#and the fewer notes i take on my thoughts

[iamnotlookingidonotseeit]

fascinating revelations out of my dad's professional coaching of the whole family today

my mom scored astonishingly high on empathy and caring for a woman who seemed to find it next to impossible to express that to me

my dad has done an insane amount of work to be so warm and personable considering that his natural inclination is towards strong reserve rooted in anxiety (just like me!!)

my sister shocked - SHOCKED 🙄 - to learn that she scores almost zero in empathy AND very high on manipulation

actually shocking reveal that my sister always knew she was my mom's favorite. like I kind of assumed she was mean to both of us but apparently most of the biting comments were for me

[iwritefandomimagines]

SOULMATES — STEVE HARRINGTON

masterlist

pairing: steve harrington x reader, platonic!eddie x reader

descriptions: for someone who so totally isn’t crushing on his best friend, steve harrington is not a fan of her close friendship with eddie fucking munson.

tags/warnings: jealous!steve, swearing, eddie is flirty but ur friendship is platonic, reader uses she/her pronouns, steve is pathetic and silly and overreacts because he’s so down bad

author’s note: ok so i may or may not have essentially dreamt this scenario & woken up half remembering it but determined to put it down for u all … please enjoy and pleaaaaase let me know what you think!!!

———

Steve isn’t sure you’ve ever bounded into Family Video quite so enthusiastically. Nor has he ever seen you move quite so quickly.

Your hair is frazzled, your eyes blown wide, and your whole body lit up with energy as you skip to the counter and lean your elbows on it.

“Hey Stevie,” you hum, “Figured I’d come say hi on my break to tell you this crazy story about last night.”

You worked just down the road from Family Video, in a small diner that required you to wear a traditional (and yet crazily short) waitress’ uniform that showed off your legs frustratingly well.

Not that he was ever looking.

You often found yourself spending lunch breaks loitering around Steve when you were on shift at similar times, and he’d return the favour shortly after when he took his break.

It was a routine that you both loved, but one that had fallen away a little recently as you’d been moving around your shifts more and taking on fewer of them while you studied part-time.

It wasn’t like you didn’t still spend a ridiculous amount of time together, though — Steve’s was like a second home to you, and yours to him, and any day you didn’t see eachother would at least end with an hour long phone call full of gossip and mindless chattering.

Not last night, though. He’d called, but with no answer.

He’d even considered driving by your place just to see if you were home — but he decided against it. That would be way too intense.

Steve nods, his brow quirking up curiously as he waits for you to elaborate.

You’re obviously free to do whatever you like, whenever you like, and with whoever you like… But he’ll be damned if he’s not intrigued to know where you were last night.

“So I’m at Eddie’s, right?” you begin, and you watch as his eyes widen and his jaw clenches.

He scoffs, “You were at Eddie’s?”

You nod, furrowing your brows at his reaction, “Yeah, we all went back after the gig?”

“After the gig?”

“Yeah, dummy, after the Corroded Coffin gig,” your chin is resting on one palm, and the other waves at him as if his cluelessness is ridiculous, “I told you I was going to their show last night. Remember?”

He doesn’t remember, but he’s sure he recalls you telling him off for falling asleep intermittently on the phone a few nights ago and giving you mumbled answers.

“No, I don’t remember,” he shakes his head, expression still tense, “And I think I’d remember you telling me you’d be with Eddie.”

Your hands are on your hips now, irritation evident on your face, “Okay, what the hell is your problem and why do you keep saying Eddie’s name like that? I totally did tell you, you just obviously weren’t listening.”

Steve takes in a sharp breath, watching the frustration in your features as he conjures up his excuse.

“I didn’t know you were close enough to be hanging round at his trailer,” he huffs.

He shouldn’t be annoyed by that fact, and he hates that the feeling in his stomach at the thought of you in the confined space of Eddie’s trailer can definitely be read loud and clear as jealousy even by himself.

He knew you were friends with Eddie and that you had plenty in common — he’d noticed as much every time the curly-haired boy loitered around you when the whole gang hung out — but not that you were that close.

You roll your eyes, unimpressed, “What, like I wasn’t hanging out in your room like a week after we met? Alone, for that matter!”

He remembers that time well.

When you’d first met, he was enamoured with you, and he loved that you’d clicked so quickly and dragged him straight out of the hole of wallowing he’d found himself in post-Nancy.

He’d told himself the crush he harboured when you first got close was just situational and that it had long gone, but he knew that wasn’t the case really.

He was just grateful to have such a good friend and so he’d shoved those feelings where they couldn’t resurface — until today, apparently.

“Well he’s obviously got a thing for you, inviting you back to his trailer after his gig, acting like the big rockstar after a show to, like, six people,” he pouts, and as he says the words he feels increasingly pathetic for how he’s acting, but he can’t help it, “Did you stay the night?”

It’s your turn to scoff now, and you fold your arms over your chest as you see his eyes grow shy while he awaits your answer.

You shake your head, “You’re ridiculous. I didn’t go to his trailer alone, he does not have a thing for me, and he dropped me home right when everyone else left, smartass.”

“So you’re not screwing Munson?”

“You know what, I’ll tell you my story when you’ve got your head out of your ass,” you huff, turning on your heel to leave the store, “My break’s basically over, anyway.”

He’s an idiot. And he knows he’s an idiot.

But the niggling fear that something’s going on between you and Eddie has unsettled his stomach and he does not like that one bit.

—

The hour that follows before Steve has his own lunch break passes agonisingly slowly.

He’s tapping his fingers on the counter, a pen between his teeth as he pretends to read today’s returns list with at least some semblance of interest.

His mind, though, is on you and on the fact he knows you’re pissed off with him for overreacting about your friendship with Eddie and he doesn’t know how he’ll explain it when he grovels for your forgiveness.

As the door dings open and Robin walks in to start her shift, he finally lets out an apprehensive sigh of relief.

“Hey dingus. Why do you look like you’re gonna crap your pants right now?” she asks, eyes glinting with humour as she furrows her brow.

Steve shakes his head, “I need to speak to Y/N about something. It’s important.”

At that, the humour in her eyes meets her smile and she lets out a small laugh, “Uh oh, lovers quarrel?”

“Something like that,” Steve mumbles, “Not that we’re lovers she’s just— She’s spending a lot of time with Eddie. It’s weird. We clashed a bit about it.”

Robin saunters round to join him on his side of the counter, dramatically removing her coat as she nudges his side.

Steve is eternally grateful for Robin’s friendship and the fact that, despite her teasing, she’s always a listening ear when he needs her.

She’s more than aware of how he feels—felt, he’d usually insist— about you, and she’s been trying to get you to admit that you feel the same too, just with little success.

“Dude, there’s nothing going on between her and Eddie Munson,” she scoffs as though it’s the most obvious fact in the world, “She worships the ground you walk on. You’re literally, like, soulmates.”

Steve pouts, “Platonic soulmates, maybe.”

He’d heard you say those words to the kids once when Dustin had called you soulmates and you’d gotten flustered.

“Platonic soulmates, sure. He’s my favourite person and I love him. But as a friend, Dusty.”

Yes, it was just an awkward reaction to the teens prying, but it was like a bullet to the chest to hear for him.

“Not even gonna ask where you learned that term,” Robin dismisses, waving her hands wildly in gesticulation as she speaks, “But you’re totally wrong. Look, buzz off for your lunch and go see her. And apologise for whatever you’ve said to her that’s got you moping around like a kicked puppy.”

Steve draws in a deep breath and bites his lip, nodding as he leaps over the counter and shakes off his nerves.

It’s a humid day, and he can’t tell if the sweat beading on his forehead on his short walk to your workplace is because of that or the sheer panic induced by his amalgam of current fears.

Was he going to have to come clean that he was jealous? Would you see right through him if he didn’t?

The ding of the bell to the diner doesn’t spark your immediate attention as it usually does, and at this Steve finds himself frowning.

The frown only deepens when he sees exactly why.

You’re leaning over the table into a booth on the far side of the diner, face lit up with a beaming smile and the sound of your laughter echoing in Steve’s ears.

But it’s the mop of curly brown hair opposite you that twists the knife that feels like it’s lodged in Steve’s chest.

So much for there being nothing going on.

He catches himself thinking this, trying to rationalise Eddie’s presence with the fact he’s not alone in the booth, but he can’t help the unease that has overcome him.

“Oh hey Steve!” your manager Mary grins, “She’s been in a right grump since she came back from her lunch break, hopefully you can cheer her up. I’ll get your usual ready for you now.”

Mary adores Steve, and you’ve always teased him about it — the way she dotes on him is so adorable and if you were totally honest you mostly just enjoyed how the mention of this made him blush.

“Oh it’s okay, thanks Mary,” he sends her a small smile to reassure her as her face drops, “Just a quick visit this lunch, mom’s leftovers for lunch for me today!”

That was an obvious lie that his rumbling stomach cursed him for.

His parents were never home, let alone the kind of parents to cook big family meals and send him away with leftovers.

She nods, “Okay sweetheart, you go say hi. That Eddie boy seems to be helping with whatever got her so down, but I know you put the biggest smile on her face.”

“Thanks, Mary. I’ll try.”

He can’t ignore the pang in his chest at the fact it was him that was the cause of your bad mood, nor the fact that Eddie of all people was the one here cheering you up.

Almost on cue, you turn around just as he starts making his way towards you, and he frowns as your expression sours.

“Can we talk?”

“I’m a bit busy right now,” you shrug, “Serving customers.”

You soften a little at the sadness in his eyes and as much as you’d like to stay strong and stoic to wait for him to grovel, you heave in a deep sigh, “Go grab a table and I’ll come over once I’ve cleared up Ed’s table.”

Ed.

He makes eye contact with Eddie now, who flings him a smirk and a wave and leans towards you, “What’ve I told’ya about calling me Ed, sweetheart?”

You roll your eyes, and when you turn back to Steve he’s already stalking over to another booth with his arms crossed and his feet practically stomping.

Sweetheart put a bad taste in his mouth and he didn’t want to stick around for more flirting.

You shoot Eddie a glare and watch the smirk on his face grow, “Told’ya he was jealous. God, he looked about ready to hit me.”

You shake your head, blushing crimson, “He is not jealous he just doesn’t like you very much.”

“Yeah, ‘cause he’s jealous,” he shrugs smugly, “You need to just tell him you like him before either his head explodes from that jealousy or I’m found dead as a result of it.”

Gareth pipes up beside him now, “He’s right. I don’t even know him and I can tell he’s literally head over heels for you. And apparently he has been forever.”

You ponder their words hopefully — maybe they’re at least partially right.

It would certainly explain why he was so concerned by you spending so much time with Eddie and in particular with the potential of that time being spent alone.

“You pair are a pain in my ass,” you huff, hands on hips.

Eddie pokes out his tongue, “Say that again when you’ve told him how you feel and he confirms that we’re right.”

With another roll of your eyes, you’ve turned on your heel and are headed straight over to your best friend’s table.

He doesn’t look up.

“Does Ed over there mind you ditching him to talk to me?” Steve is pouting and you’d find it adorable if it wasn’t so frustrating.

You laugh, “Eddie doesn’t care, in fact he encouraged it. Did you mind me being over there?”

He sighs, eyes flickering over to where Eddie and Gareth were watching the conversation intently.

He doesn’t answer and you find yourself slipping into the booth opposite him and reaching out to place your hand atop his — which is currently fiddling with a napkin.

“They’re certain you’re jealous,” you hum, your gaze challenging him as he finally meets it, “That you’ve convinced yourself I’m into Eddie because you’re into me and scared I like him better.”

Again at first he’s silent, unsure of where this conversation is going and how honest to be.

“And… Uh…are you? Do you like him better?”

“Are you seriously asking that question?”

“Well I don’t know, he called you sweetheart and you didn’t look happy to see me and—,”

You scoff, “I was upset at you for being so weird earlier. You’re my favourite person in the world, Stevie. I’m always happy to see you. Of course I don’t like him better.”

He can’t decide whether to take this as a signifier that hope for reciprocation of his feelings isn’t misplaced, but he takes the plunge and flips his hand over to intertwine his fingers with yours.

“You’re my favourite person too. Fine… Maybe I was jealous,” he runs his free hand through his hair as he gazes into your eyes and tries to read your response, “Maybe I’ve been trying to pretend I haven’t been crushing on you since, like, literally the day I met you because I didn’t want to screw up our friendship. And everyone’s into you—look at you! I just—,”

The smile that lights up your face is so bright and so beautiful that he wishes he had a camera on hand to snap it and retain the image forever.

“You never thought that maybe I’ve been feeling the same way and it might be worth the risk?” you raise your brows, “We’ve just been total fuckin’ idiots this whole time, huh?”

Steve laughs now too, all of his nerves washing away as you grip his hand even tighter.

Melodious laughter radiates from the two of you as you drink in the moment, and you know Eddie will be teasing you about the cliche moment later, but you never want to let go of Steve’s hand.

“I can’t believe it’s taken you being jealous of Eddie Munson for this. He’s known how I feel about you for ages, by the way, he just likes getting a rise out of you,” you shake your head, stifling laughter with the back of your other hand, “Plus he is so not my type!”

“He’s not, huh,” cocky, jokey Steve is back now as he pulls your intertwined hands up under his chin, “What is, then?”

You pretend to be deep in thought for a moment, “Hm. Massive dorks with disturbingly good hair, pretty brown eyes, a jealous streak and a concerningly bad sense of humour.”

His mouth forms an ‘O’ as he feigns offence for a moment, before he presses a kiss to the back of your hand and leans forward a little.

The kiss leaves a tingle on your hand when his lips pull away and you’re sure you’re going to ascend to heaven at any given moment.

He’s watching you so tenderly, his soft hand still tight in yours, and you just want to bottle up this time forever.

“Checks out,” he smirks, “But I do not have a bad sense of humour. Unless you count me pretending that your jokes are ever funny.”

“Thin ice, Mr Romantic,” you pout, “You’re supposed to be sweeping me off my feet right now, remember?”

He leans up so that your noses are touching, “Yeah, yeah. Well I’ve been waiting all the time I’ve known you to kiss you, so how about we start there?”

“Perfect.”

The kiss is every bit as tender as his lingering touch, lips plush and minty and ever so eager despite the gentle kiss.

You don’t dare intensify it, however much you want to, knowing that all eyes are on you.

You pull back, both of your eyes wide and your breathing ragged, and he licks his lips, “Oh I could get used to that.”

You’re interrupted by a cough.

“As pleased as I am to see you lovebirds finally getting some sense,” Mary tuts, a smirk on her lips as she taps her toes, “Perhaps save that for when Y/N isn’t supposed to be serving customers, hm?”

“Sorry ma’am,” Steve looks down sheepishly, and you want to kiss the adorable expression off his face immediately.

You place your palms on the table and scoot yourself up and out of the booth, but not before pressing one last quick kiss to his lips.

“I’ll come to Family Video when I finish at 4,” you sing-song, “We can pick up where we left off, yeah? Talk a little, kiss some more… Whatever you want.”

“Sounds perfect. You can finally tell me your story later too, yeah?”

Your eyes twinkle and you let out a belly laugh at the reminder of the stupid tale that had set all this in motion, “Yeah, maybe. I’m sure I’ll be distracted though.”

That sets his whole body alight even though he knows you’re not insinuating anything like that, and he briefly ducks his head to hide his flushed cheeks.

“Mhm, yeah, maybe.”

You twirl away with a spring in your step and a knowing smirk on your painted lips, your heart hammering against your ribcage.

After a slice of pie (on Mary’s insistence), Steve goes back to Family Video a very happy man.

And now he can’t wait for 4PM to roll round to make up for all of the time he’s spent pining.

———

eeee i hope you enjoyed this !!! it’s not perfect but please let me know what you think because it was so fun to write anyway. i love jealous silly steve ! feel free to request some steve/eddie/jonathan fics btw <3

[the-shedevil-writes]

King of Possibilities (Tyler Owens x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: Tyler Owens was your best friend once, until he left for college and broke the promise to keep in touch. By the time he tried, your world had already fallen apart, and you weren’t interested in picking up the pieces with him. Years later, fate strands him on your porch with a busted truck and nowhere else to go. WORD COUNT: 5.9k WARNINGS: Childhood friends. Enemies to lovers. Angst (but it gets happy I swear). Emotional hurt/comfort. Confessions. Arguments. Kissing. NOTES: You should give King of Possibilities by Goldie Boutilier a listen :3 MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

Tyler Owens had his hands tied. He walked onto the all-too-familiar porch with his hands in his pockets and his tail between his legs. It looked exactly the same as it did all those years ago. The white wooden panels and the porch swing that creaked in the dry wind. The rickety door swung open, and there stood his old friend’s mother. Wrinkles and graying hair had appeared on the woman who treated him like a son growing up, and they suited her perfectly.

“Ms. Shirley, you’re glowing.” He said with that low country accent and charming smirk.

She laughed and slapped her hand against his shoulder. “Tyler. It’s been too long… My, you’ve gotten so big. Come on, now. It’s hotter than a two-dollar pistol out here.”

He chuckled and walked in. Thank god for Southern hospitality. His truck had broken down while passing through his old hometown, and he had nowhere to stay. With his parents having moved to Oklahoma City thanks to his streaming income, he forced himself to buck up and make the phone call. Money was running too tight to book a motel room like everybody else, but he’d never admit that. 

Stepping inside, he looked around. The decorations were slightly more modern than they used to be. There were fewer crosses and religious memorabilia than he remembered, and he was sure that the death of her father contributed to that. He had grown so much that the space now felt cramped. It used to look so big to him as a kid. 

“Does Y/n know I’m here?” He asked, looking down at the older woman.

She nodded her head, but didn’t say anything. Quickly busying herself with pouring him a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge, she let out a quick “Mmmhm.”

He let out a stressed chuckle and shook his head. “I take it she’s not too happy.”

Shirley looked at him with pursed lips and wide eyes. “Well…”

Y/n rode her grey Appaloosa mare, Checkers, down the fields. She told herself that she was making herself useful, making the rounds of the ranch. Scolding the chickens when they’d attempt to peck at the fence and counting cows, making sure none had somehow made it onto the main street. But deep down, she knew she was just distracting herself. All the main chores were already done by this point. There was something… someone who weighed heavily on her mind. She tried to keep her thoughts locked away. But they were like a box of bees, and her mom had just shaken the hell out of it.

When her mother told her that Tyler Owens was staying for a few days until his truck was fixed, she ran to her room and slammed the door like she was that heartbroken teenager again. 

She and Tyler were inseparable growing up, and only became closer in high school. She’d go to every one of his rodeos, and he’d stop by and help her out with the ranch. Though ‘help out’ was a strong presumption, they spent most of it running around and laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe. Every summer, they were glued at the hip. 

So when Tyler told her he was going to college, she didn’t worry. She figured they’d still remain close. Technology was getting better and better. They could text, call, and Skype. Though even then, she was a little teary-eyed, waving him goodbye from her truck as he stood on the steps of the university. It didn’t hit too harshly at first, because she was just so damn proud of him…

But then the texts and calls started getting fewer and fewer. He never had time to Skype. Yet she’d see what he’d post on Facebook and see all the photos of him partying. Riding mechanical bulls instead of real ones. Arms around girls who came and went. She stopped reaching out altogether.

After her father died, Tyler became scorched earth to her. She locked herself up and focused her efforts on the ranch and barrel racing at the rodeos when she could. And when Tyler made a name for himself as the famed ‘Tornado Wrangler, ’ whatever that meant, she blocked all his accounts. 

She spread out some feed for the chickens from horseback and steered herself back towards the stable. 

That’s when she saw him walking down the back porch and towards her.

Tyler Owens in a white shirt, jeans, and a cowboy hat. She hated it. She hated how bulky he had gotten and the facial hair that was groomed on him. She hated how he strode over with a newfound confidence. She hated how he looked good.

“As I live and breathe, someone came crawling back,” Y/n said, looking down at him from her high horse. She did enjoy the fact that she was above him from Checkers’ back.

He didn’t say anything, just looked up at her and took off his hat in almost respect. In almost servitude. 

“The Tornado Wrangler finally made time in his packed schedule for little old me.” She said snarkily, “Oh, no. He just needed a favor.”

“You look good, Y/n.” 

Rolling her eyes and pretending that it didn’t affect her so much was difficult, but she managed. 

“Mama won’t let me make you sleep in the hen house, so you’re sleeping on the couch.” She simply said before turning her horse and riding her into the stable. If it were back then, they could’ve easily shared a bed. Now she’d rather sleep in the hen house herself than share a bed with Tyler Owens.

Once she got under the roof, she climbed down and held onto the lead to guide Checkers into the empty stall. She gently rubbed up and down her muzzle. Checkers was one of the few horses that wasn’t so sensitive to touch, and instead sought it out. It was therapeutic for her. That’s why she never competed with Checkers. She was too special.

Calming down, she didn’t notice Tyler walking in and looking around.

“You renovated the stables.” He exclaimed, startling her.

She turned around with a glare. “Well, without you here to distract me, I started barrel racing. Needed to upgrade.” She looked around at her own handiwork, “So I added the Dutch doors that lead to the pasture and installed the fans. Insulated the roof and walls. Added the ridge vents.”

His brows raised. “You did all this?” 

“Hard to believe?” She asked, not even looking at him. 

He tentatively followed her as she walked down the stable, checking on each horse. He shook his head. “You never… You never did that sorta thing in high school.”

