skin, now pale. Her once beautiful crown was now a part of her face, and her eyes glowed red behind the barred mask. "I must be terrifying right now..." she admitted, a hint of vulnerability in her voice.

"No...you're my Goddess. You're always beautiful..." you whispered, your heart swelling with affection and loyalty. Without thinking, you leaned up and placed your lips on hers for the first time. The kiss was soft, a mix of love and reverence. When you pulled back, her appearance had shifted back to normal, her red eyes softening to the familiar green.

Your mind flickered to the thought of true love's kiss from all those fairy tales you were read growing up. Could it be that simple? The transformation, the intensity of her protective nature, all seemed to melt away with that one genuine act of love.

She looked down at you, her eyes searching yours. "You truly are devoted to me," she said softly, a smile playing on her lips. "I don't deserve you, but I will protect you with everything I have."

You nodded, feeling a sense of peace wash over you. "And I will always be here for you, my Goddess," you replied, snuggling closer to her, feeling the warmth of her body and the steady rhythm of her heart. In that moment, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, the bond you shared was unbreakable.

==========

Following the battle with Strange, the Scarlet Witch decided it would be best to find a new spot to live. With her magic, it didn't take much for the two of you to move house. She packed up everything effortlessly, red energy swirling around the objects and neatly placing them into boxes. You watched in awe as the familiar surroundings of your old home were transformed into organized stacks, ready for the journey.

The new cottage was nestled deep in the middle of the woods, miles and miles from anyone else. It was quaint and charming, surrounded by towering trees and the serene sounds of nature. A perfect sanctuary, hidden away from prying eyes and potential threats.

As you arrived, the Scarlet Witch began unpacking with the same ease, her magic making light work of the task. You stood at the edge of the clearing, taking in the beauty of your new home. The air was fresh and clean, the scent of pine and earth filling your senses. Birds chirped in the distance, and the gentle rustle of leaves created a soothing background melody.

"Do you like it, pet?" she asked, her voice soft as she came to stand beside you. Her eyes were their familiar green, filled with a mix of determination and tenderness.

You nodded, a smile spreading across your face. "It's perfect, my Goddess. Thank you."

She placed a hand on your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Good. We'll be safe here. No one will find us." Her tone was resolute, a promise of protection.

Over the next few days, you settled into your new routine. The cottage was cozy, with a stone fireplace, wooden beams, and large windows that let in plenty of natural light. The Scarlet Witch had even created a small garden outside, filled with vibrant flowers and herbs.

Every morning, you woke up to the sound of birdsong and the warmth of the sun streaming through the windows. You spent your days learning more about your magic, under the watchful eye of your Goddess. She was a strict but patient teacher, guiding you through each spell with care. Your nights were filled with quiet moments by the fire, cuddled up with her as she read or simply held you close.

One evening, as you sat by the fire, you looked up at her, a question forming in your mind. "Scarlet, why did you choose this place?"

She glanced at you, a small smile playing on her lips. "Because it's far away from everything and everyone. It's peaceful. And it's a place where we can be ourselves, without any interruptions."

You nodded, understanding the deeper meaning behind her words. This place was more than just a home; it was a refuge, a place where you could both heal and grow together. As you leaned against her, feeling the steady beat of her heart, you knew that no matter where you were, as long as you were with her, you were home.

You hadn't seen Mommy in weeks while your Goddess had taken back over. Though your Goddess had become softer since the kiss, Mommy's absence was deeply felt. The contrast between them was stark; for two beings sharing a body, they couldn't be more different.

Your Goddess still held an air of authority, a presence that demanded respect and obedience. She was strict, yet not as harsh as before. She had rules and expectations, and while she allowed for moments of tenderness, there was always a reminder of her dominance. You were still her pet, a role you embraced with devotion and reverence.

But Mommy—Mommy was warmth and comfort, a sanctuary of unconditional love. With her, you felt like you could let your guard down completely. Her touch was gentle, her words soothing. She was nurturing, always ready to hold you close and whisper sweet reassurances. In her presence, you were more than just a pet; you were her cherished baby.

The days felt longer without her. You followed your Goddess's commands, practiced your magic, and did everything to please her, but the longing for Mommy's tender affection was always there. You missed the way she would stroke your hair, the softness in her voice, and the safe, warm embrace that made you feel like the most important person in the world.

One evening, after a particularly grueling session of magic training, you found yourself sitting on the floor by the fireplace, staring into the flickering flames. The cottage was quiet, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the distant rustle of leaves outside. Your Goddess was at her desk, reading an ancient tome, her expression focused and intense.

You dared to speak, your voice barely above a whisper. "Goddess, may I ask a question?"

She glanced up, her eyes meeting yours. "What is it, pet?"

You hesitated, feeling a lump form in your throat. "Will... will Mommy come back soon?"

For a moment, there was silence. Then, to your surprise, the intensity in her eyes softened. She closed the tome and stood, walking over to you. Kneeling down, she lifted your chin, her gaze penetrating yet kind.

"She misses you too, you know," she said softly. "But there are things I must take care of. Responsibilities and tasks that require my attention."

You nodded, understanding yet still yearning. "I miss her," you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes.

She brushed a tear from your cheek with a gentle touch. "I know, pet. I promise she will return. And when she does, she will hold you and love you as much as she always has."

You leaned into her touch, feeling a flicker of hope. "Thank you, Goddess."

She smiled, a rare and beautiful sight. "Now, come. Let's get you to bed. You need your rest."

As she led you to your makeshift bed by her feet, you couldn't help but feel a glimmer of anticipation. The promise of Mommy's return filled your heart with a renewed sense of hope and comfort, knowing that soon, you would be wrapped in her loving embrace once more.

=============

You sat by the fireplace with Nugget, using him as a makeshift pillow while the fire kept you warm. Your Goddess was on the couch, reading over a book. The soft crackling of the fire and the rhythmic turning of pages were soothing, and you closed your eyes, feeling a sense of peace and contentment.

What felt like only a moment later, you were gently awoken by the familiar sensation of her magic lifting you up. You opened your eyes to find yourself being placed onto her lap. Your once harsh Goddess had softened ever since you had kissed her. The change was palpable; her touch was tender, and her eyes, though still powerful, held a warmth that made your heart flutter. The two of you were settling into each other, finding a new rhythm that blended the lines of pet and cherished companion.

"Hi baby, did you miss Mommy?" she whispered in your ear, her breath sending shivers down your spine. A smile broke across your face, and a giggle bubbled up from within you, unable to be contained.

"Yes, Mommy," you replied, snuggling closer to her. The soft fabric of her sweater felt comforting against your skin, and her arms around you made you feel safe and loved. "I missed you so much."

Her fingers traced gentle patterns on your back, soothing and affectionate. "I missed you too, sweet girl," she murmured. "Every moment we spend together is precious to me."

You looked up at her, your eyes meeting hers. "You make me so happy, Mommy."

Her smile widened, and she kissed the top of your head. "And you make me happy too, little one. So very happy."

The fire crackled beside you, casting a warm glow over the room. Outside, the sounds of the forest provided a serene backdrop to this intimate moment. You felt a sense of peace and contentment wash over you, knowing that you were right where you belonged.

"Mommy," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"Yes, baby?" she responded, her voice soft and reassuring.

"I love you."

Her arms tightened around you, and she kissed your forehead. "I love you too, my sweet girl. More than you can ever know."

===========

Six months had passed, and life had taken on a new, comforting rhythm. You now had a room of your own, a small shed outback that Wanda had transformed into a cozy art studio. It was a place of solace, a haven where you could lose yourself in the colors and strokes of your brushes. The shed was filled with canvases, some finished, others still in progress, and the smell of oil and acrylic paints lingered in the air.

Wanda had given you this space, recognizing your need for a personal sanctuary. You had always loved painting, creating beautiful landscapes and scenes that seemed to flow effortlessly from your mind onto the canvas. What started as a hobby had become something more profound. Wanda often referred to your paintings as prophetic, noting how events depicted in your artwork would later unfold in reality. It was as if you were capturing glimpses of the future without even realizing it.

Today, you were working on a new piece, a serene forest scene bathed in the golden light of dawn. The trees stood tall and majestic, their leaves a vibrant mix of greens and yellows, while a gentle stream wound its way through the underbrush. You lost yourself in the details, the brush moving with a life of its own.

As you painted, you thought about the changes that had come into your life. The once strict and imposing presence of your Goddess had softened considerably. Wanda and the Scarlet Witch had found a balance, coexisting in a way that allowed both to express their unique forms of love and care for you. You still followed the rules, still respected the boundaries set by your Goddess, but there was a tenderness now that hadn't existed before.

The door to your studio creaked open, and you turned to see Wanda standing there, a soft smile on her lips. She looked at the painting, her eyes filled with admiration and a hint of curiosity.

"Another masterpiece, I see," she said, stepping inside. "It's beautiful."

"Thank you, Mommy," you replied, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at her praise. "I love how this one is turning out."

Wanda moved closer, her eyes scanning the canvas. "It's peaceful. I hope it stays that way."

You nodded, understanding the unspoken weight behind her words. Many of your paintings had foreseen conflicts and challenges, but this one felt different. It was calm, serene—a welcome change.

"I wanted to create something peaceful," you said softly. "Something that reminds us of the beauty in the world."

Wanda placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. "You've done more than that, sweetheart. You've given us hope."

You looked up at her, seeing the genuine affection in her eyes. "I just paint what I see."

"And what you see is a gift," she replied, her voice tender. "Never forget that."

You turned back to the painting, adding a few final touches to the sunlight filtering through the trees. Wanda stayed by your side, watching in silence. The bond between you had grown stronger, and you felt more at peace than you had in a long time.

As the day turned to evening, you and Wanda walked back to the cottage together, the warmth of her presence wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. Life with your Goddess and Mommy was a delicate balance, but it was one filled with love, understanding, and a shared sense of purpose.

Inside the cottage, the fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the room. You settled by Wanda's feet, leaning into her as she stroked your hair, the familiar feeling of safety and belonging washing over you. No matter what the future held, you knew you would face it together, drawing strength from the love that bound you all.

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