“Well, that was before Daddy died and before you left.” She said bluntly. Her anger bit into every word. 

The silence that followed could kill. It could strangle Tyler Owens till he was nothing but a slab of stone in a graveyard.

“Well… Your mom wanted me to tell you that supper’s gonna be ready soon. And to shower before you sit down at the table.” 

Her brows were furrowed as she looked at the horse in front of her, avoiding eye contact with him. “Got it. You can go now.”

With a small defeated huff, he turned around and walked back toward the house. It was then that the heartbreak she had been walling up began to make itself known. She wiped her teary eyes and pretended it was just sweat, just in case Tyler looked back. 

After her long, cold shower, she walked out into the kitchen in an oversized T-shirt and gym shorts. The old shirt was a rusty orange with a margarita design and the lyrics to Jimmy Buffett’s ‘Margaritaville.’ On the back in big bold letters was ‘It’s 5’o o'clock somewhere’.  She didn’t even remember where she had gotten it. 

Yet for some reason, when Tyler saw her from the kitchen table, he smiled knowingly. “I remember that shirt.”

“What about it?” She asked, sitting down across from him, slumped. Why’d their dining table have to be so small? She looked over at her mom, who was putting on oven mitts to grab the slow cooker.

“Play nice, Y/n.” She warned.

Tyler smirked at the interaction. “Used to be mine. Remember?”

She shook her head stubbornly as her mom put the pot roast on a little rubber mat between her and Tyler. She immediately started fixing her plate. Again, not sparing him a passing glance.

“Nope.” 

He tilted his head with a look of disbelief and looked over at Shirley and back before going. “We got rained on. We were in town getting seed, and your shirt was white, so I gave you that one to cover yourself up. Walked back shirtless and with chicken feed dripping down my back.”

The memory unfolded before her, and she did remember it now. Freshman year of high school. They didn’t let Tyler into the gas station to grab smokes for his dad. No shirt. No shoes. No service. But he refused to take the shirt back.

She sat silent for a moment as her mom sat down next to her. All the food was placed before them, and even though she had worked up an appetite being outside all day, she suddenly didn’t feel hungry.

“I remember that now.” She admitted softly before grabbing a roll of corn. 

“Seems like you don’t wanna remember a lot.” He quirked back, scooping some mashed potatoes onto his plate. Her mom had cooked as if twenty people were coming instead of just Tyler. But between the two of them, they both could eat like dogs.

She squinted her eyes at him. “Only thing I remember is you promising we’ll keep in touch.”

Her mother sighed, “Ya’ll. Let’s keep this civil. Looking at you, Y/n.” 

She scoffed with wide eyes. “Mama, am I wrong?” She hated the way she sounded. Tyler being there had aged her back ten years. Even her voice raised in pitch like she was eighteen years old again. 

Shirley just shook her head, refusing to comment. After a few more shoveled bites, Y/n got up from the table and cleared her plate quickly. It wasn’t polite. She almost always asked to be excused, but her mother didn’t scold her for that tonight. She clattered the plate into the sink and stormed off. 

Tyler looked at Shirley with an ashamed look on his face. The fact that he had hurt her had lingered deep in him for years. He hadn’t meant to. He had been a stupid kid, and found himself swept up in the new adventure of college and making new friends who weren’t the same four people in town. By the time he had thought about reaching out, she had stopped all communication. 

“I’m sorry about her, but you gotta understand-” Shirley started.

He shook his head. “No, no… Frankly, I deserve it.” He looked back over at the hallway she stormed down to her bedroom. “She’s still the same spitfire she was back then. Even more so.”

Shirley sighed, “That’s why she’s gonna end up without a husband and forty horses.” 

Tyler laughed. “Don’t say that. She’s gonna be just fine. I don’t think there’s a man in town who wouldn’t fall head over heels for her.”

“Until she comes at them with her… fiery personality.” Shirley explained, “We all tried. Tried setting her up on dates and with the other boys in town. But after Ben died, she just chewed them all up and spit them out. Focused on those goddamn horses instead.” 

He sat soaking it in. The fact that he wasn’t there when her father passed haunted him. It was during his finals week, and they hadn’t been talking for a while by that point. Sure, he had sent a card, but he was also sure it ended up in the trash. 

Shirley saw the solemn look on his face. She reached out and put her hand over his. “Lemme show you something.”

Y/n rolled around in bed. Usually, she’d knock out as soon as she hit the pillow. But the muffled chatter and laughter from the living room got louder and louder. Tyler’s stupid, gruff laugh rang out with her mother's, and it was driving her up the wall. 

With a huff, she walked out with her arms crossed and slowly walked over to the living room. Even though she was pissed… she really couldn’t be angry. It was barely nine. So instead, she crept forward, letting curiosity get the better of her. 

On the couch sat Tyler and her mom, and a sense of confusion washed over her. She looked and saw a leather-bound album on her mom’s lap. She’d never seen that before. 

“Remember that rodeo? You were so upset, but Y/n insisted that ice cream would make you feel better, so she practically dragged the two of us to Sparky’s Parlor ten minutes before closing.” Her mom retold, and as she peered over the couch, she saw the lost picture of her and Tyler eating a banana split. She was mid-laughter as Tyler was mid-bite.

She had thrown that picture out long ago. Actually, as she looked at the album pages, she had thrown out all of those photographs so long ago. They used to hang up around her room, or were in a little folder under her desk. Back when she used to spend all her allowance on point-and-shoot cameras. Her mom had taken a few of them, but it didn’t matter. They were all supposed to be gone.

“Where’d you get those?” Her voice came out small.

Tyler and her mom looked back, surprised by her presence.

“I held onto them. You spent so much money on all those rolls of film, we couldn’t let it go to waste.” Her mom said a little nervous.

But she wasn’t angry. A surprising sense of gratitude fell over her. The memories she had tried so hard to forget were still preserved. 

She leaned over onto the couch and placed her head between the two of them. Looking down at the album, she pointed to one of herself wearing a birthday hat, standing awkwardly in front of a frosted cake. Tyler had a grin on his face as he yelled something at her- it was him very enthusiastically singing Happy Birthday. 

“Got some use out of all that yelling, huh?” She directed the comment at Tyler.

He chuckled and looked over at her. Their faces were close… But then again, so was her mom’s. “Turns out audiences outside of you like it.”

She shook her head before standing back up. “Put it away, Ma. I look awful in them.” She stated before walking away. 

And before she closed the door, she could hear Tyler say, “We’re getting somewhere.”

Seeing Tyler in her kitchen the next morning felt strange. For one, he was up at the crack of dawn, just like she always did. She didn’t let her mom touch an ounce of the farmwork, so that meant waking up early to do the hard jobs before the heat set in.

Secondly, it sent her flashes to her favorite summers, where he was over practically every day. A sense of déjà vu coursed through her.

“Mornin’” Tyler stated holding up a coffee mug as he leaned against the counter like he owned the damn place.

“Morning.” She reluctantly grumbled, opening the cabinet to grab a mug herself, but was interrupted by Tyler sliding over an already steaming cup towards her. She took it. “Thanks.”

The early morning silence was peaceful with the sound of the birds waking up outside. But now there was this tense awkwardness between them, and it was pissing her off.

“Need any help with the chores?” Tyler asked, crossing his arms.

“Been doing them on my own for the past seven years, so no.” She said.

He sighed and took a sip. “You know that the two of us can finish this ranch in half a day. Could do it back then, could probably do it faster now.” 

He was right, and she knew it. The day would be done in half the time with somebody else. And especially if that somebody was already well-versed, and probably (most definitely) stronger than her. 

She gave him a tense smile. “Well, if you’d like to shovel and scrape the shit out of all the pens-”

“Got it.” He interrupted, and when she was caught off guard, he let out a laugh. “You know that doesn’t bug me. You gotta try harder than that.”

“If you’d like to clean out all the troughs, go right ahead.” She said with a challenging brow. Cleaning out the troughs meant dealing with the great mystery slime of animal saliva and chewed-up food. Sometimes there’d be a dead bird or drowned rat in there on the bad days. 

“I’ll do it.” He said.

“Cleaning out all the fly and mouse traps.”

“Consider it done.”

For a moment, she had forgotten everything, and she was simply going back and forth with her best friend. But she didn’t let that nostalgia transfer into a smile on her face. She kept her face cold as stone.

She looked him up and down.

“Good. You’ve got your list for today, then.” She walked out the back porch door.

Tyler was in the middle of changing out a huge fly trap by the stable when he saw her. Y/n rode on an Appaloosa horse that he didn’t recognize. The job was Tyler’s least favorite. He’d rather shovel shit than deal with the heebie jeebies of taking out a wax card of dead flies and mosquito’s. That’s not even to mention the mouse traps. But he was also well aware that it was her least favorite, too. Or at least it had to be. She always squealed at the sight of any bug back then… But it seems she was forced to face it head-on after him.

Being able to watch her was a perk, at least. She looked downright gorgeous on that horse. Her hat shadowed her, and her hair blew back as she strided the horse down towards the chicken coop. She had changed a lot since he had last seen her. He’d see the photos on her mom’s social media, but nothing beat seeing her in real life. Her face calm as she wiped sweat off her brow and took off her flannel, tying it around her waist. This was when she was most beautiful, and he wished that she didn’t look so angry around him.

She threw some feed over the fence, and he could vaguely hear her talking to the chickens as if they were people. It had always made him laugh growing up, and as he let out a soft chuckle, he realized it still did today. 

After she finished feeding the chickens, she turned the horse to head in another direction, but saw Tyler. They both froze for a moment, just staring. There was this obvious feeling of missing each other between them, and he wanted to resolve it so badly. It felt like an itch he couldn’t scratch. A problem he knew that once it was resolved, would fix everything. 

He waved, and she took it as a sign to come over. As the horse trotted closer, he got a fluttering feeling in his chest. It was like he’d been noticed by a celebrity. Which was ironic considering that he was somewhat one himself.

Her horse skidded to a halt next to him.

“Having fun, Owens?” She asked with a tight fake smile.

He looked up at her for just a second before hanging his head with a laugh. “So much so, actually.”

She rolled her eyes. “When’s that truck gonna be fixed?”

“Two days from now, why?” 

An evil smirk lifted her face, and he groaned a little. He’d be doing this collection of the worst possible chores for the next few days, and he knew it. 

She shrugged and continued riding on. 

Y/n was having too much fun. She got to do all of her favorite parts of ranching while he did all the dirty work. Of course, a part of her felt guilty for making him do that. She wasn’t completely evil, and watching him shovel shit didn’t make her feel as satisfied as she’d hoped it would. But she did hope that it’d at the very least teach him a lesson. Give him a taste of what her life looked and felt like for so many years.

They’d completed everything by mid-afternoon, which was way earlier than she was used to. Usually, she’d walk in just in time to shower for supper at sunset. It was the perfect weather too, with grey skies and rolling clouds that blocked the sun. Tyler would always get so excited about ANY possibility of a storm growing up. So subconsciously, she enjoyed these days too.

She was walking down past the sheep pen and down towards the house when she saw Tyler doing the same thing.

“UH UH, Owens. You’re not walking in my mama’s house trailing in every disgusting substance known to man.” She called after him.

He slowly turned and put his hands on his hips. “Is that not what you do every day?”

A smirk lit up her face again. “I hose off.” And it was true. She’d hose off her hands and her boots before drying them off and walking back in. But she had a better idea for Tyler.

“Really? Show me.” He said, unconvinced. He clearly didn’t believe that she did, and was just using it to get the chance to blast him with water. Which… yes and no.

She gestured for him to come follow her to the side of the house. They walked up to a little tiled-off area with the hose. Towels were already set up on the stool for the following days. There were a few boots that sat left to dry.

Tyler gave a little groan mixed with a laugh. But he just watched as she got the hose and turned on the spout. A gentle stream of water poured through the nozzle. 

“It’s just a little water, Tyler.” She said, but a hint of trouble melted over her tone. 

He ran his hands down his face and then threw them up. “Okay. Okay.” He sauntered over and reached for the hose, but she pulled it just out of his reach. His brows raised. “Sweetheart, I can hose myself off like a big boy.”

She couldn’t help but widen her eyes in surprise. Jesus Christ. When did Tyler develop a habit of calling people sweetheart? Suddenly, she was wishing he called her that more. 

Pulling herself together, she scrunched her brows at him. “I don’t want you wasting water.” It was a flimsy excuse, but they both knew what she wanted to do. 

He sighed, knowing she was too stubborn to give it up, and walked towards the tile. His face automatically flinched as he put his hands behind his back.

“STOP ACTING LIKE I’M GONNA SHOOT YOU DOWN.” She couldn’t resist the pure laugh that came out of her. “You’re like a god damn baby.” 

“Just do it alread-”

She predictably changed the nozzle to a spray of pressure and shot the water all over him. Cackling as she ran the water up and down him. 

“Are you-”

She moved the hose back up to his face, shutting him up. By the time she was done, his flannel and tank top were sticking to his body like wax paper. And his medium wash jeans had become a dark navy blue. She turned the hose off, afraid she had gone a little too far, until he started laughing and running his hand down his face. 

He scooped water out from the bridge of his nose. And while he was momentarily blind, she took the second to watch how his shirt had become see-through. Her breath hitched at the sight of his muscles. They both had grown up, and he wasn’t the scrawny boy she used to know. Sure, back in the rodeo days, he had strong biceps and shoulders, but he was so lean. Now he was just… pure muscle. 

Tyler suddenly started walking towards her. “Get over here.” He said gruffly with a smile.

She squealed and tried to run away while using the hose to fend him off, but it weighed her down. “NO! NO! TYLER!”

He managed to wrap his arms around her waist and pick her up, grabbing the hose from her hands and dousing her. 

“There ya go. Now we’re both clean.” He said through their shared laughter. 

They didn’t even notice Shirley watching the commotion from the side window, shaking her head with a nostalgic smile on her face. She turned back in and returned to cook for supper. 

She looked up at him as he turned off the hose. They were both completely drenched, their clothes slightly see-through. And Tyler let his arms linger around her waist. Her breath audibly hitched as he looked down at her with those sea green eyes. But after a moment that felt too long, she got her bearings and escaped his grasp. She grabbed one of the towels off the stool and threw it at him. 

“I’m showering first.” She said firmly, but her attitude didn’t feel as strong as before. It was like her defenses were slowly being chipped away. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Tyler said, using the towel to dry his hair. 

That night, Y/n found herself in her room, having snuck the album her mom had made. She went through the pages, and it felt like someone had broken through her chest and gripped her heart. It hurt. Even though he was in the next room over. It hurt like he was still gone. 

She flipped through way too many pictures of Tyler. Him on the walk to school with her. Him with one of her chickens on his shoulder. Him riding her old horse. He was so young in all of them, with a baby face, barely able to grow any facial hair. There wasn’t a single photo where he wasn’t grinning ear to ear. 

Those weren’t too bad. The ones that hurt were the ones her mom or somebody else had taken of her and Tyler. Proms and homecomings. They had their separate dates or went as friends, but still always needed a picture together. Birthdays. Trips to the lake. Graduation.

She looked at the last one in the album. It was a picture of her and Tyler on the steps of his University. The last time she had ever properly seen him before this whole incident. Their arms were wrapped around each other. Her eyes were teary, and for the first time, he wasn’t wearing a grin. He had a sad, no-teeth smile on his face as he had his arm around her shoulder.

A tear drop fell onto the plastic sheet of the photos. She didn’t even realize that she had been crying and sniffling like a baby. Stifling a sob, she got up and walked out of her bedroom. 

Knowing Tyler was asleep on the couch, she walked briskly past, trying not to wake him. Her hand covered her mouth as she stumbled through the dark to get out through the back porch.

By the time she had shut the sliding door and run towards the stable, she didn’t notice Tyler sitting up, having been awake the whole time.

It was just what she needed to ground herself. Sitting on the floor of the stable stall with Checkers, who lay half asleep, but eager for the random midnight pets. She scratched behind her ears and down her muzzle. Running her fingers through her mane, she was able to finally let out a shaky breath. 

The night was quiet and still. Nothing but the hum of the fans and the whirring of the cicadas in the distance. She gently let the back of her head hit the wall.

“Y/n?” A voice called. Shit.

Checkers got up, startled with a whinny. She quickly got up with her and gently put her hands on her muzzle, grounding her again. “Hey hey hey. Shhhhh. Shhhh.” She hushed, calming the horse down. 

She didn’t look over at Tyler, standing outside the stall in pajama pants and a grey T-shirt. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook her.” He said, coming closer and leaning on the stall door. He put his forearms on the top and rested his chin on them, watching her. “I don’t recognize this one.”

She swallowed and wiped her swollen eyes with her forearm. “Checkers.” Her voice came out weaker than she had hoped. She just wanted to pretend like everything was normal. “This is Checkers.”

Tyler reached out, and Checkers instantly came over and nodded her head towards his hand. “People lover. I see why you ride this one a lot.” He gently patted the horse's head.

She stayed silent and just watched as he gave the horse some love. 

“Wanna tell me what’s going on?” He asked, not looking at her, like she was a scared animal that he needed to gain the trust of.

She coughed. “Nothing. There’s nothing.” She said as she walked out the stall door and down towards another one. The white horse in that one didn’t get up, and instead lay sleeping. It was a common misconception that horses always slept standing up. Only sometimes. And this horse wasn’t as loving as Checkers was.

“You’re in the stable in the middle of the night crying…” He pointed out, and she sniffled, just proving his point. 

He pried away from Checkers and meandered towards her at the next stall. Looking down at her, he went to reach out and brush some of her wild hair out of her face, but she turned the other way, dodging him. 

“Come on. Y/n, please.”

Her face crumpled up, and her eyes naturally watered to a point where they overflowed. “I hate you. I hate you so much.” Her voice cracked, “You left me. You-you promised we would stay in touch, and you couldn’t-you didn’t even do it when he died.” 

His face softened to another level she had never seen before. With big eyes and a soft frown on his face. “I know. I’m so sorry, Y/n. I’m so sorry, it’s not even funny.”

Everything was pouring out of her heart and reaching her face to spill out of her mouth. “I had no one! Dad’s dead, you’re AWOL, mom’s in a catatonic state, and I had a whole ranch to somehow take care of while grieving the one person that came before YOU.” She didn’t mean to yell, but it just naturally came out that way. “You threw me away like I was nothing.” 

She didn’t miss the tears in Tyler’s eyes now. He sniffed and pinched his nose to get rid of them. 

“You’re not nothing. If I could go back in time, I’d do anything to stop myself from doing that to you. It haunts me. Every day.”

“THEN WHY HAVEN’T YOU REACHED OUT?” She pushed his chest. “HUH? You’re too busy with your whole internet fame? And your groupies and buckle bunnies?” She hated that term. She’d always scold Tyler for using it growing up, yet here she was using it. 

Even though she was shoving him and yelling, Tyler didn’t move towards her. He didn’t raise his voice. “Because I knew it was too late. I knew that nothing I did would ever make up for leaving you on your own like that. And while I’m here, I sure am trying. But no matter how many troughs I clean or traps I change, I know it won’t make a dent towards the debt I owe you.”

She hiccuped and put her hand to her chest. Her inhales were sharp, and she looked up at the roof, as if the tears could just go back in her eyes. All the hurt that she had been suppressing had spilled out right in front of her. It was terrifying. There was a silence as she thought about what to say. So Tyler took the chance.

“I don’t want you to ever forgive me for that, okay?” Tyler said, stepping towards her now, and he sighed as she finally didn’t move away. 

In the smallest voice possible, like it was a secret she wasn’t supposed to say, she said, “I missed you so much.” 

He wrapped his arms around her, and she didn’t fight it. Though she didn’t move at first. After a minute, she brought her arms up and wrapped them around his trunk of a torso. 

Tyler sniffled, tearing up, “I missed you, too.” He murmured into her hair. 

Two days later, a rusty pick-up truck drove up and parked on the street beside the house. Tyler and Y/n walked out onto the front porch so slowly, like they were stalling for time. She took in the sight of the pick-up with all the weather gadgets and add-ons to it. 

“Wow… Looks like… a hot mess.” She said honestly, which made him laugh. 

The last two days were spent working on the farm, and it was like no time had passed. She was still trapping Tyler in milking stations, and he was still trying to sneak hay into her hair any chance he could. Doing the chores together instead of separately made the tasks go by even faster, so that they could spend the rest of the day eating her mom’s cooking and talking on the porch swing as the fireflies whizzed by. 

A tan man from the driver's seat of the pick-up truck rolled down the window, “LET’S GO, TYLER! COME ON! GOT SOME CELLS IN THE EAST AND NEW ROCKETS!” His shrill voice called out.

“One second, Boone,” Tyler yelled back with less intensity. He raised a finger to him and turned back to her.

“Sounds exciting.” She said, looking up at him.

He paused just to soak in her face for a moment.  “Yeah, well… we’re just going a town over.” There was silence, and he reached out to grab her hand. He squeezed it, and she took in a deep breath. “I’ll be back right after, okay?” 

A terrible feeling in her gut returned. The fear that he wouldn’t be back, and that she’d be left in the dust again. And he read her very obvious face with a small nervous smile. 

He took his alabaster cowboy hat off his head and placed it on hers. “Take care of this for me. I’ll be back for it.” 

It surprised her. She knew he wore that hat all the time. It was practically embedded in his branding for his channels. So the fact that it was now resting on her head gave her a sense of confidence again. 

He went to step off the porch, but she gripped his hand before he could take it away. Pulling him towards her, she stood on her toes to connect her mouth with his. Surprised, but very happy, Tyler immediately kissed her back and wrapped his arms around her waist. He brought one hand to tilt her hat up and make space for him before returning it to her waist. She hugged him tightly, and he pulled her into his chest, making her back arch into a backwards C. With a small chuckle, she pulled away. 

“For good luck.” She shrugged. 

“Oh, I’ll be back for more of that, too.” He said, leaning in again. 

[noirscript]

call intercept

pairing: yandere!hacker x agent!reader

warning/s: yandere | obsessive behavior | manipulation | stalking | hacking | possessive behavior | implied kidnapping | isolation

note: i miss writing something for yandere hotline.

MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST | COMMISSION | TIP JAR

The office is nearly empty at this hour. Only a handful of agents work the late-night shift, and most of them are stationed in separate rooms. Fewer employees mean fewer distractions, and fewer distractions mean higher pay. It’s the trade-off for working at 2 AM, for willingly isolating yourself in a job where disappearances are just another workplace hazard. But the money is good—too good to pass up. And so, you endure.

“And that’s why you’re the only one for me, darling! You get it, right?”

You force a bright laugh, leaning back in your chair as you twirl a pen between your fingers. “Of course, of course. You’re very… devoted.”

The caller on the other end giggles, their voice laced with exaggerated glee. “Right? Ugh, I wish I could just scoop you up and keep you forever!”

Fake.

Like so many others, their words lack the weight of true obsession. You’ve handled enough calls to tell the difference. The ones who call the Yandere Hotline for fun—playing pretend, enjoying the fantasy—are harmless. It’s the real ones you should fear. But, strangely, you never seem to get those.

“Unfortunately, our time is up,” you say, glancing at the timer on your screen. “Thank you for calling.”

“Aww, already? Well, I’ll call again soon, my love! Mwah!”

The line goes dead. You exhale, rolling your shoulders as the weight of another empty interaction slips off of you. The pay is good, but the work is draining. Playing the role of someone’s darling for hours on end wears at you in ways you don’t want to acknowledge. It’s why you’ve been looking for a way out.

You minimize the call interface and pull up the job listings you were browsing earlier. Nothing great. Mostly low-paying positions that won’t cover your expenses. Still, anything is better than this place. The way management ignores the disappearances. The way you feel eyes on you even when you’re alone. The way—

Your headset beeps. A new call. No caller ID.

Your stomach tightens.

You hesitate for just a second before answering. “Hello, and thank you for calling the Yandere Hotline. Who am I speaking with today?”

Silence.

Then, a soft sigh crackles through the line. “You’re still here.”

The voice sends an odd shiver through you. Familiar. Low, smooth, and intimate in a way that makes your skin prickle. You shift in your chair, eyes flickering toward the CCTV camera in the corner. The red light glows steadily, watching.

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” the caller continues, voice lined with something almost… relieved. “I saw what you were searching for.”

Your breath stills. The job listings. The open tabs on your screen.

He knows.

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

A soft chuckle, almost sad. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me.”

Your fingers tremble over the keyboard. There’s no flagging system, no way to report calls. The company doesn’t care what happens to you, as long as you keep answering. The only way out is to leave, but even that feels impossible now.

“I get it, you know,” the caller—no, Elias—continues. His voice is so gentle, so coaxing, like he’s trying to soothe a frightened animal. “You need money. You need stability. I understand. That’s why I’ve been helping.”

You swallow hard. “Helping?”

“I’ve been keeping you safe,” Elias murmurs. “Blocking the real ones. Letting the fakes through. They can pretend all they want, but they’re harmless. I made sure of that. I made sure you only had to deal with the easy ones.”

Your heart pounds. The rerouted calls. The strange drop-offs. The fact that you never—never—get the ones who are truly dangerous. It all makes sense now.

“How?” you whisper.

“I have access to the system,” Elias admits. “I wasn’t going to interfere at first. I was going to take down this whole disgusting place. But then… I heard you.”

His breathing stutters, as if just remembering that moment is too much. “I found you.”

Your mouth goes dry. He’s been there all along. Watching from the other side of the line. Pulling strings. Keeping you in a controlled bubble, away from those who would actually take you.

And now, you’re trying to leave it.

“I tried to be good,” he says, voice shaking. “I thought I could just listen. Protect you from afar. But you’re slipping away from me.”

A pause. A raw, desperate inhale.

“Please don’t leave.”

His voice is barely above a whisper now, reverent, pleading. “You don’t understand what it’s like for me. Knowing you’re there, but not being able to reach you. Not being able to hold you. I can’t—” He cuts off, his breath coming ragged. “I don’t want to do anything extreme. But if you go… if you disappear from me, I won’t have a choice.”

Your fingers curl into a fist. “You wouldn’t.”

Silence.

Then, so soft you almost miss it—

“Try me.”

A sharp shiver races down your spine. You glance toward the CCTV camera again, half-expecting something—someone—to be standing beneath it. But there’s nothing. Just the blinking red light.

Elias exhales shakily. “Say my name again.”

You hadn’t even realized you said it. But now, the air between you feels heavier, thick with something suffocating.

The line crackles.

“I could make it so no one else gets to hear you.”

The line hisses, the static thickening like something alive, slithering into your ears. The light on the CCTV flickers once. Twice.

Then, for the first time, it turns off.

And the screen of your computer—your only tether to the outside world—goes black.

A new message appears.

LOOK BEHIND YOU.

The office lights flicker—then cut out entirely.

The room plunges into darkness, the only glow coming from your now-useless monitor. Your breath catches, ears straining for any sound beyond the hum of the dead air.

A faint creak.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

Shadows shift against the dim glow of your screen. There shouldn't be anyone here. You're the only one working this late—

Then, the dim reflection on your blacked-out monitor shifts.

A shape. A figure standing just behind your chair.

A breath, so close it skims your ear.

And then, a whisper.

"I told you not to leave me."

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @fandangoballs @mel-vaz

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ don't cry now ]❜

━━━ .°˖✧ requested by @buniisdiary & anonymous ˚₊ ⊹

ft. hwang in-ho (young il) x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ you allow the man whom you believe is a fellow player to comfort you during a meltdown, completely oblivious to his true identity and intentions┊3.7k words

setting: season 2, episode 6 contains: smut!! dom in-ho & sub reader┊yandere, age gap (reader is early 20s, in-ho is late 40s/early 50s), innocent/naive crybaby reader, canon-typical violence, fingering, unprotected piv, loss of virginity, breeding

➤ author's note: oh god this is one of my first squid game wips? i was watching horton hears a who while finishing this up, but i’m strangely proud of it

you were shaking so much, it’s a wonder how you were still walking up and down those brightly colored stairs without collapsing. the final round of mingle games was the closest you’ve ever been to death so far, and you swear you brushed against the skeletal arms of death with a glimpse of one of his bony hands outstretched under his dark garments, ready to take you for his own. you still aren’t sure if it was a malfunction or a miracle that one of the doors popped open to reveal an empty room to house you and the woman you were with mere milliseconds after the countdown ended and before the guards entered with their guns blazing, but you were still alive to see another day. whether or not you were grateful for it remained a lingering question when it just meant you had to wake up the next morning, go through these death games thinly masquerading as an easy way to pay back debt all over again, and watch more brains get splattered on the floors if they weren’t your own.

collapsing onto the bottom bunk, you wished for the lights to turn out already so that you could fall asleep and forget about this nightmare. once again, the room was empty with fewer bunks than last time. out of the corner of your eye, you could see the rapper with purple hair and his goon celebrating their survival, talking about playing “one more game.” three hundred to four hundred million won still wasn’t enough, they wanted more and they were willing to put their lives on the line for it.

you felt like you were going to be sick at the lack of humanity in the room. in just a few days, people were already wishing death upon others if it meant they could stay and earn more money. did none of them have loved ones they wished to see again? did none of them consider the families who would never even get to have a proper burial for the ones who died within these walls? did none of them care for anything other than the transparent piggy bank hanging from the ceiling, collecting more paper cash with every bullet fired in another person’s skull? you didn’t care what they did with their own lives, but you did care that their choices impacted everyone else who wanted to leave. you didn’t even care if it still wasn’t enough money to pay off all your debts, you’re willing to do any dirty deed to dig yourself out at the expense of your own dignity, all you wanted to do was go home.

tears started to drip down your waterline. you didn’t think you were ever going home at this rate. you didn’t think you were ever going to be in the comfort of your own bedroom again, ever going to play with your pet again, ever going to celebrate your birthday again, ever going to see the bright full moon alongside the twinkling stars again— the last sight you were ever going to see was a masked guard in hot pink wielding a rifle with the fatal shot ringing in your ears because you lost some stupid game you haven’t played since you were a kid, and it could happen as soon as tomorrow. 

you thought of young-mi, who cried out yesterday that she wanted the games to end and that she wanted to go home as well. poor, sweet young-mi, who was pushed out of her path and couldn’t make it in time to save herself, now lies in a black coffin neatly wrapped with a pink bow instead of the bunk next to you like she usually did from the stress-induced exhaustion. 

it was just too much for you, and you started sobbing uncontrollably at the loss. the shock from the initial bloodshed had worn off, and the suffocating weight of reality dawned upon you, knees against your chest as you curled up in the little ball with your eyes shut tight to escape the bright white fluorescent lights shining from all sides. it isn’t the first time you cried in here, but it’s certainly the biggest meltdown you've ever had in your life. young-mi would always comfort you and you would her, but now she’s gone and you’re going to suffer the same fate.

people started to stare and whisper at your behavior, acting like it was erratic when you didn’t think it even came close to representing how you felt. you were surprised you weren’t wailing and screaming like a banshee. the people who also had a red badge like you looked upon you with sympathetic looks and pity, but the people who proudly sported a blue badge were mostly judgmental like you weren’t grateful for this golden opportunity of cash or death.

“come on, pretty girl! don’t cry,” thanos called out, approaching you and trying to wrap an arm around you, “just one more game, we’ll have enough to pay off our debts with extra!” his tone was so cheerful, already able to envision himself drifting around on the street in an expensive car and partying in a new spacious mansion.

although he was trying to console you in his own… unique way, you promptly slapped him away, “i won’t even be alive to pay off my debts, you asshole! i’m going to get killed like everyone else has, and you could too! i don’t understand how you could be so normal about it all when people are dying for this money, do the drugs you take stop you from feeling basic emotions too?!”

he let go of you, staring blankly like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh at how surprisingly observant you were or beat the shit out of you for yelling out his secret without thinking. being a pretty girl didn’t exempt you from his rage, even if he frequently acted like it would in an attempt to get on your good side or in your pants. the effects of the colorful pills from the mingle games still haven’t worn off, so this was either going to make him mellow enough to brush it off without any grudges at the insult or make him aggressive enough to start a fight.

“alright, i believe that’s enough,” a familiar voice of a third party interrupted the conversation, smooth and authoritative with expected compliance for his command. “she’s clearly upset, i don’t think you should bother her anymore.”

you looked up to see young-il next to you with an amiable smile on his face, surprised to see him coming to your rescue when you truthfully thought it would be hyun-ju, but your unexpected hero was more than welcome. you haven’t had too many interactions with him, primarily just existing in the same space as allies, but you would be lying if you said you didn’t secretly admire him from afar. he was so handsome despite his age and seemed to retain his empathy, unlike some others here, always caring and looking out for you as well as everyone else who needed a little extra attention like jun-hee and the elderly folk. every time you see him smile at you during these trying times, a little flame of hope for humanity sparkles within you.

thanos glared at him, recalling the humiliating beating both he and nam-gyu endured at his hands in front of everyone, and relented with his command. there’s something about that man that scared him enough to back off without a second thought, not just how he managed to kick his ass, there was something genuinely unnerving about him that no one else seemed to notice.

no one seems to notice the little glances he makes at the cameras and guards without fear. no one seems to notice how he always knows a little more than everyone else about these games. no one seems to notice that he sticks by the claimed previous winner as if he is trying to keep an eye on him. no one seems to notice how he studies you from afar in a predatory way, like how a starving wolf studies a lamb prancing about before devouring it. 

no one pays attention because they have bigger things to worry about on their mind. they don’t think there’s anything special about him and that he’s just another player trying to pay off their crippling debts, but little do they know about the omnipresent power he holds over everything that happens on this god-forsaken island.

“are you okay? he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“n-no, he didn’t…” god, you were a sight, shivering in fear, hastily trying to wipe away the tears falling from your puffy eyes .”’m sorry you had to see all that, sir,” you sniffled, embarrassed, seemingly fine with the idea of breaking down in front of everyone else, but not him, which he found so fucking adorable. “would it be okay if…” you hesitated for a moment, “would it be okay if you stayed here with me for a bit?”

your teams have somewhat merged since the last game, but you were still scared of thanos coming to bother or worse after you called him out on his little secret. even if the other tried to shoo him away, he had this inflated sense of ego where he thought he could do whatever he wanted without thinking about anyone else, so unless they were a guard or they physically picked a fight with him and he lost, he would continue to do as he pleased which would possibly include personally eliminating you from the games like he’s done to others before. the only person who has put him in his place is young-il, so it’s only natural that you would feel safest with him.

he would rather have you all to himself, but he doesn’t mind having you join his group where he could keep a closer eye on you between the discussions of the vote.

throughout the entire voting process, you were a nervous wreck. you wanted to go home so bad, but when the numbers added up to a tie, you broke down once again. there was still a glimmer of hope, but it fell out of your hands and shattered on the ground. jun-hee and dae-ho tried their best to comfort you, but it was difficult when they themselves were so uncertain about their futures as well.

“oh, don’t cry now,” young-il tutted, wrapping you in a hug and patting you on the back. “come on, i’ll take you to the bathroom to wash up.”

nodding with a sniffle, you accepted his hand graciously as he pulled you off the bed. you wish you were stronger, strong enough to try to talk the other players into voting x so that you could go home rather than just bawling your eyes out at everything, but instead, you were only blinking away your tears and keeping your eyes trained on the ground as you shuffled along.

you didn’t question why the guards allowed him to bring you into the restroom without giving him any nonsense like they always did. you didn’t see the look they exchanged, one of absolute authority and a hidden one of understanding.  you didn’t know his true intentions, watching you intently in the mirror as you washed your face with the water flowing from the sink’s tap.

“i don’t know you do it,” you whispered, “i don’t know you stay so strong in a situation like this, i feel like i’m losing it with every passing second… i wish i could be more like you. i’m so useless.”

“no, don’t say nonsense like that,” he assured, rubbing soothing circles into your back as he pulled you in for a hug as you sobbed into his shoulder. “it’s thanks to people like you who remind me to have hope in humanity.”

it isn’t entirely false, you truly remind him of how beautiful humanity can be in a situation where sanity decays and reduces people to animals who think of nothing but their survival. you still remain thoughtful and innocent despite all that is going to destroy those virtues, and are so much stronger than you will ever realize. 

it makes him think that you could handle someone like him, someone who is broken and intensely possessive with the desire to have you for himself. he thinks he has the right to be a bit selfish when it comes to you, and before you knew it, his lips had found their way pressed onto yours. he isn’t gentle, yet he’s clearly holding back, as if he wanted to consume you whole but didn’t want to scare you away.

although it wouldn’t matter if you were scared, you were already trapped.

you were frozen for a moment when he pulled away and let out a little disappointed sigh, “i’m sorry, that was inappropriate of me. i shouldn’t have—”

“no, it’s okay,” you blurted out.

it isn’t your first kiss, but it’s the first kiss that made you feel the spark you’ve only ever read about in romance novels before, like fireworks at midnight of the new year. were you crazy for finding it so comforting? have you lost all your shame for asking him if he could do it again?

he looked at you in slight disbelief, but was more than happy to follow your request. his hand came to the back of your head and pulled you closer to him, recapturing your lips with his. he was a bit rougher this time, his tongue darting out to request access and explore your mouth. you didn’t quite know what to do with yourself, just standing still like a life-sized doll, but he seemed more than content to take control over you as he lifted you up to seat you on the porcelain edge of the sink. 

you’re everything he dreamed of and more, but he still wasn’t satisfied. he wanted more, and you could feel his desire poking through his tracksuit pants rubbing against your thigh as he pressed you against the wall. his lips lowered to your jaw, then to your neck, making your head spin with unfamiliar sensations. you knew what he wanted, you were naive, not outright stupid, but did you want it to? 

“is this okay?”

you weren’t sure. were you really willing to give your first time to an older man you barely knew? in a setting like this? you always dreamed of your first time being romantic, with someone you trusted in the comfort of your bedroom instead of a near stranger in a dingy restroom, but with the way the past few days were going, you weren’t sure if you would be able to ever live out that fantasy and relented, “y-yeah, it’s okay…”

he chose to ignore the doubt in your voice. he had you right where he wanted, and he didn’t know what he would do with himself if you said otherwise. it’s embarrassing how desperate he must seem, like a teenager doing it with his crush for the first time, but you were too wrapped up in the situation to notice. he hastily pulled off your clothing, finding the soft, untouched skin hiding underneath, and running a hand over its smoothness. you felt shy at the way he looked at you, like you were the most beautiful woman in the world and like he’s never seen anything that came even close before, making you flustered and instinctively want to hide away. 

young-il didn’t give you the chance to do so as his hand dipped into your underwear and his fingers brushed against your heat. you haven’t even realized how soaked you were from a single kiss, but he didn’t give you the time to dwell on the surprise of how quickly it took for you to be excited as his fingers gently pressed into your core. you’re so tight around just two of his fingers, already gasping at the foreign feeling and squirming— it made him wonder if he would even be able to fit, but he’s nothing if not patient. he had all the time in the world to spend with you now. 

“shh, it’s okay, you’re doing so good,” he breathed, languidly pumping his digits in and out of you, watching all of your pretty expressions like a hawk as your eyes scrunched up and your chest heaved. when he came closer to wrap his lips around one of your sensitive nipples hardened by the cold air, he could almost hear your heartbeat beating rapidly as you let out a little moan.

you weren’t exactly sure if you were doing as good as he made it sound; you weren’t doing much of anything aside from sitting there and taking his fingers. he was doing all of the work, and yet your entire body felt like it was on fire and starting to sweat. did it normally feel this intense? you weren’t even sure how you would be able to handle the real thing. as you felt an unfamiliar tightening in your abdomen, your hand flew to cover your mouth, self-conscious at how loud you were starting to become, “w-wait, sir, i think i’m going to—” the last word lingered as your sex-hazed mind tried to think of a word, a word for the sensation that has never happened to you until now, but you didn’t have the chance to as you suddenly gushed all over his hand and let out a muffled cry.

“aw, did you come already?” young-il seemed to be different now, more playful, as he raised his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean of your arousal and savoring your sweetness on his tongue. the taste was addicting, and he had half a mind to fall on his knees and to lap up all of your spilled juices right then and there, but he couldn’t wait anymore and needed to be inside of you. he doesn’t think he’s ever needed anything so badly before, making quick work to lower his sweats and underwear, “it’s going to hurt a bit at first, but it will feel good after a minute, i promise.” he had to hold back a chuckle at how you gawked at his size for a moment, wondering if you could really take it when you could barely handle just two of his fingers, but he knows he prepped you enough. 

“okay,” you murmured dumbly and leaned back, feeling your back hit the cold mirror attached to the wall above the sink. any thoughts you had in your head had basically been fucked out of it, embarassing as it may sound. all you could do was wrap your arms around his neck, burning your face into the crook of his neck as he gently pushed himself into you, inch by inch, holding himself back from ruthlessly ramming into you before you were ready. 

all your breaths were short and shallow, the sensation of being filled up like this encompassing your body in a mix of pain and pleasure. it hurt being stretched out and you couldn’t help but whine, your distress not going unnoticed by young-il as his thumb came up to your clit and circled it while peppering kisses to your face, “that’s it, just like that, tell me when you’re ready for me to move.”

after a few moments, you nodded, signaling him to continue. he’s slow at first, getting you used to the push and pull. it took a minute or two for the pain to dissolve into pure ecstasy. you found yourself pulling on his sleeves, silently asking him to speed up because you were too shy to say so. he’s a very perceptive person though, immediately noticing your need. if he were any crueler, he would tease you for it and make you beg for it. he could only imagine how beautiful you would look and sound, bashful and desperate for more, but he needed to get off too, and as nice as it was to leisurely fuck you as he currently was, he wasn’t getting anywhere like this. 

as he thrust into you and your welcoming cunt, he couldn’t help but think about how horrible he truly was. he was here to keep an eye on the previous winner and prevent him from trying to ruin the games, but here he was obsessing over a young lady who shouldn’t even be here. he’s disgusting, he knows it, and yet he doesn’t stop the constant motion or the thoughts running through his mind.

he wants to keep you here with him, locked away for his eyes only, away from everyone else. wouldn’t it be so nice to have you in his lap, watching the games and sharing a glass of liquor with you while you’re all dolled up? he doesn’t want to think of it like he’s keeping you as a pet, but he would like to marry you and have you as his trophy wife to accompany him during those annoying dinners with the vips. you wouldn’t have to work a day of your life if you were his, all you would have to do is look pretty and share his affections. and maybe a family someday too?

fuck, he was getting close just thinking about it. he should be allowed this much after giving his life to the games and abandoning everything he knew.

“sir, i’m close,” you whined, your nails digging into the fabric of his sleeves. 

“i am too… could i… could i do it inside?”

it’s not like him to ask, but if he wanted to build a life with you (or at some semblance of one), he owed you this much. 

you nodded, not thinking of what he was asking or what it could entail in the future. all you could think of was your oncoming climax, unraveling the tightened knot in your stomach and bursting at the seams.young-il followed shortly after with your velvety walls spasming around him, painting your insides white and filling you up to the brim to the point of some of it leaking out when he pulled himself from you. he couldn’t help but to collect some of the spillage with his finger and push it back into you, as if he didn’t want any of it to go waste.

“you won’t have to participate in the games anymore, i’m going to get you out of here.”

requested by bunii:

please please please could you do a smut with the front man of squid games s2 when he is pretending to be a player. Maybe you are scared, or crying because you wanna go home and he’s “comforting you” and brings you to the bathroom to wipe your tears, but then he kisses you… and so on.

requested by anonymous:

Heyy! I have been interested in your account and your squid game content recently!:) And I was wondering if you’d do my request?. Headcanons with yandere s2 Hwang in-ho/frontman with a fem reader who doesn’t know who he actually is?. Like she likes him but she doesn’t know he is the frontman or his “real identity”. Thank you!

[bluebelly-sun-serpentine]

Thank you for the note on that post about activism. I’ve never seen a protest actually work and I’m 24 years old. I know It’s important to keep trying but, you hit the nail on the head for why young people are so disillusioned, nothing we do seems to help. Do you have any information about some that did, and maybe what the difference was?

Hi anon,

Yes, I have one very current example of an ongoing protest that is working:

People have been protesting outside of Tesla dealerships all around the country every Saturday for months now, and these small, localized protests (as well as online activism and generalized social pressure) absolutely have been helping to tank Tesla's stock price, which is one way of weakening Elon Musk's power. These protests have made it unpleasant for people to get their cars serviced, way less likely to go to a dealership to buy, and much more uncomfortable about driving their cars around town because of the stigma associated with Tesla. Have they stopped Musk from running roughshod with DOGE? No. But they have made people look elsewhere for electric cars, and they've clearly sent Musk into a tailspin. [EDIT: apparently they already are impacting his ability to ruin stuff with DOGE. I thought it would take longer but @lydiardbell has informed me things are moving more quickly than I'd expected!] They're more effective than meeting once en masse at fewer places, because the consistency helps remind people this is a live issue, and if you're driving down a big arterial road in your random town and see a bunch of people posted up with signs at the Tesla dealership rather than seeing them in NYC on TV that says to you "people in my town, in my area, care about this. It's not just the most annoying people in the major metro areas that I resent calling for this stuff. People like me, living in my circumstances, also care."

I will also say that protest and public outcry is constantly making changes at the local level. Here's a negative example: If you're wondering why you're struggling so much with the cost of housing, it's probably in large part because NIMBY activists - people who don't want any new housing built, especially the kind of dense housing that's good for a city's financial solvency and for lower income people and for the environment – are consistently showing up to city/town council meetings and loudly protesting any new development. These tend to be people who don't want housing stock to increase because it will make housing cheaper (and thus their single-family properties less valuable for resale or remortgage) and also people who are just allergic to change. You know who's not showing up to these meetings? Young people who need housing. Part of that is structural (people who are struggling to find housing are more likely to be economically stressed and not have time to show up regularly to council meetings) but it's also that a lot of young people are unwilling to spend their free time doing something "boring" like advocating for themselves and their communities at a meeting where you have to wait around and maybe have a speech or a letter prepared, or do some research beforehand. And maybe if more people showed up to oppose NIMBYs at boring meetings, more housing would get built. In my area the NIMBY harassment of pro-housing city council members has been so bad that some have resigned out of fear for their families' safety. If these people had had more support, maybe they'd still be doing the work.

Protest isn't always an organized mass on a public street; it's also citizens making some organized attempt to oppose a policy or project, or citizens calling loudly for the need for a project, repeatedly, consistently, in places where the general public isn't even likely to see the action.

I tend to think mass protests with vague goals are ineffective at achieving their vague goals for obvious reasons, but that they do have some utility; they bring people together and help them make connections with other people who are motivated to make change. But if you want to see change that's less abstract or incidental, that's really directly a reflection of your actions, then focus on local activism, and have clear policy goals in mind. If you want more housing, for instance, you have to start caring about zoning, about how development works, about how local property tax laws affect the issue, or you have to start listening to people who DO care about that stuff.

The biggest mistake I see young people making is basing your politics entirely on the vibe. The people who are effective at making change figure out how things actually work. They don't have to be the people who have the best or purest motives and cleanest, most virtuous personal politics. Often they're not. Being effective sometimes means learning stuff you would once have found boring, and deciding it's interesting because it's materially useful to your cause. It also means building coalitions with people who disagree with you on some things in order to achieve a goal you DO agree upon.

The Tesla protests are trying to create a physical and social impediment to people who would otherwise buy Teslas, and by focusing on the places where a lot of those sales would actually happen (and where all the vehicle servicing has to happen, because Tesla sucks) they have actively made it annoying and unpleasant to buy a Tesla. Protesters introduce real friction into a process that Tesla wants and needs to be easy. Similarly, NIMBYs introduce friction into the process of housing development, so even if a developer has already bought a lot and is planning to build a bunch of new units that could house a lot of people (has designed the development, put in the proposal, has the permits, is all ready to go), the developer might end up deciding it's not worth it because the delays caused by change-averse retirees at city council meetings are costing them too much. So you have less housing in your city over-all, rents and property values remain prohibitively high, density remains low (which means the city's tax base is smaller and you have less money to go to projects that benefit everyone, like schools and libraries and social programs and even basic infrastructure like sewage systems and roads). If you show up to that city council meeting and are a counter to the voices trying to make friction - if you help ease the way instead - maybe the housing does get built. Maybe increases in supply mean the rents can come down a bit, because people have more options. The city gets a little bit denser, there's a little more money to hire another librarian, or fix the potholes on your street, or make safe bike lanes, or hire more school counselors. You've not only achieved your goal of making it a little easier to find a place to live; you've made your town a better town in other ways, too.

Another positive example is the recent Target boycott, which as I understand it was organized by black religious activists (the call was specifically to avoid Target for lent); the decreased foot traffic had Target walking back its Trump-appeasement on the issue of DEI. A boycott isn't a protest where you show up with a sign; instead it's a negative action with a hope of a positive outcome. They work better the more specific and organized they are.

There are a lot of ways that you can make a difference. If you don't think showing up to a reactionary mass protest every so often is the way for you (though I'd argue doing that is still helpful) that doesn't mean that activism isn't for you, or that you can't make major change. Pick something specific, and make that your thing.

It's also worth noticing that gun-control activists in Florida actually did get some stuff done; unfortunately a lot of the progress they made was rolled back, and that's a good lesson in realizing that the arc of the moral universe doesn't automatically bend toward justice. You have to consistently, actively make it bend, and if you don't – if you give up – things get worse.

[ducktoo]

Who…are you?

LE SSERAFIM’s Chaewon x Reader

Note: dw…it gets weird at the end lol. It's a long ride as well so get comfortable.

And this will be my final fic of 2024! Thank you everyone for liking my stuff and happy holidays! Will be back for more in mid January!

(this is too lethal-)

The sound of the door slamming shut reverberates through the apartment, rattling the picture frames on the walls. You stare at it for a long moment, your jaw tight and your hands clenching into fists at your sides. Another fight. Another evening ruined.

The quiet that follows is suffocating, a stark contrast to the venomous words Chaewon had thrown at you just minutes ago. You drag yourself to the kitchen, barely registering the cold plates of food still waiting on the counter. The dinner you had spent hours making feels like a cruel joke now. You don’t have the appetite to eat it, let alone the energy to put it away.

This is how it’s been lately. Chaewon’s words, once playful and teasing, have turned into weapons. The sharp remarks and biting sarcasm that used to make you laugh now cut you to the core. She gets angry over the smallest things, and somehow, you always end up being the target.

It wasn’t always this way—or at least, it didn’t feel like it.

You think back to a week ago, when Chaewon had been in one of her moods. You had been trying to fix the kitchen faucet, fumbling with the wrench and getting water sprayed in your face. Chaewon had walked in, leaning casually against the doorframe with that signature smirk on her face.

“Wow,” she had said, crossing her arms. “Didn’t know I was dating a plumber-in-training. Or are you auditioning for a clown role with that water trick?”

You’d forced a laugh, wiping your face with your sleeve. “Very funny, Chae. Want to help?”

She had scoffed, walking over and peering down at the mess you’d made. “Help? Why would I do that when watching you flounder is so much more entertaining?”

You had shot her a look, and she had just grinned, flicking water at you before sauntering off.

Then there was the time she’d decided to pick on your cooking.

You’d spent hours trying to make her favourite spicy rice cakes from scratch, wanting to surprise her after a long day. She had walked into the kitchen, sniffing the air dramatically.

“What’s that smell?” she had asked, wrinkling her nose. “Did something die in here?”

You’d frowned, gesturing to the pot. “It’s tteokbokki. I thought you’d like it.”

She’d leaned over the pot, taking a cautious sniff before pulling back like it had personally offended her. “Are you sure? Because it looks like a science experiment gone wrong.”

You’d tried to laugh it off, but the sting of her words had lingered long after she’d gone back to scrolling on her phone.

The teasing wasn’t just verbal, either. Chaewon had a knack for finding your weak spots and exploiting them with surgical precision. Like the time you’d tripped over the rug in the living room and spilled coffee all over your work papers.

“Nice one, Y/N,” she had said from the couch, barely looking up. “Maybe next time, try walking like a normal human instead of whatever that was.”

“I could use some help cleaning this up,” you’d said, your voice strained as you crouched to pick up the soggy papers.

She had glanced at you over the rim of her coffee mug, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Or you could just not trip next time. Problem solved.”

Despite all of it, you stayed. You told yourself it was just her personality—that she didn’t mean to hurt you. You convinced yourself that the moments of warmth, rare as they were, made up for the constant jabs. Like when she’d fallen asleep on your shoulder during a movie, her hand unconsciously clutching yours. Or the one time she’d hugged you after you’d had a particularly bad day, whispering, “I’m here,” so softly it almost didn’t feel real.

But those moments were becoming fewer and farther between, buried under the weight of her sharp words and cold demeanour.

The hours tick by as you sit at the dining table, staring at nothing. You don’t even hear the buzz of your phone at first. When it vibrates again, more insistent this time, you snap out of your daze and pick it up. The caller ID shows Kazuha’s name.

“Hello?” Your voice cracks, still hoarse from the argument.

“Y/N,” Kazuha’s voice is urgent, tinged with panic. “You need to come to the hospital. It’s Chaewon.”

Your heart stops. “What happened?”

“She got into an accident. Just… get here as fast as you can.”

-

The hospital is a blur of sterile white walls and harsh fluorescent lights. The antiseptic smell fills your nostrils as you rush through the corridors, searching for the right room. Your chest feels tight, your breaths shallow. Kazuha meets you outside, her face pale and her hands trembling slightly.

“She’s stable,” Kazuha says quickly, trying to reassure you. “But she hit her head pretty hard. The doctors are saying she might have some memory loss.”

“Memory…loss?” The words barely register as you push past her and into the room.

Chaewon lies on the bed, her face pale and peaceful in a way that feels wrong. A bandage is wrapped around her head, a stark white contrast against her dark hair. You approach her slowly, your steps hesitant.

“Chae?” you whisper, sitting down beside her. Her lashes flutter, and she stirs slightly before her eyes open. Relief floods through you as you lean closer.

“You’re awake,” you say, your voice trembling. “Thank god. You’re okay.”

Her eyes blink slowly, focusing on you. For a moment, it feels like everything will be fine. But then her brow furrows, and she tilts her head slightly.

“Who… are you?” she asks, her voice soft but filled with confusion.

You blink, frozen in place. Her words echo in your mind: Who… are you?

Kazuha places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently. “Y/N, let’s step outside for a moment. The doctor wants to talk to you.”

Your gaze lingers on Chaewon’s confused expression, and you force a shaky smile. “I’ll be right back,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

She nods faintly, though you can tell she’s unsure why you’re even here. Her eyes flicker to Kazuha for a brief moment before she leans back against the pillows, exhaustion taking over.

Once you’re out in the hallway, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The doctor approaches, a clipboard in hand and a calm but professional demeanour.

“You must be Y/N,” he says. “I’m Dr. Park. I’ve been handling Ms. Kim's case.”

"Ah yea, evening Doc." You nod, gripping the hem of your shirt nervously. “What’s… what’s wrong with her? Is she going to be okay?”

“She’s stable,” he reassures you, glancing at his notes. “But as you might have guessed, the head trauma has caused some memory loss. From our initial tests, it appears she’s unable to recall the past two years.”

“T-two years?” You repeat, your voice trembling. You glance through the small window into her room, watching as Chaewon lies there, her face serene and unaware.

Dr. Park nods. “This type of retrograde amnesia isn’t uncommon in cases like hers. The memories she’s lost may come back over time, or they might not. For now, it’s best not to push her to remember. Stress could make her condition worse.”

“Does she know… does she know anything about me?” you ask hesitantly.

The doctor hesitates. “She remembers people and events prior to the memory gap clearly. But anyone she’s met in the last two years, including you… I’m afraid you’ll be a stranger to her.”

His words hit you harder than you expect, but you nod, trying to keep your expression neutral. “So, what should I do? How do I… help her?”

“Take things slow,” he advises. “Reintroduce yourself as someone here to support her. Let her regain her sense of normalcy first. The rest will come with time, if it’s meant to.”

You thank him quietly, your mind racing. A strange mix of relief and uncertainty bubbles within you. She doesn’t remember the fights, the sharp words, the constant tension—but she also doesn’t remember the good moments, the times when you thought there was still hope.

A part of you feels like this is a reset button, a rare chance to start over. But another part can’t shake the hollow ache of being erased from her life so completely.

You take a steadying breath before walking back into the room. Chaewon’s eyes flit to you as you enter, her expression unreadable.

“Hey,” you say softly, pulling a chair closer to her bedside.

She tilts her head, studying you carefully. “You… You’re Kazuha’s friend, right?”

You glance at Kazuha, who gives you a subtle nod of encouragement from the doorway. Turning back to Chaewon, you force a small smile. “Yeah. I’m just… here to help however I can.”

Chaewon seems to accept this, though the skepticism in her eyes remains. “Thanks, I guess,” she mutters, her voice laced with tiredness.

As she closes her eyes to rest, you lean back in the chair, letting out a slow breath. A small part of you feels lighter than you have in months. No arguments, no cutting remarks—just quiet. Peaceful, even.

But as you watch her, the weight of her blank stare still lingers in your chest. The person you love doesn’t know who you are. And yet, you can’t help but think: maybe this is a chance to show her a version of yourself she could love all over again.

For now, you let the hope settle, hidden behind the mask of quiet sadness you wear for her sake.

-

The week passes in a blur. Chaewon’s recovery is faster than anyone expected. Physically, she’s almost back to normal, but the gap in her memory remains. You watch her adjust to this new reality, navigating her day-to-day life with a mix of determination and frustration.

True to the doctor’s advice, you’ve been patient, reintroducing yourself as a supportive figure in her life without overwhelming her. She accepts your presence without question—polite, a little guarded, but far removed from the sharp-tongued firecracker you’ve known for so long.

Her management team decided it would be best for Chaewon to ease back into her idol activities gradually. You accompany her, not as her partner, but as someone who can help with her day-to-day needs. Kazuha and Sakura are visibly relieved to have you there, knowing how well you understand Chaewon’s habits.

On set, Chaewon is a model of professionalism. She’s diligent, respectful, and surprisingly soft-spoken. When she doesn’t understand something—a choreography move, a filming cue—she asks politely instead of figuring it out on her own like she used to.

“It’s weird,” she admits to you one evening, fiddling with the hem of her sweatshirt. “I don’t remember the last two years, but I still know all the lyrics and choreography. It’s like muscle memory, I guess.”

You smile faintly from where you’re sitting across the room. “That’s a good thing, right? At least it’s one less thing to stress about.”

She nods, her brows furrowing. “I guess. But it feels like I’m walking into someone else’s life. Like, who was I? Was I…” She pauses, searching for the right words. “Was I any good at it?”

You hesitate, a pang of guilt twisting in your chest. She was more than good—she was extraordinary. But her fiery ambition often bled into her personal life, creating the tension that had defined your relationship. Now, all you see is a softer, more vulnerable Chaewon.

“You were great,” you say finally. “Still are.”

Her lips twitch into a small smile, and for once, there’s no sharp remark to follow it.

You’re there in the background, watching as she joined with her members, laughs softly at their jokes, and engages with fans with genuine warmth. It’s such a far cry from the Chaewon who used to tease you mercilessly or snap when she was stressed.

-

At first, it’s disorienting.

One afternoon, as you help her organize a stack of photo cards at a fan sign event, she flashes you a small, almost shy smile.

“Thanks,” she says quietly, her tone devoid of the usual edge you once expected.

You nearly drop the cards. “No problem,” you manage, your voice awkward.

She doesn’t seem to notice, already turning back to greet the next fan with her signature smile.

Another day at their practice room, you accompany her under the pretence of helping her settle back in. The truth is, you just want to see this new side of her in action.

Chaewon seems… different. Lighter. She laughs with her members more, her usual sharp edge replaced by something softer. You watch from the corner of the practice room as she playfully ruffles Eunchae’s hair, earning a squeal of protest from the younger girl.

“Unnie, stop!” Eunchae whines, swatting Chaewon’s hand away.

Chaewon grins, her eyes crinkling in that familiar way that always made your heart skip a beat. “What? I’m just making sure our maknae looks her best.”

The rest of the group chuckles, and you find yourself smiling too. It’s a scene you’d rarely witnessed before, where Chaewon seems completely at ease with herself and those around her.

During their lunch break, Kazuha sits beside you, nudging your shoulder. “You’ve been staring at her a lot.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Have I…?”

Kazuha smirks. “Yeah. You look like you’re seeing a whole new Chaewon.”

You glance at Chaewon, who’s currently chatting animatedly with Sakura and Yunjin. “Maybe I am,” you admit quietly.

Kazuha’s expression softens. “It’s good, right? This version of her?”

You nod. “Yeah. It’s… it’s really good.”

-

By the end of the week, you’re starting to notice the cracks in your own resolve.

You don’t miss the fights—not the arguments or the hurtful words or the way she could turn a perfectly fine evening into a battlefield. What you do miss is the spark.

Chaewon’s teasing, for all its rough edges, had always carried a certain energy. There was a wit to her remarks, a confidence that made everything she said hit just the right spot between infuriating and endearing. You used to catch her smirking at you when she thought you weren’t looking, as if she enjoyed seeing how far she could push your buttons.

Now, she’s… gentle. Easy to be around. And yet, you find yourself yearning for the banter, the fire that kept you on your toes.

It’s a strange contradiction. You enjoy this new version of her, free from the biting remarks and the heavy tension that used to hang between you. But in quiet moments, when she’s busy scrolling through her phone or practicing her vocals, you find yourself wondering if she’d ever smirk at you again.

One evening, after a particularly long day of rehearsals, you’re both sitting in her apartment. Chaewon is sprawled out on the couch, her hair still damp from a quick shower. You’re at the kitchen counter, making tea.

“Y/N,” she calls out suddenly, her voice soft but clear.

You glance over. “Yeah?”

“Why do you always help me?” she asks, her tone genuinely curious.

You pause, gripping the handle of the kettle. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, sitting up. “You don’t owe me anything. But you’re always here, even when I forget things or need help with stupid stuff. It’s… nice, but I don’t get it.”

Her words catch you off guard. For a moment, you don’t know how to respond.

“I just… care,” you say finally, avoiding her gaze. “I’m here because I want to be, not because I have to be.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. When you glance at her, she’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite place—curiosity mixed with something softer, almost vulnerable.

“Thanks,” she says again, quieter this time.

You nod, busying yourself with the tea to hide the lump forming in your throat.

Later that night, as you lie awake on the couch, you can’t help but reflect on how far things have come—and how much has changed.

This new Chaewon is someone you could fall for all over again. She’s kinder, gentler, more open in ways you never expected. But there’s a part of you that aches for the old Chaewon too—the one who used to challenge you, frustrate you, and make you laugh in ways no one else could.

It’s a bittersweet thought, knowing you may never get her back the way she was. But as you close your eyes, you remind yourself that this is a new beginning, a chance to love her for who she is now, not who she used to be.

And as you began to fall asleep, you can’t help but wonder how long this fragile peace will last.

-

The days slip by in a strange rhythm, where you’re never quite sure who you’ll see when you look at Chaewon.

At times, it’s like she’s still the same—sweet, easy-going, even a little shy around you. But other times, the fire you remember from before flares up unexpectedly, like a switch flipping.

You’ve gotten used to the gentle, more compliant Chaewon, the one who asks you for help with every little thing. But when her old personality slips through—when she’s sharp, playful, and downright teasing—it’s like the rug gets pulled out from under you.

One morning, you’re getting ready to leave the apartment. Chaewon is sitting on the couch, fiddling with her phone. You make your way toward the door, your keys in hand.

“Hey,” she says, her voice low and almost playful.

You stop and turn, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Her eyes glint mischievously as she leans back on the couch, crossing her arms. “You know, you’re kinda cute when you’re all flustered.”

Your stomach does a nervous flip. “What are you talking about?” You laugh awkwardly, glancing away.

She smirks, the old Chaewon you’ve missed suddenly making an appearance. “The way you get all nervous around me when I say things like that. It’s cute. I think I might start teasing you more.”

Your heart races, half amused and half unsettled. “Chae…” You try to act annoyed, but your tone betrays you. “You don’t even remember me. What do you mean by that?”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing with something you can’t quite read. “Maybe I don’t remember all the details, but I remember you. The guy who’s always around, always hovering, always trying to help. How could I forget you?”

Your breath catches, a flutter of hope igniting in your chest. But before you can respond, she bursts out laughing. “Just kidding, Y/N. But seriously, don’t you get it? You’re like an open book. So easy to tease.”

It feels like an old routine—one you know well. You grin despite yourself, but the warmth in your chest quickly fades into the familiar uncertainty. Was this just a moment of her old self slipping through, or was it something more?

She gets up, not waiting for an answer, her usual carefree confidence taking over once again. “You should get going. I don’t want you to be late.”

And just like that, the teasing fades, and she’s back to the softer version of herself. You stand there, still feeling the aftershock of the teasing and the warmth from that brief return to the Chaewon you used to know.

-

Later that week, you’re both at a recording studio for LE SSERAFIM’s comeback preparations.

Chaewon is focused on the choreography, her movements deliberate but careful. You’re sitting in the corner of the room, watching her with a quiet sense of pride, when she suddenly stumbles over a step, losing her balance for a moment.

You instinctively stand up, ready to rush over, but she waves you off with a dismissive hand. “I’m fine,” she mutters, brushing her hair out of her face. “Don’t act like you’re my manager or something.”

Your jaw tightens, the familiar spark of annoyance bubbling up inside you. “Chae, I’m just trying to help.”

She glances up at you, her expression sharp, almost a little… cruel. “Stop acting like I need you to. I’m perfectly capable of doing things on my own.”

You freeze. This is the Chaewon you remember—the one who never asked for help, the one who got irritated when anyone tried to make things easier for her.

For a moment, you forget that she doesn’t remember everything, and your heart sinks. You had hoped this version of her was gone, that the softer, gentler Chaewon would be the one to stay. But here she is, slipping back into her old self, the one who pushed you away when you tried to get close.

“Okay,” you say quietly, masking the hurt in your voice. “I’ll stay out of your way then.”

You sit back down, your hands resting in your lap as the silence stretches between you. Chaewon doesn’t say anything more, but there’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there before.

-

Over the next few days, these shifts continue. Sometimes, she’s the easy-going Chaewon you’ve gotten used to—polite, soft-spoken, even a little shy in her interactions with you. Other times, she snaps, teasing you with a bite in her words that leaves you reeling, or she’ll shut down, acting distant and cold.

You can’t predict when the old Chaewon will emerge, and it’s disorienting. It’s like she’s two people, and you’re not sure which one you’re going to face each day.

But then, one evening, she surprises you again.

You’re sitting on the couch together, both too tired to say much after a long day of practice. The quiet isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy.

Chaewon’s smile widens, but it’s different this time—not as teasing or sharp. It’s softer, almost tender, like she’s rediscovering something she once knew. She leans back against the couch, her gaze drifting to the ceiling, her thoughts seemingly miles away.

“I think I’m starting to remember more,” she says, her voice almost inaudible.

You freeze, a flutter of hope stirring in your chest. “Remember more?”

She looks at you, a faint smile still tugging at her lips. “Yeah. The old me. The one who used to—” Her words trail off, as if she’s still piecing things together in her mind. “Maybe I was a little too much sometimes… difficult. But I think I’m figuring out who I really am now.”

The words hit you harder than you expect. There’s something almost melancholic in the way she speaks, a quiet acknowledgment of her past, yet also a sense of self-awareness in the present.

You stay silent, watching her closely. There’s no sharp retort, no teasing grin to follow. For a moment, you just exist in this space, caught between who Chaewon was and who she’s becoming.

For a while, neither of you speaks. But you know—no matter which version of her you get, the part of her that’s still here, right now, is still the Chaewon you care about. Maybe it’s not the same, and maybe it never will be, but that doesn’t make it any less real. And for now, that’s enough.

-

It starts innocently enough—a rare free day where you and Chaewon decide to hang out in your apartment. She’s lounging on the couch, scrolling through her phone, while you’re in the kitchen attempting to make lunch. Everything is blissfully normal until you hear her gasp dramatically.

“YAAAA!” she shouts, the intensity of her voice startling you so much that you nearly drop the spatula.

“What? What happened?” you ask, rushing into the living room, half-expecting to see something catastrophic.

Chaewon’s eyes narrow as she points accusingly at you with her phone. “How could you?”

You blink, utterly confused. “How could I… what?”

Her face twists in mock devastation as she waves her phone like it’s evidence in a court case. “I was looking through old photos, and you were smiling way too much in the pictures we took during my memory loss phase.”

You stare at her, waiting for the punchline, but she looks genuinely offended. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” she says, sitting up and glaring at you, “that you clearly liked her more than me. Admit it!”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. “Chae, you are her. It’s literally still you.”

“But it’s not me!” she insists, crossing her arms and pouting. “That version of me was sweet and soft and totally not me. You liked her better because she wasn’t mean to you, didn’t she?”

“I—what?” you stammer, completely thrown off. “No! I mean, she was nice, sure, but I didn’t like her better! It’s the same person, Chae!”

“Liar!” she exclaims, standing up and stomping over to you. “You probably enjoyed having her dote on you, didn’t you? Bet you didn’t even miss the real me at all!”

You take a cautious step back, holding your hands up defensively. “I did miss you! And I didn’t cheat on you with... you! That doesn’t even make sense!”

Chaewon huffs, her jealousy reaching peak absurdity. “Oh, it makes perfect sense. I leave for a few weeks mentally, and you’re out here having the time of your life with some soft, clingy version of me. Unbelievable!”

She pokes your chest, her expression a mix of irritation and… something else. “Admit it! You liked how she was all shy and asked for help, didn’t you? Bet you enjoyed being the big, helpful boyfriend for once instead of dealing with me!”

You can’t help it—you burst out laughing. The whole situation is so ridiculous you can’t take it seriously anymore.

“Chaewon, do you hear yourself right now? You’re jealous of yourself.”

Her cheeks flush, and she smacks your arm. “Don’t laugh! This is serious! I’m trying to have a heartfelt moment here.”

“Heartfelt?” you repeat between laughs. “You’re accusing me of emotionally cheating on you with another version of you. That’s not heartfelt—that’s a sitcom plot!”

Chaewon’s pout deepens, but there’s a hint of a smile threatening to break through her faux anger. “Well… maybe I’m a little jealous, okay? You didn’t seem to miss me as much as I thought you would.”

You sigh, shaking your head in exasperation. “Chaewon, I missed you every single day. The real you.”

Her glare falters, but she doesn’t back down. Instead, she crosses her arms and looks away, pouting. “You’re just saying that to get out of trouble.”

You take a cautious step closer, tilting your head to catch her eye. “Trouble for what? Loving my girlfriend, no matter which version of her I get?”

She glances at you, her pout softening slightly. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she mutters under her breath.

Just as you’re about to breathe a sigh of relief, she surprises you by grabbing your shirt and pulling you down to her level. Her lips crash against yours in a kiss so sudden and intense that your brain short-circuits.

When she finally pulls away, she’s still glaring, but there’s a faint blush on her cheeks. “That’s so you don’t forget who you really belong to.”

Before you can respond, she kisses you again, her hands tangling in your hair as if staking her claim. “Chae—”

“Shut up,” she murmurs against your lips. “I’m still mad.”

You can’t help but laugh, your hands settling on her waist. “You don’t seem that mad to me.”

“Don’t push your luck,” she warns, but there’s no real heat in her voice.

By the time she lets you go, you’re both out of breath, and the tension has melted away entirely. She steps back, her arms still crossed, but there’s a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“So,” you say, trying to catch your breath, “are we good now? Or should I prepare for another interrogation about cheating on you with… you?”

She rolls her eyes but leans into your chest, her head resting against you. “We’re good. But if I ever catch you looking at ‘soft Chaewon’ like that again, we’re going to have words.”

You chuckle, wrapping your arms around her. “Noted. But for the record, I love you—sharp edges and all.”

She looks up at you, her smile softening. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me, no matter which version of me shows up.”

Maybe you’ve been accused of cheating, maybe it’s all completely ridiculous, but in that moment, you can’t help but love her even more—especially when she’s acting like her old, impossible self.

You could probably get used to this Chaewon too.

[dannyriccsystem]

can i have 35, 28 and 5 with gabi? if you're comfortable with it 🤞

AREN’T YOU SOMETHIN’ TO ADMIRE?

1K SPECIAL - GB5

“Wear a jacket,” “I don’t have one,” “You can borrow mine.” + Mirror sex + Size difference

SUMMARY: A date gone right with your boyfriend ;)

WORD COUNT: 1.4K

WARNINGS: Smut, AFAB reader, P in V, mirror sex, size difference, praise kink perchance

FEATURING: Gabriel Bortoleto x Reader

NOTE: Hi! I totally did NOT forget about this 1K special and that I promised to fulfill these requests so. I gotta get back on that lol

GABRIEL ALWAYS PUT EXTRA THOUGHTS INTO YOUR DATES. He went out of his way to make sure everything was planned to a T, and that you’d both be ensured to have a lovely night together. Date nights were sparse during the racing season— It had been that way for years now; this information wasn’t something new to you. But during his well deserved week long break after a triple header, Gabi was quick to plan something up for the two of you.

This ‘something’ wasn’t anything particularly out of the norm. It was just dinner at a restaurant you both have been attending for years. The portions were large and the prices weren’t terribly high. The best part about it all was it was still somewhat high-end, meaning the chances of him being recognized or distractions popping up were low. The perks of him being an F1 rookie was that fewer people could actually recognize you. The true die-hard fans, and the occasional trackmate, being an exception!

Living in a small city came with various other benefits, too. When you guys didn’t feel like driving, it was a short walk back home. Gabi, being the ever chivalrous man he is, followed all the steps of a true gentleman. He held the door for you, walked on the outside of the sidewalk, locked arms— Okay, I lied. Almost everything. Because all night you had been dropping hints to being cold, and he just wasn’t getting it.

“It’s chilly out,” You’d comment, only for him to reply with, “yeah, really chilly.” You’d roll your eyes playfully at your boyfriend’s cluelessness. Seems he forgot he was wearing a jacket. However, you gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was cold, too. Why should he give up his jacket when you’re the one who forgot to bring one?

“Gabi, I’m cold,” You finally spoke firmly, in a more direct manner so he’d get the hint. He perked up at your sudden change of tone, his face reflecting his sheepishness. It was here he was beginning to wonder if he did something wrong.

“Put your jacket…” He trailed off when he scanned you over. You could see his cheeks flush softly, and he shook his head in disappointment at himself.

“I don’t have one.” Your lips twisted up into a smile. It was somewhat teasing, because you could tell he had not been intentionally ignoring you. You watched him pull away to slip his coat jacket off, and then drape it over your shoulders. You slid your arms through the sleeves, hugging the fabric around yourself.

“Desculpe, meu docinho. I didn’t realize you hadn’t brought a jacket.” He kissed your forehead whilst interlocking your hands. The two of you continued to walk— This time with you feeling much more comfortable. He had a long sleeve shirt underneath: He’d be fine!

When you got home, you stood before your full length mirror to take apart your outfit. You stripped down your jewelry first, which was a rather freeing experience no longer having all that extra weight. “Gabi,” you called affectionately. Your boyfriend rushed over like an obedient puppy, standing behind you. His gaze drifted over you in the mirror, hands circling your waist to rest on your tummy.

“You look pretty,” He mumbled for probably the eight-hundredth time that night. You laughed, and his eyes lit up like it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. “I mean it. Especially in my jacket…”

“Thank you,” And that was probably your eight-hundredth time responding to said compliment with gratitude. It didn’t matter how many times he said it, because he always said it with so much sincerity you could have been tricked into believing it was the first. “Will you unzip my dress?”

He nodded eagerly and pushed his jacket up to reveal the back of your dress. He seemed dead-set on keeping his clothes on you, so you didn’t make a move to stop him. His fingers, warm and calloused, pulled the zipper down with caution. He even helped you slip out of the dress— even though that first required removing the jacket.

There you were, in just your undergarments. It was a sight he had seen multiple times before, but it was a sight he was always appreciative of. Gabi discreetly draped the jacket over your shoulders once more, kissing your neck with festering fervor. His hands slid over your stomach, squeezing whatever skin he could with greedy hands.

“Do you see how beautiful you are?” He questioned in a low whisper, breath hot against your ear. You nodded meekly, staring at yourself in the reflection. Every time you were with Gabriel, he managed to wash away your insecurities with ease. “Will you let me show you how beautiful I think you are?”

You nodded again, but he made eye contact with you— harsh eye contact— in the mirror. That was the gaze of someone who needed a verbal answer. So you hoarsely responded, “yes please.”

His hands slid down your underwear, teasing your increasingly wet folds, all while he kissed your neck. He occasionally bit at your skin, or left a hickey with the intent of marking you up. Gabriel dipped his middle finger into you, curling it to increase the friction. You gasped, your moan drawn out by the various points of stimulation. He seemed satisfied with your noise, which persuaded him into adding another finger: his ring finger.

The long digits teased at the spongy, intense points of pleasure from deep within. You whimpered, leaning forward with a hand against the wall right beside your mirror. You were too shy to look up as you were somewhat afraid to see your own expressions. This ideation would not last long, unfortunately.

When he figured you were readily prepped, Gabriel slid your delicate underwear down your legs, leaving them at your ankles for you to step out of. He unbuckled his pants with one hand, maneuvering expertly to release his aching cock, which was flushed pink at the end; this was an indication of his eagerness to please.

You had taken him many times. This wasn’t a new occurrence to you, but each time had a rather long grace period between, which gave just enough time for you to require some stretching. He pushed the tip in— just the tip, because you could barely even handle that. You seethed, breathing through clenched teeth. Gabi massaged your stomach where he could feel a slight bulge, kissing your shoulder blades.

“You’re doing so great, minha vida. Você me completa.” He’d whisper such sweet nothings in your ear all while bullying his dick deeper and deeper inside your hole. He kept you steady, serving as something to squeeze at the initial sting. When he finally bottomed out, his length fully engulfed by you, Gabriel groaned in satisfaction, burying his face in your neck to take it all in.

He pushed you over, bending you down in front of the mirror as he drew his hips back for a harsh thrust. He lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze in the mirror.

“Watch as I destroy you,” was the only warning he gave. Such a sweet, romantic night had turned into something filthy with your boyfriend pounding into you from behind. He manhandled you with such ease, it made you completely forget about his previous acts of courtesy. You tried to pull your gaze away, but he was quick to redirect you back to the mirror.

You felt shameful seeing yourself drool with every thrust, your hands pressed against the wall and your arms shaky. A shudder ran down your spine, and you felt yourself growing weak in the knees already. “Gabi,” you whined out his name, making the Brazilian man smirk with a form of cockiness.

“Hm?” He pulled your head back by your hair, staring into your reflection’s eyes. You nervously looked back, your walls squeezing him.

“Please let me come,” You begged, your tone pitchy and whiny.

“Of course I’ll let you come, meu docinho. You’ve been so good for me.” He pulled you back against him, holding you around your torso. His thrusts slowed, but they felt a lot more intimate this way. He kissed your jawline and cheeks, showering you with love as you came undone around him.

He helped you through your orgasm with his praise and his feather-like touches. You leaned back against him, your eyes fluttering shut as he slowly pulled out. He lifted you onto the bed, laying you down with tender care.

“Let me grab you some water and a towel,” He whispered before pecking you on the lips. You grinned, nodding your head.

“Thank you, Gabi.” He chuckled at your nickname before scurrying off to fulfill his promise.

[neonbonded]

Grovel, Pretty Boy.

♡ ft. love and deepspace men x reader ♡ cw: heartbreak, emotional damage, angst, miscommunication, rain-soaked apologies, slow-burn second chances

Xavier

You knew something was wrong when he stopped falling asleep beside you.

He’d always been quiet. Reserved. But this was different. This wasn’t shyness or stoicism. This was distance.

Nights on the couch instead of your bed. Missions he didn’t tell you about until he was already gone. Kisses that never quite landed. Hands that never lingered.

You asked once. Just once.

“Xavier… do you still want this? Do you still want me?”

He didn’t meet your eyes when he answered. Didn’t hesitate either.

“You’re better off without me.”

That was it. No explanation. No tears. Just a single, low sentence—delivered like a death sentence.

So you left.

You packed a bag. Took the key off your chain. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t ask him to stop you.

And he didn’t.

The silence that followed was louder than any fight you’d ever had.

Xavier told himself it was right. That he was protecting you. That one day you’d thank him. But he didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Barely moved.

He left your toothbrush in the cup. Kept the extra pillow on the bed. Replayed your voice in his head like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the planet.

It wasn’t until he found your jacket—folded and forgotten on the back of the chair—that something in him cracked.

He sat on the floor of the apartment, holding it to his face, inhaling like it could bring you back.

He finally broke.

It’s been three weeks when he shows up at your door.

You hear the knock first—quiet, tentative. Then again, harder. Urgent. When you open it, he’s standing there—wet from the rain, hood down, eyes red like he hasn’t slept in days.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just looks at you like he’s seeing the sun for the first time after living underground.

“You look…” His voice fails. He shakes his head, swallows, tries again. “I was wrong.”

You don’t move.

“I thought letting you go would keep you safe. From me. From this life. From the way I mess everything up.”

You cross your arms, biting your lip.

“So why are you here?”

His throat works. His hands clench and unclench at his sides.

“Because you left. And I thought I could live with that. I thought I could survive knowing you were better off.”

“And?”

He takes a shaky breath.

“I can’t.”

“Xavier—”

“I don’t sleep. I can’t eat. I hear your voice every time I close my eyes. Every place I go reminds me of you. And I just—” His voice breaks. His knees hit the porch.

You step back instinctively, shocked. He stays kneeling, eyes wide, voice shaking:

“Please. I know I hurt you. I pushed you away. But don’t let me be right about losing you.”

“Don’t let that be the last thing I ever say to you.”

There’s silence. Only the rain. His breathing. Your heart pounding in your ears.

Then—your hand moves. Slowly. Carefully.

You reach out and touch his cheek. He leans into it like it’s the first warmth he’s felt in weeks.

“I’m not promising anything,” you whisper.

He nods.

“I know. I’ll earn it. Every day. As long as it takes.”

You open the door.

He doesn’t move until you say it—

“Come in.”

And he does.

Soaked. Shaking. Hopeful.

For the first time in weeks— Xavier smiles.

Zayne

It started slow—like all things with Zayne.

A few late nights at Akso Hospital. Then it became weekends. Then the messages got shorter. The kisses fewer. The promises thinner.

And you tried. God, you tried.

You made dinner and waited until it got cold. You left sweet notes in his lab coat pocket that he never mentioned. You curled up on the couch with takeout and a blanket, waiting for the sound of keys in the door—waiting to feel like a priority again.

But he never noticed how you stopped reaching out.

He thought your silence was peace. You thought his silence was neglect.

And when it finally broke—when you stood in the kitchen with tears in your eyes and said “I feel like I’m alone in this relationship”—he blinked at you like he didn’t understand the words.

“You know I’m working,” he said. “This is important.”

“And I’m not?”

You left two days later.

Zayne didn’t react at first.

He told himself you were being emotional. That you’d come back. That he didn’t have time for a personal crisis when three cardiac procedures were scheduled back-to-back.

But your side of the bed stayed cold. Your mug disappeared from the cabinet. Your toothbrush was gone.

The first thing that truly broke him?

A spoon.

He reached for the sugar in the morning, went to stir his coffee— and found your favorite spoon still in the drawer, tucked under the others.

The one with the tiny chip on the handle. The one you always used. And he stared at it like it was your ghost.

It takes him six days to gather the courage.

Six days of waking up with chest pain that has nothing to do with his heart. Six days of sitting in the apartment, surrounded by surgical journals and silence. Six days of not hearing your voice. Not seeing your face.

When he shows up at your door, it’s raining.

Of course it’s raining.

He’s in a gray coat. No umbrella. His glasses are fogged from the downpour, and his hair drips water onto his collar.

He looks like someone who hasn’t slept. Because he hasn’t.

You answer slowly, cautiously, wrapped in a sweater that isn’t his.

He stares at you like he’s never seen you before. Like you’re light and air and everything he thought he could live without—until you were gone.

“I need to say something,” he starts.

You don’t say anything. You don’t move.

“I know I didn’t show up for you,” he says, voice steady at first—but tight around the edges. “I know I wasn’t there when you needed me.”

“You were working. Like always.”

“No.” He swallows. “I was hiding.”

Your breath hitches. He sees it—but he keeps going.

“I told myself I could love you in the background. That my work was enough. That you’d understand.”

He looks away. Rain drips from his chin.

“But you cried alone. And I didn’t even notice.”

He finally lifts his eyes to yours.

“I let you carry everything. And I kept pretending I was too busy to see it. But I see it now.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Just enough that you can feel the weight of what he’s carrying.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says quietly. “But if there’s any part of you that still wants to try… tell me how. Tell me where to start.”

Silence.

Only the rain and the sound of his voice, breaking open for the first time in forever.

And you—heart still tender, eyes burning—you take a step back.

He doesn’t follow.

Until you say:

“Come in. We talk. That’s all.”

He nods. Just once.

But his breath? It shakes. Like he just got handed a second chance and he’s terrified he’s going to break it again.

Rafayel

You always knew Rafayel had sharp edges.

They came hidden in sugar and sarcasm, tied up in flirtation and jokes. He kissed with a smile. He apologized with a wink. But every now and then, when he was tired or tangled in his own storms— he’d say something that cut too deep.

This time, he didn’t just nick the surface. He gutted you.

It started as a fight.

Something small. Something stupid.

You were frustrated—he’d missed another dinner, another gallery event. He brushed it off. You didn’t. It escalated.

“Do you even take me seriously?” you snapped.

He scoffed, deflecting like always. But this time you didn’t back down.

“Do I mean anything to you outside of your inspiration?”

That’s when his face changed.

A flicker of something dark crossed his eyes. And he said it.

“Maybe I was better off before you.”

The silence after was louder than the slam of the door.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry.

You just left.

He didn’t chase you.

Not at first.

He stood there in the middle of the studio, staring at the empty space you used to fill. At the unfinished canvas you were supposed to pose for. At the tea mug you left behind with your lipstick still on the rim.

And then it hit him.

What he said. What it meant. What he’d just destroyed with seven words and too much pride.

He tried to paint.

He couldn’t. His hands shook too hard.

So he drank instead. Paint-stained fingers trembling around a wine bottle, mouth twisted in self-loathing.

By the next morning, his studio was in shambles. Canvas slashed. Paint spilled like blood across the floor.

And in the center of it all? One still, untouched portrait of you.

It takes him four days.

Four days of pacing. Of rewriting texts. Of standing outside your apartment and turning back before knocking.

When he finally shows up?

It’s late. His clothes are wrinkled. His eyes bloodshot. His fingers still streaked with dried blue pigment.

He knocks once. Twice.

And when you open the door?

He falls silent.

He stares at you like he’s not sure you’re real. Like his memory never did you justice.

“Hey, cutie.”

His voice cracks on the word.

You stare at him. Quiet. Guarded.

“I shouldn’t have said it.”

Still, you don’t speak.

“I was angry. Scared. You cornered me and I panicked.”

“So you hurt me.” Your voice is soft. It kills him more than yelling would.

“I know.” He swallows. His hands twitch like he wants to reach for you, but doesn’t. “And I would take it back a million times if I could. I’d burn every canvas in that studio if it meant you’d look at me the way you used to.”

“Rafayel—”

“No.” His voice cracks. His mask slips. “I’ve spent four days trying to paint and all I see is you walking out. All I hear is your voice in the back of my mind telling me I crossed a line I can’t uncross.”

“I didn’t mean it. I’ve never meant anything less in my entire life. You’re not just my muse. You’re my home.”

There’s silence.

And then—

He reaches into his pocket.

A tiny, folded paper scrap. You recognize the sketch immediately. It’s you—from the last morning you spent curled in his bed.

It’s crumpled. Smudged. Like it’s been clutched in his hands over and over.

“I kept this,” he whispers. “I don’t know why. Maybe because I thought if I gave you this, you’d know I don’t want to forget. I just… want to start over.”

You reach for it. Slowly.

And he lets go. Hands shaking.

“Let me prove I’m worth one more brushstroke in your life.”

You stare at him. Your eyes sting.

“One condition,” you whisper.

He nods too fast.

“Anything.”

“You tell me next time. When it’s too much. When you’re scared. When you feel like you’re drowning.”

“I will,” he promises. “Just… don’t walk away from me again.”

You open the door wider.

“Then come inside. We start from page one.”

He steps inside like he’s never been more grateful in his life.

Sylus

You always knew there were things Sylus didn’t tell you.

You didn’t mind at first. He was powerful, dangerous—Onychinus’s leader, cloaked in shadows and whispers.

But you loved him. And he let you. In his way.

Slow touches. Bare confessions. Fingers brushing your jaw like they weren’t stained in blood. He never told you what his nights entailed. But you knew. You just didn’t know he was keeping you in those files.

You found the classified record by accident.

You were looking for a comm drive, trying to help organize his equipment for an upcoming drop. Instead?

You found your name in a dossier stamped with an Onychinus seal. Your file was red-level encrypted. And beneath the encryption: A full surveillance report.

Your work. Your location. Your medical records. Your passwords.

A protected asset tag.

Your hands shook.

You weren’t a partner. You were a risk to be monitored.

You didn’t confront him.

You left.

And Sylus? He came home to silence.

At first, he just stared at the empty apartment.

Then he saw the unlocked desk. The data drive pulled out.

The second he realized what you’d found, something in him snapped.

He didn’t rage. Didn’t shout.

He just… shut down.

For three days, no one saw him.

Onychinus command went dark. All orders rerouted. No public appearances. No messages returned.

The next time he walked into HQ, his eyes were dead and his voice was a loaded gun.

“Do not ask me where she is,” he said to his second-in-command, “unless you’re prepared to hear me break.”

It takes him a week.

A week of calling in every favor. Canceling every op. His pride long since discarded like a broken blade.

When he finds you?

You’re not at your apartment. Not at your safehouse.

You’re in a shitty little cafe near the old city walls. Neutral ground.

And when he steps inside, the whole room goes still.

Because Sylus—tall, sharp, all black coat and blood in his gaze—doesn’t belong here. But he’s not here to make a statement. He’s here for you.

Only you.

You don’t speak when he sits across from you.

You just look at him.

He looks tired. Worn. Haunted.

“I know what you found,” he says first. His voice is low. Controlled. “I know what it looked like.”

You don’t move. Don’t blink.

“It looked like I was never yours,” you say. “Like I was a project. A file. A threat.”

He closes his eyes.

“You were the only thing in my life I didn’t want to control.”

“But you did.” Your voice shakes. “You stalked me. Tracked me. You filed me under protected asset—like I wasn’t someone you loved. Just something you were afraid to lose.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“I was afraid,” he says. “Because you’re the only person I wouldn’t survive losing.”

He leans forward. His hands are shaking.

“So I lied. I covered. I convinced myself it was safer if you didn’t know how deep I’d gone.”

“How deep?”

He doesn’t flinch.

“There is no version of this world I’m willing to live in without you.”

Your breath hitches. He watches it. Memorizes it. Still doesn’t reach for you.

“But I understand why you left.”

A pause. His voice drops even lower.

“And if I never get you back, I will spend the rest of my life protecting you from a distance—without surveillance. Without control. Just… me.”

“Wanting you. And never touching you again.”

The silence between you is thick. Heavy.

And then—your hand moves.

Just slightly. Across the table. Near his.

Not quite touching. But not pulling away either.

“Start over,” you say. “No secrets. No files. Just you. Just me.”

His breath catches.

Then he covers your hand with his. Fingers curling. Tight. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish again.

“I swear,” he whispers, voice shaking. “No more lies.”

Caleb

You never wanted to be the jealous type.

But there’s something about seeing him like that— Caleb, your Caleb, in a low-lit bar, laughing softly while someone else leans into his space.

She’s gorgeous. Confident. Her fingers on his sleeve, her mouth too close to his ear. And he’s not pulling away.

He’s not kissing her. But he’s not saying no, either.

And that’s enough.

Your stomach turns.

You don’t make a scene. You don’t even wait for him to notice.

You just leave.

You cry that night.

Hot, silent tears soaked into your pillow as you stare at the wall, waiting for your phone to buzz.

A text. A call. Something.

It never comes.

It takes two days before Caleb even realizes you saw.

He doesn’t notice the missed messages. The silence. The sudden drop-off.

He thinks you’re just busy. Until he opens your shared calendar and sees:

“Pick up the rest of your stuff.” Saturday. 8PM.

He freezes.

And something inside him shatters.

When he finally gets to your door?

It’s pouring.

He’s drenched. Shaking. Breathing too hard to look calm anymore.

He pounds on the door once. Twice. A third time—harder.

“It wasn’t what it looked like!”

You open the door slowly.

You’re calm. Barefoot. In a hoodie. Eyes puffy.

“Wasn’t it?”

His breath catches. His fingers curl against the doorframe.

“She’s my handler. She was drunk. She got clingy. I didn’t—God, I didn’t even notice you were there until I turned around and you were just… gone.”

You raise a brow. Arms crossed. Silent.

“And you didn’t come after me.”

He swallows hard.

“I know. I know I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

And that’s when it happens. The soft, calm expression on his face—cracks.

He takes one shaky step forward, dripping on your floor, his voice breaking apart:

“Because I didn’t think I deserved to.”

You stare.

He keeps going.

“I saw your face, and I thought, ‘That’s it. She saw everything. She’s gone.’ And I—I froze. Like losing you was just the punishment I earned for not being what you needed.”

“But I was wrong.” “You were there. And I didn’t choose you fast enough. I didn’t run after you.”

His hand lifts—hesitant. Trembling.

“So I’m running now. Okay? I’m running now. I’m standing here—soaked, stupid, and sorry—because I’d rather beg you in the rain than spend one more night trying to pretend like I can breathe without you.”

Your lip trembles.

He steps closer.

“I love you.”

“You didn’t show it.”

“Then let me now. Let me prove it. Let me fix it.”

He falls quiet. Soaked to the bone. Voice gone. Heart in your hands.

You stare at him for one long, aching moment—

And finally, you open the door.

“One shot, Colonel.”

He exhales like he’s just been pulled back from the brink of death.

“That’s all I need.”

[vunblr]

Tangled (#11)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. Teratophilia.

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Word Count: 8.8k

Note: And we have reached the end. A big thank you to the readers who accompanied me on this journey. As I always say, this may be the story with fewer 'notes' on my masterlist, but the quality of the interaction has been overwhelming -in the best way- asking, drawing, commenting, reblogging, I am so grateful I got to experience that, truly, thank you❤️

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

Making the alcove habitable wasn’t so bad.

Bucky had shifted to his human form to help her carry the essentials: an air mattress, blankets, a few rechargeable lights for the pitch-black space, snacks, and water. It wasn’t exactly cozy, but it would do.

Shifting during mating season, however, had taken a toll. His body, busy channeling energy toward more primal needs, had little left to spare. By the end of the day, he was sluggish, aching, and quietly grumpy, made worse, she suspected, because she’d witnessed a side of him he didn’t particularly like showing.

“You okay?” she asked, stepping close with a gentle smile. “You seem a little… indisposed.”

He didn’t respond right away, just blinked slowly, then reached out with his limbs to draw her in until her body was pressed against his chest.

“Changing forms during mating season is not... wise,” he muttered.

“Why?”

“Because the body craves only one thing, and its energy is focused on that. We don’t do other things. We barely eat. We just-”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

“Oh,” she murmured, brushing a hand along his cheek. “You shouldn’t have shifted, then. I could’ve brought everything down myself, and you could’ve just set it all up.”

That struck a nerve. He stiffened, frowning. “I won’t let my mate exert herself physically when I am perfectly capable-”

She cut him off with a quick kiss. “I know you’re capable, but I could’ve made three trips. You wouldn’t be feeling like this now.”

After a while, she asked softly, “You said your kind don’t do other things during mating season. Just mating.”

He made a small, tired noise in response.

“Do you feel frustrated because we- I mean, it’s just once or twice a day, but then I…” she trailed off, cheeks warm, voice muffled as she buried her face into the curve of his neck. She didn’t need to end the sentence. Usually, she ended up sore, and he refused to take her again, even if it killed him.

“No.”

The answer came quickly, firmly, but she didn’t miss the way his arms clenched around her.

“But it’s not the same,” she mumbled. “And clearly, you want more.”

He stared up at the rocky ceiling, ticking his jaw as he searched for the right words. “I spent decades doing this alone. So you… being here with me is enough.”

“Better than nothing, huh?” she teased, nudging him gently.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” His voice came out stiff, almost panicked, words tumbling over each other. Damn his poor way with human expressions. He could hunt, fight, track movement through currents, but explaining feelings without tangling them up? Nearly impossible.

She smiled against his skin. “I know what you meant.”

“Besides,” he added after a pause, “even if your body can’t have me inside all the time, you still…” He trailed off, clearly wrestling with the wording. His cheeks tinted pink. “Service me.”

She snorted softly, biting her bottom lip to hide her grin. “That sounds so old-fashioned, and kind of dirty.”

He looked genuinely confused. “What would you call it then? You do things with your hands, your mouth… only for my pleasure.”

She reached up to brush a damp lock of hair from his brow. “I don’t know,” she murmured, still smiling. “Let’s just say I take care of you.”

He hummed at that. Maybe he didn’t fully grasp the nuance of the phrasing, but he understood her tone, her softness. She was choosing to stay. Choosing him, even when he couldn’t give her the most comfortable version of himself.

After a silent moment, she stopped brushing her fingers through the damp ends of his hair.

“Do you want some fruit?” she asked softly, reaching toward the bag by the mattress.

Didn’t get an answer.

When she leaned back to look at him, she found his eyes closed, lips parted slightly, with the kind of peace he rarely allowed himself. He’d fallen asleep mid-conversation, curled around her, completely spent.

Smiling to herself, she shifted back down into the cradle of his limbs, letting the slow pulse of the tide outside lull her into sleep. Wrapped in his embrace, she closed her eyes too, deciding that maybe a nap wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

----

Days came and went, and the pull of mating season finally began to loosen its hold on him. The fevered need that once gripped his body -the aching hunger to touch, to scent, to stay wound around her- eased gradually, like the tide drawing back from the shore. He still wanted her, always would, but the urgency had dulled into something manageable.

With that came a mutual decision: she would return to her home to sleep, to the comfort of her proper bed and familiar things. He didn’t argue, not much anyway, especially after she reminded him he was always welcome there.

She started spending her mornings in town again. A conversation with the old woman who ran the craft shop turned out to be a surprising opportunity, the chance to give beginner crochet lessons twice a week. Just a couple of hours, enough to earn a little extra and maybe help the shop sell more materials.

She hadn’t been sure at first. Teaching felt… official. But she liked the idea of sharing something useful, something she loved. And really, she had nothing to lose.

She printed a few modest posters and pinned them around town, at the bakery, the library, and the community board near the ferry docks. Just a soft-colored flyer with her name, the schedule, and the promise of beginner-friendly crochet. She didn’t expect much.

But the very next day, three people signed up.

Emma, the elderly owner of the bookshop, had always meant to learn. When she found out her granddaughter Harriet wanted to attend, motivated by a deep desire to make amigurumis, she decided it was finally time. And then there was Chris, one of the clerks at the general store, who admitted in a shy, mumbled tone that he was hoping crocheting might help with his nerves. Dealing with people every day, even in a small town, was wearing on him. He needed something quiet to focus on.

It was an odd little trio, but a good one.

----

She dipped her toes into the foamy edge of the tide, wrapped her arms loosely around her knees. Bucky stayed just within reach, half-submerged in the water, with his elbows propped on a rock as he watched her.

“I got three students already,” she said, smiling. “Isn’t that wild? I just put up the flyers yesterday.”

His ears perked faintly. “Three?”

“Mhm. Emma from the bookstore, her granddaughter Harriet, and Chris. You know, from the general store.”

His expression didn’t shift much, except for the slight furrow between his brows and the narrowing in his eyes. “Chris… isn’t it a male name?”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from grinning. “Yes.”

He pushed up a little straighter. “But… that’s a secret craft.”

“A secret craft?”

“Only females do it. It’s private.”

She chuckled, moving beside him and reaching over to tuck a stray lock of damp hair behind his ear. “Maybe in the past it was a woman's thing. But not anymore. Plenty of men crochet now.”

His frown deepened. “Why is he doing it?”

“Anxiety,” she said, smiling. “He says it helps with that. I think it’s great.”

The point of his limbs curled and swayed, a sign she was beginning to recognize as disapproval. “He must want something else.”

“Oh yeah?” she asked, brushing sand off her calves. “Like what?”

“You.”

She turned toward him, surprised at his bluntness, but the stern, almost sulky set of his mouth made it hard not to laugh. “You think he signed up just to get close to me?”

Bucky didn’t answer, but the look he gave her said exactly that.

She laughed then, swatting gently at his shoulder. “Bucky!”

He didn’t laugh. He just blinked at her, completely serious. “Males don’t do manual, trifling things like that without purpose.”

That was not the best choice of words, as he’ll discover.

“Well, that trifling thing had put a roof over my head and fed me for years, and luckily for me, there are those who find it valuable.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. The water stirred faintly around him.

She straightened her back, brushing the last of the sand from her skirt, not looking at him this time. “You might not get it, but that doesn’t make it worthless.”

He watched her walk a few paces down the shore. “I didn’t mean-” he tried.

“Maybe next time, think a little before calling my work trifling.” And with that, she turned and started toward the path.

In a flash of black and blue, two of his tendrils snapped forward, one curling gently around her wrist, the other at her waist. Not harshly. Just holding. Just asking her to stay.

“Wait,” he said.

She didn’t fight him, but didn’t speak either. Her gaze stayed ahead.

“I didn’t mean to disrespect you,” he stated in a low voice. His eyes flicked to the side, like the words were hiding somewhere in the tide. “What I meant was… it’s work for women-”

She turned back sharply, narrowing her gaze. “Oh, so it’s trifling because only women do it?”

“No!” he sighed, frustrated but not at her. “I meant… it’s not a physical trait. Not something a provider would normally do.”

He looked genuinely troubled, his brows drawn and lips parted like he was still sorting through the right phrasing.

She softened slightly, folding her arms. “Bucky… we’re not in the stone age anymore. There aren’t roles like that- not here. Maybe in some outdated societies, sure, but that’s not how things work.”

He opened his mouth again, as his stubborn instinct was brewing, but she held up a hand.

“I’ll give you this: yes, crocheting and knitting are still mostly seen as women’s hobbies. But there are men doing it. And good ones, too.”

“You’re proving me right, then,” he said.

She blinked. “How so?”

“That few males perform such activities. So it’s likely that this Chris wants to be close to you. Some kind of subterfuge-”

“Bucky,” she cut in, already exasperated. “I promise you, not every man who talks to me wants to get into my panties. I’m not exactly Sabrina Carpenter.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” he muttered. “But I know you’re not this... whoever.”

“That’s not the point,” she said firmly, crossing her arms. “The point is, we’ve talked about this before. You know how things work here, men and women can be friends. They can work together, share hobbies, without any ulterior motives. And that is what happens most of the time.”

She took a step closer, calmer. “I’m going to teach this guy. If you’re that insecure, you’re welcome to come sit in on the classes.”

That seemed to give him pause. The thought of keeping an eye on things clearly appeased something territorial in him.

She lifted a finger before he could get too pleased. “Which is not a free ticket to intimidate him. Or harass him. Or loom in a corner like a judgmental gargoyle.”

“What is a gargoyle?”

----

None of the students had any experience with crochet, so they were starting from square one: how to hold the hook, how to tension the yarn, how to make a slip knot that didn’t unravel immediately.

Emma and Harriet picked things up quickly. The older woman had a natural talent, it seemed, and picked up the instructions quickly, and Harriet seemed determined to master the basic chain stitch with youthful stubbornness. Chris, on the other hand, struggled a little more. His yarn slipped too often, his fingers cramped, and he held the hook like a screwdriver. He needed extra attention, which she was happy to give, crouching beside his chair now and then to guide his hands.

They were about half an hour in when the front door creaked open.

Bucky stepped inside. Tall and broad-shouldered, wearing black jeans and a blue shirt that stretched a little over his chest. His hair was still wet, combed back pretty neatly, for being styled using his hands.

He stood silently for a moment, sweeping his blue eyes over the scene at the dining table.

She caught his gaze and gave a small nod, subtly signaling him to say something.

“Hello,” he said flatly.

Then, without another word, he made his way to the couch and sat down, resting his hands on his knees like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself now that he’d declared his presence.

Three pairs of curious eyes followed his movements. Harriet leaned toward Emma and whispered something behind her hand. The older woman gave her a gentle nudge and a sharp look. Chris squinted subtly, then tilted his head.

“Oh,” he said, as if just connecting the dots. “This is your friend from the city. It’s been a while since we saw him around town.”

Bucky scowled without blinking. “I’m her mat-”

“Boyfriend,” she cut in smoothly, not even glancing at Bucky as she reached to correct Chris’s chain tension again.

The three reactions came in their own little time: Emma gave a satisfied nod, like she’d seen this coming all along. Harriet made a face of teenage disappointment, barely masking it with a sip of juice. And Chris… well, his was harder to read. For her, anyway.

Bucky, however, watched him closely. The second the word left her mouth, he saw the exact thought crossing the man’s mind, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“Nice to meet you,” they all said, nearly in unison.

“Oh,” Chris added, still half-focused on his lopsided chain. “Wouldn’t have guessed. You’re one of those couples with zero PDA, then?”

“What is that?” Bucky asked before she could intervene.

Chris grinned a little, maybe not expecting him to ask. “You know. PDA, public displays of affection. When a couple acts like they’re together. Holding hands, cuddling, kissing in public. That kinda stuff.”

Bucky’s frown deepened. “That’s expected?”

“Not expected,” she said quickly, giving Chris a short look. “Just... common.”

He seemed to mull it over, nodding slowly with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for treaties or battle plans.

“I see.”

And then, just to top it all off, he reached over from the couch, hooked a finger in the edge of her shirt, and gave a gentle tug.

When she looked over, he was watching her, not quite sulking, but clearly filing this PDA business into the things to think about later category.

She reached over and grabbed Bucky’s hand, curling her fingers around his reassuringly.

“Well, if you must know,” she said, “we haven’t been a couple until recently. We were just friends during the other times he came into town over the winter. That is why we didn’t erm- seem lovey dovey.”

Bucky didn’t respond, but the tightness in his shoulders eased a little.

“Anyway,” she went on, lifting her voice just slightly to return everyone’s focus, “now that you’ve all met the mysterious newcomer, let’s get back to it, we’ve got twenty minutes left.”

“Oh, Hermann and I started as friends too,” Emma offered, smiling softly. “Been married fifty now.”

“Wow, Emma,” Chris laughed. “Don’t scare the guy. They just started going out.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to him sharply, but he didn’t say a word.

The minutes passed without major disruptions. Harriet caught on quickly, needing only a few corrections. Emma took her time, her hands were slow, but she didn’t need help. Chris… still struggled. He kept missing stitches, his tension was inconsistent, and more than once, he asked her to come over and count with him, tilting his head and giving a sheepish little smile.

Bucky didn’t miss it. He didn’t miss anything.

From his place on the couch, he might as well have been carved from stone, silent, unmoving, sharp-eyed.

And when Chris caught him watching, he had the gall to smile. A little smug thing. Not overt, not enough to make a scene, but Bucky saw it. Knew exactly what it was.

She didn’t seem to notice.

But he did.

And the only thing that kept him from dragging him out of the house, and made sure he never breathed near her again, was the promise he’d made: to behave. To prove he could live in her world without wrecking it.

Still, she could feel his stare, like storm clouds building behind her.

So when Chris finally seemed to grasp the rhythm of the stitch and stopped calling her over every few minutes, she took the chance to wander slowly toward the couch, pretending to examine a basket of spare yarn nearby. Her fingers brushed Bucky’s shoulder in passing, just a brief squeeze.

He looked up at her.

There was thunder in his eyes. And something else, something almost young, uncertain, raw. She bent down and wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a soft embrace.

Bucky exhaled against her neck, hiding his face in its curve. He inhaled slowly and deep, greedily, like he needed her scent to calm himself.

When he opened his eyes again, Chris was watching.

Subtle. Curious.

Until Bucky looked back.

Something in the way he saw him -ancient and cold- made the hairs on Chris’s neck stand up. It didn’t make sense. The guy was sitting politely, with his arms around his girlfriend. But the weight of that look felt like being alone on a dark street and realizing you were being followed.

Hunted.

He blinked and looked away, back to his project. It was probably just his imagination.

Probably.

----

Chris didn’t ask for help again. Not once.

Harriet, on the other hand, lit up near the end, asking if she could try making a little Pokémon. “Something easy,” she said, “like Jigglypuff maybe?” She promised to bring some colorful yarn next time.

When the hour wrapped, everyone gathered their belongings. Emma kissed her cheek goodbye and Harriet gave a little wave. Chris on the other hand didn’t leave right away.

He lingered in the yard, standing awkwardly near the front gate, holding something in his hand.

“Um,” he started, when she stepped out to check. “I actually signed up for this class as sort of a trial.” He extended a folded bill, just the amount for the hour they’d spent. “Uh… I reckon it’s not for me. And when I take over the afternoon shifts at the store, I won’t be able to come anyway. So…”

He trailed off, like he was waiting for her to say something, maybe expecting her to ask him to stay.

She didn’t.

Behind her, the door creaked faintly as Bucky leaned against it, watching without blinking.

Chris noticed.

He hesitated a beat longer, then gave her a faint smile. “Thanks, though. You’re a good teacher.”

Then he nodded once and turned, walking down the path without looking back.

----

The second she clicked the door shut, Bucky's body crowded her against it, suddenly and overwhelmingly. He rested his forearms flat to the wood, bracketing her head and pressing his chest flush to her back.

She barely had time to exhale before he clicked his teeth near her neck, a sharp little sound, half warning, half claim.

“I told you,” he said, low and gravelly.

“Bucky-”

“I told you.” His voice didn’t rise, but she could feel the restraint vibrating against her. “But I behaved.”

“Yeah, you did.” She tilted her head slightly, trying to look at him. “Thank you.”

“You don’t know…” His lips brushed the curve of her neck. Not a kiss, something rougher, hungrier. “…how hard it was not to-”

He bit back the rest with effort. Tear him apart. That’s what he wanted to say. But he didn’t.

“-hurt him. For defying me. For pretending to steal my mate.”

Her breath hitched as he dragged his nose on the shape of her throat.

"Well," she managed to breathe, "I'm not a thing to steal. I have a mind of my own. And I wouldn't-"

He growled, low and rough, deep in his chest. “Don’t twist my words, mate,” he murmured. “I’m talking about his intentions. There’s a reason he fled, and you know it. He came with a purpose and was informed you were taken.”

She shifted slowly until she could turn around and face him. His arms still caged her, but she maintained his gaze with something firm in hers.

“And do you think I’d just indulge him if he tried anything?”

“No,” he said, voice suddenly lower, darker. “But he wouldn’t even be able to try.”

His expression was lethal with certainty. Not rage, but possession. The kind forged from instinct, not ego. And yet, behind that hard glint, there was a flicker of something else.

“Is that why you came today?” she asked quietly. “To make sure he saw you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “He needed to understand. They needed to understand.”

She studied his face for a long, quiet second. There was no bluff in his attitude, just the rigid, primal edge of someone who’d grown up in a world where claiming something meant defending it with tooth and claws. Where lines were drawn in sand and blood, not conversation.

Her hand lifted slowly to his chest, resting just over his heart. “I know,” she said gently. “I know you come from something… older than all this. Something wilder. I don’t expect you to see the world like I do.”

His eyes searched hers, still stormy but no longer threatening.

“I know what it means to you. To protect. To claim. I’m not mocking that.” Her thumb brushed his shirt soothingly. “But in my world, it’s enough that I choose you. That I stand beside you, not behind.”

His brows twitched faintly. She tiptoed and pressed her forehead to his.

“You don’t have to prove anything.”

He exhaled through his nose, warm and shaky, and nudged his face along hers, nuzzling slowly like a creature trying to soothe himself.

“Still hated how he looked at you,” he mumbled, half-pouting, half-exhausted.

“I know,” she smiled. “But you were good. You kept your promise.”

She reached up and cupped his jaw, brushing the edge of his cheek.

“I understand,” she said softly, “I know your instincts are different. I know this is all... learned behavior for you.”

His eyes flicked over her face, searching, hungry, wild, restrained by the thinnest thread of discipline. His hands pressed at her waist, and for a moment, he didn’t speak, just breathed against her cheek.

“I hate not feeling you,” he muttered. “Not the way I should.”

“You’re here,” she murmured, dragging her fingers down the front of his shirt, feeling the heat of his body beneath it. “Isn’t that enough?”

“No,” he snapped, not cruel but desperate. “I need more of you.”

And before she could answer, he pressed her back harder against the door, finding the line of her throat with his mouth, trailing it with sharp kisses that teetered too close to biting. His hips pinned her in place, and his breath came fast, as his hands slid up to fist her hair.

“I don’t want to pretend I’m like them,” he growled into her skin. “I’m not. You know I’m not.”

“I don’t want you to pretend,” she stated. “I want you. However you come.”

His grip became tighter, and he kissed her like it hurt, like the human shape could barely contain the hunger that lived beneath it. But as her hands slid under his shirt, as her body arched into him, as she pulled him into her bedroom for the first time -not as a creature of sea and storm, but as a man- he began to discover something else:

She didn’t just feel different under human hands. She felt new.

And new could be dangerously good.

He didn’t wait for the bed.

His hands were already under her thighs, lifting her like she weighed nothing, softly tugging her back against the hallway wall. She gasped, gripping his shoulders, locking her legs around his waist without a second thought.

“Still strong,” she whispered, awed.

“Not even close to how strong,” he growled, mouthing at her collarbone, dragging his lips over the line of her neck, then lower. “But here, I don’t have to hold back the same way. I don’t have to think every time I touch you.”

His palms gripped her hips, tightly, almost bruising, like he was testing what he could take. What she could take. She moaned, shifting in his hold, and he felt it in his bones. Her need, her surrender.

“I could throw you over my shoulder,” he muttered against her chest, his breath hot through the fabric, “spread you open on that bed and not worry about your ribs snapping, or your hips dislocating.”

His words made her ache. She arched into him, dragging her hands through the messy ends of his hair.

“So do it.”

That earned her a sharp sound, deep in his throat. His fingers fumbled at her clothes, impatiently, not bothering with finesse. He wanted skin. Now.

She barely registered crossing the threshold of the bedroom before her back hit the mattress, and his weight followed, pressing her into the bed. Her clothes were half-off, half-wrung around her limbs, and he didn’t care. He peeled the rest away with single-minded focus.

His hands roamed through her body like he was learning her all over again. He gripped where he wanted, pushed and pulled where he pleased, not restrained like in the cave, no bracing or shifting weight around sensitive places. Just him. Human and hungry.

“I don’t have to measure how deep I go,” he rasped, nosing the edge of her shirt as his fingers tugged it up and over her chest. “Don’t have to think about your skin splitting when I grip you. Can go as far as I need to.”

“You’re still holding back,” she said, as his mouth trailed lower.

His gaze shot up to meet hers, with something feral simmering behind it.

“Not for long.”

He peeled her shirt the rest of the way off, dragging it over her head in one swift pull, then paused, and just stared.

His eyes dropped to her chest, and for a moment, he didn’t move.

It hit him harder than expected, that swell of hunger in his gut. Maybe it was the way she always kept her breasts covered here, wrapped in soft fabrics and loose sweaters. Maybe it was the contrast, the novelty of unveiling something she guarded in daylight.

His kind didn’t think twice about nudity. Breasts were just another part of the body. But hers…

Hers were warm and heated from his touch, and he couldn’t stop staring at the way they lifted with each breath. Full and soft and real beneath his hands. Something she showed only to him.

He sank lower, bracing one hand on her waist while the other cupped the weight of her breast, slowly dragging the thumb across the peak until it stiffened. He bent then, wrapping his hot mouth around her nipple, and groaned as she arched beneath him.

His hand slid to her other breast, kneading it gently, grazing it back and forth with his thumb until both were stiff and aching under his attention. He flicked his tongue, slow and deliberate, drawing another one of those sounds from her, breathy and sweet and just for him.

“Fuck,” he whispered, gently grazing his teeth before soothing the spot with his tongue.

She shivered when his mouth released her with a soft, wet sound. His breath was hot against her skin, his hands still roaming, still greedy. But she pressed her palm to his chest and pushed just slightly, enough to make him pause, confused.

"Take it off," she said, huskily. “Not fair, I’m the only one naked here.”

Bucky blinked, then growled low in his throat. "You want me naked, mate?" His smirk was all teeth.

She raised an eyebrow and started tugging at the hem of his shirt. “You’re in my house. Strip.”

He let her pull it over his head, lifting his arms to help as the soft cotton slid up his torso and his muscles flexed under her touch. She brushed her hands down his stomach and watched the way his breath caught when her fingertips ghosted past his waistband.

He worked on the button of his jeans, growling when her hand slipped inside before he could push them down. Her palm found him, hot and straining, and she cupped him fully, feeling him twitch against her skin.

Her eyes flicked up to his, and in that moment, he felt it. The flicker of surprise. The subtle widening of her gaze, like she’d just realized this part of him was still big.

His chest puffed just slightly, and pride flickered behind the hunger in his eyes.

“Surprised, little mate?” he rasped, and his voice tightened as she gave a slow stroke. “Even like this, I can still ruin you.”

And God, he wanted to.

“Lie down,” he muttered with intent. She obeyed, trailing her eyes over his body as he shoved the jeans down, revealing himself, broad, thick, and every inch of him tensed and aching.

He crawled between her legs, pushing her thighs open with a hungry sound in the back of his throat. No teasing smile, no patience in his gaze.

“I want to know what it feels like… like this,” he murmured, ghosting his fingers up her inner thighs. “Want to taste you without the sea on my tongue, without other senses.”

She shifted, but he pressed one large hand to her lower belly, firmly but not harshly. “Be still,” he said, voice low and trembling with control. “Let me learn you this way.”

Then he dipped his head and parted her with his tongue.

His mouth was greedy from the first stroke, his wide tongue dragged through her folds with a growl that vibrated deep into her pussy. He gripped her thighs tightly, pulling her closer, still pressing her belly down with his hand when she tried to arch. “Still,” he reminded, voice half-lost against her skin.

He licked slowly at first, savoring the difference, then faster, sloppier. The flat of his tongue worked her clit, again and again, and when he felt her twitch, he groaned and pushed two fingers inside her, slow but firm.

She gasped, and he felt that. No claws, no careful restraint this time. He could curl and stretch and press into her as deep as he wanted.

His jaw flexed as he fucked her with his fingers, tongue never leaving her. Every moan escaping her lips made his own hips buck down into the mattress, chasing friction like he couldn’t help himself. The rough fabric of the afghan grew damp beneath him, smeared with the thick mess he kept leaking, desperate.

When her thighs trembled and she sobbed his name, he pushed his fingers deeper, held her down firmer, and sucked harder around her clit. She came with a cry, clenching tight, and he groaned against her like it hurt him to feel it: his mouth, his fingers, his cock all aching for her.

But he didn’t move.

He stayed there between her legs, licking up every drop, dazed and possessive in the aftermath. He then rose onto his knees, chest heaving, his face still wet with her pleasure. His eyes -dark, glassy, starving- fixed on her like she was the only thing that mattered.

“Mine,” he rasped.

She barely caught her breath before he pushed her thighs open again and reached for his jeans, shoving them down the rest of the way. His cock sprang free, thick, flushed, slick already from how he’d rutted into the afghan. He grunted as he gripped the base, angling it toward her, dragging the head through her folds with a deep, shaking breath.

“You know I understand,” he said low, almost a growl. “I do. I try. But he came here to have you, and you welcomed him in.”

Her hands cupped his face, soft but firmly. “I welcomed him to learn, but I yielded to you.”

That was all it took.

He moved forward, driving into her in one thick, claiming push. She gasped as her body stretched around him, and he dropped his forehead to hers, breathing her in.

“So tight,” he gritted. “So wet for me.”

He started to move with deep thrusts that rocked her under him, gripping her hips with his strong hands, pulling her onto him as much as he pushed forward. His restraint frayed with every sound she made, every flutter of her walls around him. He wasn’t rough yet, but the need gauged at his body with every thrust.

“You were made for me,” he whispered. “Me. No one else. Say it.”

Her palm slid up to his cheek, brushing her thumb just under his eye. “No one else’s,” she whispered, her voice thick with pleasure. “Yours.”

A snarl tore from his throat as he pushed forward, wrapping his arms beneath her knees and pressing her thighs up toward her chest. She gasped, but didn’t pull back, and he felt it, that yielding in her body, that aching stretch as he pushed in again.

Deeper now. She was hot and tight and utterly his.

He folded her beneath him, slamming his hips into the cradle of her body, sheating his cock again and again with a ferocity he’d never dared to unleash in his true form. But now, this body could take her without holding back, could give without fear. The wet slap of skin filled the room, raw and primal, and her cries were swallowed by his mouth when he dipped down to kiss her, panting into her lips between thrusts.

She moaned against him, and he answered with a low, hoarse growl.

He shifted his angle, grinding deeply, and a sharp cry escaped her lips. That sound spurred him on, and he rammed in again, rougher, harder, relentless. His grip bruised her thighs as he kept them pinned, opening her wide to every inch of his cock.

The wet slide, the stretch, the heat, it all blurred into sensation. His jaw clenched tight, veins standing out on his neck, as his muscles trembled with the force he poured into her body.

“Say it again,” he panted, voice dark, nearly broken. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Bucky,” she breathed again, wrecked and barely coherent.

That was all it took.

He cursed, snapping his hips forward so brutally that it knocked the air from her lungs. Over and over, he thrust into her, shaking the mattress, shaking her, and all she could do was take it, moaning, trembling, completely at his mercy.

Her body welcomed it, wet and swollen, clenching greedily around him like it knew who he was. What he was.

His mate.

“You were made for me,” he snarled into her throat. “No one else -no one- will ever take you like this.”

He pushed her knees higher, angling deeper, folding her tighther beneath him. She sobbed his name, as her legs trembled in his grip, and her hands scrabbled for purchase across his back, his shoulders, anywhere she could hold on while he took her.

Every muscle in his body was straining, and sweat slicked his skin. He was so close. His hips stuttered for a beat, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not with her looking like that, heavy-lidded eyes, mouth open, hair fanned out wild on the sheets.

Her walls fluttered around him again, and he groaned, raw and desperate. “You gonna come again for me, mate? Let me feel it?”

She nodded -whimpered- and that was enough.

He slammed in, rougher and faster, grunting with each punishing thrust, grinding his pelvic bone against her swollen clit until she broke with a cry, digging her nails into his back, spasming around him. That was it. That was it.

He hissed and growled against her neck as he came, hips jerking out of rhythm, buried so deep he swore he could feel her heartbeat around him. Hot pulses of pleasure wracked his body, thick and heavy as he emptied himself inside her, claiming her all over again.

For a moment, all he could do was breathe -harsh, ragged- and hold her close, with their bodies still tangled, slick and messy and utterly spent.

She was his. Marked and filled and ruined for anyone else.

And he’d never let her forget it.

He stayed there, buried to the hilt, with his chest blanketing her folded body, breathing hotly and unevenly against her skin. Her body was still trembling -tight, spent, and slick beneath him- and he liked it. Liked how full she was. Liked the lazy drip of his seed where they were still connected, sliding warm and slow from where he’d emptied himself into her.

It made something primal in him snarl in satisfaction.

He leaned back just slightly, grasping her hips with his hands to keep her in place, and gazed down at the mess he’d made. Her thighs were marked with faint crescent moons where his fingers had gripped too tightly, and he smoothed over them possessively. Her sex glistened with his spent.

His.

Bucky lowered his mouth and gently sank his teeth into her inner thigh's softness. Not to hurt, just to brand. Just to taste. Her muscles jumped, and her hips gave a little involuntary twitch beneath his weight.

When she squirmed again, shifting like she meant to slide down or straighten out, he just pressed his pelvis more firmly against her, groaning softly as the movement coaxed a lazy twitch from his spent cock still nestled inside her.

No. Not yet. He liked this.

Liked her folded beneath him, open, yielding. Her skin heated and damp, her scent thick in the air, her breathing shallow. She felt so his like this. So utterly owned. He could do it again. Could flip her, press her into the mattress from behind, and take her like he’d seen some of the inland animals rut, gripping her hips and-

“I’m starting to not feel my legs, darling,” she murmured, hoarsely but teasing, her chuckle was a warm flutter against his throat.

It broke the trance.

He let out a huff of laughter, gruff and sheepish, then kissed the bite mark he’d left on her thigh. One last gentle nip for good measure before he finally -finally-eased out of her, careful even if he didn’t want to be. Not really.

He didn’t go far. Just enough to let her stretch out again, to rub the feeling back into her calves with his big hands while murmuring something low, half-feral, half-affectionate, against her skin.

But even then, his body was ready again.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

He should’ve been sated. By all logic -by how hard he came, how thoroughly he took her- his body should’ve been spent.

But it wasn’t.

He looked at her, splayed and soft, dreamy with satisfaction and leaking his seed down the swell of her thighs… and he throbbed with need all over again.

In his true form, it would take time. Her body would be too sore, too stretched. He’d need to soothe her, let her rest, cool the fever in his blood with a swim or a hunt beside her ministrations.

But this form… this dull, dry, two-legged skin… it was weak in many ways. Yet here he was, already hardening again, marveling at how her body didn’t seem to resist him.

Didn’t ache. Didn’t tremble too much. Just lay there, warm and willing.

Bucky leaned close, mouthing kisses between her breasts, then coaxed her with large, careful hands. A gentle tap to her hip. A nudge.

“Turn for me,” he murmured.

She gave a lazy, breathless chuckle, not opening her eyes. “What are you doing?”

He clicked his teeth right beside her ear and growled, “What does it seem I’m doing, mate?”

She let him guide her languidly, as he helped her roll onto her belly. He kissed down the curve of her back, dragging her hips up into place, then sat back on his knees to take in the sight.

Gods.

Her rear was high, thighs parted, and his seed a slow, glistening thread on her skin. His jaw flexed, a hunger flaring hot through his core. This view… this view would have killed him in the sea.

He shifted closer, guiding the head of his cock against her entrance, notching himself into place. The angle was different. New. Promising. He gripped her hips tighter.

And pushed in. Slow, savoring the slick resistance, the tight draw of her walls as she gasped and braced her hands against the mattress. The angle let him sink deeper -fuller- and he growled at the sensation, at how perfectly her body received him again.

Her thighs quivered. Her back arched.

“Fuck, Bucky-”

He didn’t answer. Just pulled out partway and slammed back in, snapping his hips forward with a wet slap. Her cry turned into a moan, as she clawed at the covers with her hands.

“This-” she gasped, barely able to get her breath between the hard rhythm he set. “Ah- where did you learn-”

“Dogs,” he grunted, leaning over her back, biting lightly at her shoulder. “In the summer.”

She let out something between a laugh and a whimper, as her body jolted forward when he thrusted particularly hard.

“This is -oh my god- mortifying.”

“You don’t seem mortified,” he growled, slapping into her again, making the mattress groan beneath them.

He was relentless now, driving into her, dragging her back with his hands into every thrust, mouth open against her spine, her nape, the curve of her shoulder. The scent of her arousal, his seed, her sweat, clung to their skin and flooded his senses. And she was dripping for him, making a mess of her thighs, the bedding, his cock.

“Mine,” he snarled into her skin, losing himself all over again in her warmth, her submission, the fact that she let him have her like this. “Say it again.”

“Yours,” she choked out, her breath catching as he rutted into her harder, rougher, almost punishing. “No one else’s. Yours.”

He buried himself to the hilt, growling loud enough that it vibrated against her back. “That’s right. Mine. My mate.”

He bent over her, flattening her to the mattress, heaving his chest against her back as he rolled his hips in tight, relentless thrusts, grinding his pelvis into her ass at the end of every push. Her thighs trembled. Her hands fisted the sheets.

The slick slap of skin against skin echoed between them, his heavy balls smacking against her clit with every drag and surge of his cock. She was soaked, dripping down her thighs, down his length, and every time he bottomed out, his seed leaked around the base of his cock and made a filthy, wet mess of them both.

She whimpered something that might’ve been his name. Or maybe just a sound, raw and mindless.

He bit her shoulder again. Not hard, not breaking skin. Just enough to state a claim.

“You feel this?” he snarled into her ear, rutting deeper, as if he could crawl into her body and stay inside her. “You feel how full you are with me, mate? This is what happens when another man thinks he can come near you. You get bred.”

She sobbed out a noise, clenching around him like her body couldn’t help it, and he lost it again.

His rhythm faltered, thrusts turning erratic. Her body milked him, needy and greedy, and he pushed in one last time with a guttural moan as he came in hot pulses, pressing his forehead between her shoulder blades, and his knuckles turning white while he gripped her hips.

He stayed there, panting hard against her sweat-damp skin, unmoving. Then, slowly, he let out a small groan and nuzzled her back, still buried to the root. Still thick and throbbing inside her.

She gave a tiny, dazed laugh. “Starting to not feel my legs again.”

He grunted. Didn’t move.

His hips gave the smallest twitch, already tempted again.

----

She lay sprawled over his chest, with her limbs draped boneless across his body like she’d melted there. Bucky was flat on his back, looking at the ceiling, as the rise and fall of his chest finally slowed.

"So- um," she began, her voice a little raspy from all the moaning and whining. "I take it you enjoyed doing it as a human?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just wrapped his arm tighter around her waist, pulling her even closer, as if he still didn’t want to let her go. Then he let out a long, slow breath and closed his eyes.

“It’s different,” he admitted. “It’s not- I can’t feel the same. Not like when I can taste you with my limbs. And the movements are limited.”

She tipped her head to look up at him, already smiling when he cracked one eye open to meet her gaze.

“But,” he went on, voice rough and low, “I don’t have to restrain myself like this. I don’t have to worry if I’ll break you. Or hurt you. I can be freer with what I want to do.”

“Well, look at that,” she murmured, with a teasing grin. “A positive thing you found for this form.”

“Also,” he added, giving her ass a firm squeeze, “I can finally do it all the times I want.”

She laughed against his chest, drawing idle patterns along the ridged scars scattered on his skin. “Speaking of that…”

Her finger stilled.

“You, um- don’t have a refractory period as a human?”

He frowned instantly, wrinkling his nose, clearly not liking the lack of something in the sexual department. “What is that?”

“Usually once you, erm, come… generally men have a period when they can’t get hard again. Could be minutes, could be hours.”

He made a thoughtful little grunt and turned his eyes back to the ceiling. “Don’t know. Never done this in this form before.”

But the smile that pulled at his mouth was anything but uncertain. It was smug. Lazy. Entirely satisfied. “Doesn’t seem like I need to worry about my aptitude, though.”

She groaned and hid her face in his chest.

He chuckled low and rough, clearly far too pleased with himself.

“It's not that bad,” he muttered, waving one hand in the air to gesture at the room. “This.”

She lifted her head just enough to watch his face.

“Still feels… weird. Incomplete.” His voice dropped as he exhaled. “But not like it did before.”

Her smile was soft, a little crooked. “You’re saying that because you got to have a lot of sex.”

He scowled. “I’m a healthy male with a mate. Of course I’ll have urges.”

“Hey,” she chuckled, “don’t pout. I was messing with you. I wasn’t criticizing.”

She brought her hand to his cheek, trailing the scruff along his jaw. “I’m glad you told me that. Makes me happy… that you don’t hate my world. That you’re more comfortable in it now.”

His expression softened slowly under her touch. His brow unfurrowed, though his mouth still held the hint of a sulk.

“I don’t hate it,” he said. “Did. For a long time.”

He looked around her room again. The pale morning was creeping in under the curtains. Her yarn stash, the quiet tick of the old wall clock in the living room. The calm.

“But not anymore,” he finished, his voice quieter now. “It’s still strange. But it’s where you are. That makes it… tolerable.”

She gave a soft laugh, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “High praise.”

“It is,” he insisted, though his tone was gentler now.

Then, after a beat, he added: “And the sex helps.”

That earned him a smack on the chest, and her laughter muffled against his skin.

She shifted a little, still tracing lazy circles near one of the older scars. The silence had turned warm and sleepy, interrupted only by the occasional creak of the old house.

“So, now that Chris won’t be coming to class anymore, I assume you lost the reason to check in or see how things are going.” She didn’t expect him to answer, not right away.

“What if I wanted to learn?”

That made her lift her head, arching her brows. “Wait. You? Crochet?”

He avoided her gaze, fixing his eyes on the ceiling with seriousness. “Seems interesting,” he muttered. “To create instead of destroying.”

That sobered her smile just a little.

“So it’s not so trifling, then?”

He turned his head to squint at her. “I already apologized about that.”

“I know. I’m sorry for bringing it up again,” she said gently, brushing her fingers through his hair at the temple. “Old habit. I’ll stop poking at you.”

He gave a grunt that meant he’d let it slide.

Then she added, softer, “I can teach you, if you want.”

He didn’t answer with words, just let his hand drift across her back in silent agreement. When he finally spoke, it was almost shy, which startled her more than any growl or sharp retort.

“Wouldn’t mind making something that’s only mine. That stays mine.”

“Right,” she murmured, her cheek still resting against his chest. “You told me your kind doesn’t really do possessions.”

He shifted a little under her, like he was debating whether to speak. Finally, he murmured, “I... I have some.”

That made her lift her head again with curiosity. “Really? What is it?”

He didn’t meet her eyes, slipping his gaze sideways toward the wall. “The… things you crafted me.”

Her heart nearly flipped in her chest. “Oh, Bucky. I thought you’d thrown them away,” she said softly. “Or that maybe they were ruined by the salt water.”

He shook his head once, firmly. “Hung them. In one of the cave’s alcoves. High up where they won’t get wet.”

A beat passed, and her smile widened. “That’s so romantic.”

He grunted. “Didn’t do it to be romantic.”

“I know,” she teased, leaning to kiss his cheek. “That’s what makes it romantic.”

He grumbled under his breath, but his arm curled tighter around her.

She brushed her fingers through his hair, absentmindedly. “I have to do some errands before the stores close,” she said. “Do you wanna come, or are you returning to the shore?”

That soured his expression immediately. His gaze narrowed slightly, and his mouth twisted as he pulled back just enough to look at her properly. Before he could speak, she added quickly, “Or you can wait here while I do them.”

“There is another option,” he muttered.

She arched a brow. “The things I need don’t do delivery,” she said, cutting him off before he could scheme.

“Don’t know what that is, and don’t care,” he grumbled.

His hand was already cupping her breast, circling her nipple with a slow, deliberate pressure of his thumb. “What if I make sure you’re so tired you can’t even walk out the door? Then you’ll stay here. With me. In your nest.”

“Bucky!” she laughed, trying and failing to sound indignant.

“Are those errands essential?” he asked, voice low near her ear. “Is it food you lack? Medicine?”

“Well, no, but-”

“Then they can wait,” he said, far too pleased with himself.

She gave him a look. One that was supposed to be firm, unamused. But her breath caught when his mouth brushed softly down her neck, and his thumb flicked over her nipple just a little harder this time.

“Bucky,” she tried again, more of a sigh now than a protest. “I have things to do…”

“Mhm.” His lips trailed lower, leaving a wet, warm path across her chest. “Like staying in bed. Resting. Letting me take care of you.” His tongue circled her nipple now, slowly and reverent, then sucked it gently into his mouth.

She gasped, “I mean it.”

“You say that,” he murmured against her skin, “but you’re not stopping me.”

She huffed a soft laugh, arching into his mouth. “I was trying to.”

“Try harder, mate,” he challenged, grinning against her breast. Then he switched sides, giving the other the same attention, greedy, focused, as though he’d missed them terribly in the short span since he last worshipped her.

She could feel him hard again, pressing against her thigh. Her legs shifted slightly, just enough to part for him, to welcome him without a single word.

He caught the motion, and his eyes darkened as a crooked smirk tugged at his lips.

“Thought so,” he murmured.

And as his mouth found hers again, slow and claiming, the rest of the world -the errands, the daylight, the clock ticking somewhere in the distance- ceased to matter. Nothing mattered but the warmth of the sheets tangled around their legs and the thrum of her heart syncing to the rhythm he wove between their bodies.

FIN

Taglist: @civilbucky @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @x-press-it @the-voice-beckons-below @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira @lazyneonrabbitt @vxllys @namjoohnie @sebastians-love @misspendragonsworld @thewriters64 @escapefromrealitylol @hi172826 @wintrsoldrluvr @reddesires @ruexj283 @buckvoidsyy @littlesuniee @kimberly-stocks @pandaxnienke @ladypncl @homiesexuallaj @kulteule @awesompawsum @killerwendigo @princessgriffin1998 @helen-2003 @nynxtea @alagalaska @maryevm @kittieboo @otterlycanadian @queergalpal97 @gentlelimerence @moogles93 @tentacle-priestess @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @lemonylover

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[stagtorccio]

please be rude

lottie matthews x gp!reader

request: x summary: Lottie's been off since the crash. You've got a running theory as to what's making her act out. rating: explicit, 18+ warnings: implied established relationship, porn with feelings, penetrative sex, girl penis reader (thanks anons), brat lottie renaissance, probably unsafe sex but it's fictional, (brief) fingering word count: 3.2k author's note: i know i know i know the header image is a season 3 screenshot but this takes place in season 1. in my head. please keep that in yours for maximum enjoyment <3

[AO3]

𓃢𓃦𐂂 ── .✦

You’re fairly certain Lottie Matthews has never gone untended for very long in her life. Not really, anyway.

Never a bruise left without a bandage. Never a craving unanswered, never a cut left to scab. Even now, stranded and filthy and mosquito-bitten, hair tangled as hell and half-starved most days like the rest of you, she carries herself like someone will look after her, sooner or later. 

Your hypothesis, your grand theory, is that this is why she’s been such a fucking asshole lately.

Sulking around the cabin. Picking fights that don’t need picking. Taking your things and then daring you to make her give them back, and when you do, she just laughs, utterly pleased with herself. 

At first, you’d chalked it up to stress. Called it cabin fever, as morbidly on-the-nose as it was. But the last time she teased you in front of everyone, she bit her lip the second you snapped back. 

It clicked then, sort of like kindling catching. That for some reason, she wants you angry. Wants your attention and doesn’t care how she gets it.

Today, it’s while you’re hauling water from the lake, arms slick with sweat, jaw tight from a full morning of silent effort. Van's helping you boil it in a dinky pot that never stays level, and Lottie— 

Well, Lottie isn’t being very helpful at all. 

She’s leaning on a stump nearby, legs crossed at the knee. When you mutter something about needing more hands and fewer onlookers, you hear the faintest scoff. You think you feel your eye twitch— which you thought, up until now, only happened in Saturday morning cartoons. 

“Careful, you’re spilling,” Lottie comments, mostly innocuous, but it irks you regardless.

“Maybe because I could use some help,” you snark back, setting the bucket down a little too forcefully. It sloshes onto your shoe like some sort of karmic deliverance. 

She does move to help you, eventually. With the same kind of theatrical sigh someone might use when they’re asked to actually do the thing they were trying to avoid. She crouches beside you, scoops up the handle of the next water bucket with a little more attitude than necessary.

The two of you walk in silence for a while.

The path down to the lake is worn now, familiar. Mud sun-hardened, branches cleared by the group’s repetition. Your boots crunch over dry pine needles and damp leaves, and behind you, you can hear Lottie’s steps following in sync. 

She keeps bumping into you, shoulder brushing yours, like she can’t quite figure out how much space she wants. She doesn’t apologize. You try not to snap.

The trees part near the bottom of the hill, and the lake stretches out in front of you, glassy and still in the midday heat, rimmed with cattails and buzzing crowds of mosquitoes.

You set the buckets down by the shore and roll up your sleeves. Lottie crouches nearby and watches you for a moment, arms looped loosely around her knees.

You feel her eyes flick toward you, then away, then back again.

Something in her still isn’t sitting right.

You glance over at her. The sunlight’s catching on her cheekbones, her collarbone, the sharp line of her shoulders under her tank top. Her mouth is set in that same stubborn pout it always falls into when she’s trying not to say something.

You want to ask what’s really going on. But you don’t. 

You just get up with your full bucket and start walking. Lottie follows suit. The trek back to the cabin is filled with more of that tense, sticky, unbearable silence. By the time you make it there, sweat is beading at your temples and the tension feels so tightly wound you’re sure one of you will explode soon. 

And then it happens. Lottie fumbles her bucket just as you both reach the fire, water surging toward the rim like it’s ready to escape and drench poor, unsuspecting Mari. 

“Careful—” you gasp, hand flying out to steady it instinctively. 

“I know,” she snaps, jerking it upright before you reach it.

You both freeze.

She sets the bucket down and backs away from it like it might bite her. You watch her jaw work, her breath come faster. She scrubs a hand down her face, agitated, then across the back of her neck like she can’t shake off the heat or the frustration or both.

“You okay?” you ask, tentative.

Lottie lets out a breath. “Fine. It’s fine.”

Her voice is brittle and fast. The kind of fine that’s meant to shut you up. The kind that means the exact opposite of fine.

You study her now. The stiff set of her shoulders, the way she won’t quite meet your eyes. Lottie, who never really hides anything, not well. Not from you.

You reach out. “C’mere,” you murmur, gesturing in some vague direction– anywhere away. 

She lifts her head, wary. “Why?”

You keep your voice low, eyes cutting to the rest of the girls, but they seem preoccupied.

“Because I want to actually talk about this.” 

Lottie hesitates. Long enough to pretend like she might say no. 

Then, she mutters a resigned, “Fine.” 

It’s a small victory. 

You take her deeper into the woods. Not far. Just out of sight of the others. Where the air is cooler, the sunlight slants differently, and there’s the illusion of privacy, at the least. 

Lottie leans against a tree, arms crossed. Still prickly. Still pretending this isn’t about anything in particular. 

“Lottie,” you say softly.

“I’m alright,” she replies, but she doesn’t sound sure. She just sounds like she’s trying to convince you– or maybe convince herself.

“But you’re not.”

She huffs. But she doesn’t deny it. Her eyes flick up, then away. 

Then, quietly, like a confession: “I don’t know. I’m… frustrated.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

She exhales through her nose. “It’s like—" she starts, then falters. “Like my skin doesn’t fit right. Like something's too much. In here.”

She gently touches her fingers to her sternum, skimming the pads of them over the fabric of her top with a creased brow, as if she’s actualizing herself in real time.

“Everyone is… too close. And you—”

That catches you off guard. “Me?”

She licks her lips. Looks you dead in the eye, for once. 

“You make it worse.”

You flinch. Just a little, because fucking ouch. But she’s already stepping forward, shaking her head.

“Not like that,” she murmurs. “You just— we never have any time alone anymore—”

She cuts herself off again, jaw flexing, and that’s when you notice it. The flush creeping up her throat. Spreading across her cheeks, blooming high on her ears. Like she can’t believe she just said that out loud. Like maybe it wasn’t supposed to come out like that.

Hypothesis proven, you suppose.

You let the silence hang just long enough for her to get nervous, fidgety. Then:

“Lottie Matthews,” you murmur, a smile tugging at your lips, “are you telling me you’ve been a jackass because this whole time, you wanted me alone?”

She looks away, but she doesn’t step back. “I didn’t say it like that...”

“No,” you agree, “you didn’t. You’re just terrible at asking for what you want.”

She swallows. “I know.”

You step into her space, close enough that your fingers brush the hem of her shirt, just light enough to tease. 

“It’s okay,” you murmur, voice soft. “Maybe just… tell me next time?”

She looks at you like a deer in headlights, eyes huge, then grabs you by the collar and kisses you. 

It’s teeth and salt and heat, the kind of kiss that feels like a devouring. Like she’s been wanting to do it for days– which she probably has.

There's a moment where she pulls back, as if stunned by her own want.

"Sorry, I just—"

You shake your head.

"Don't be."

And then your back hits the tree. Her hands are in your hair. Yours are gripping her waist, guiding her forward, chasing the friction–

She lets out a surprised breath. So do you, because you’re goddamn embarrassed. It wasn’t supposed to happen this fast. You’ve barely kissed her and your body has already decided to betray you.

Lottie stills. Just for a second. Then shifts away just enough to throw a purposeful glance down to the straining fabric of your shorts, voice catching on a laugh.

“Oh,” she says, delighted. “Really?”

You want to melt into the tree. “Shut up.”

She grins. “No, no, I mean—” She rolls her hips just slightly, just to feel it again, and a shiver crawls up your spine. “It’s cute.”

Your hands flex at her waist. “Don’t call it cute...”

“Then what?” she murmurs, pressing closer again, her voice dropping. Her mouth brushes your jaw now, lips warm and teasing. “... Hot?”

You groan. “Lottie.”

“Sorry,” she laughs, breathless, surprised at herself once more.

You kiss her again. Harder, this time. Your hands thread into her hair and tug just enough to make her gasp. Her own are under your shirt now, fingers skating along your ribs. You’re both panting, sweating, giggling between kisses. 

You barely register the bark scraping your back, the dirt under you, the heat coiling low in your spine. All you feel is her. Her breath, her mouth, the soft drag of her body against yours as the rhythm builds.

She grinds down again, and this time, the sound you make is loud. Lottie exhales against your neck, half-laugh, half-gasp, and you can feel her smiling when she presses a kiss just beneath your jaw. Soft, warm, absolutely fucking maddening.

“Shit,” you whisper, “you’re— fuck.”

She hums, pleased, almost smug. But when she looks at you again, she’s flushed and bright-eyed, her lips kiss-bruised. 

Her fingers go to your belt. You freeze for just a second, startled, but she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t say anything. She just starts to undo it, slow, almost shy. Fumbling, her hands shaking.

You grab her wrist. Not to stop her. Just to ground yourself. Her eyes flick up to meet yours. Waiting for you to tell her yes or no.

You nod. Barely. That’s all she needs.

The buckle slips free. The button pops open. She lets out a breath like she’s been holding it for hours. Her hands slip lower, toying with the waist of your boxers. She hesitates, then curls her fingers underneath, knuckles grazing your stomach as she drags the fabric down.

You bite your lip. Your hips lift, helping her, or maybe just needing her. And then you’re bare to the air, flushed and embarrassingly hard against her palm. 

Lottie exhales through a grin, wide-eyed with something close to awe.

“God,” she murmurs, fingers curling loosely around you. Her voice is low, warm, like it’s a secret she’s thrilled to uncover. She gives you a gentle stroke and watches the way your mouth falls open.

You kiss her again, slower now, one hand skimming up under the back of her shirt, palm flattening against the warm curve of her spine. The other drifts down. Fingers brushing the band of her shorts. You tug at it once, a teasing little pull, then glance up at her, a wordless question.

She nods fast, maybe too fast, but you don’t move right away. You drag slow fingertips across her stomach, reveling in the way the muscles jump under your touch. When you slip your hand further down, brushing where she’s already wet, her whole body jolts forward. She buries her face in your shoulder to mask a noise suspiciously close to a whimper.

“Jesus,” you murmur, “you’ve been like this all day?”

She nods against your neck. “Could we just—”

“Yeah. We can.”

You hook your fingers in her shorts and ease them down over her thighs, her briefs coming with, damp and clinging, pulled past her knees in a rush. You're kissing her jaw as you go and she shudders, legs twitching when the air hits her.

You sit back just enough to look at her. Really look. Her cheeks are flushed deep, her lips kiss-swollen, her pupils so wide the brown of her eyes is almost gone.

“Don’t stare,” she murmurs, smiling even as she says it. “It’s embarrassing.”

“I’m not allowed to look?” you ask, grinning. “I thought you wanted my attention.”

That earns you a full-body blush. She laughs, breath hitching, and swats at your arm. You catch her hand and kiss her knuckles. 

“Come here.”

You guide her gently down, easing her back onto the pine-needle-soft earth. She giggles as her elbow sinks into a patch of moss, adjusting herself with one leg cocked, already open for you without thinking. Her hair fans wild beneath her, and her hands flutter, unsure of where to go— your shoulders, your chest, your hips— like she’s wanting all of you at once.

Her thighs part further to welcome you in, and your bodies fit in that fumbling way, hot skin to hot skin, breath to breath. There’s a beat of quiet where you both just look at each other, pressed close, trembling, grinning like fools.

“Okay,” Lottie breathes after a moment, a smile still curling her lips. “You can— if you want to, I mean. I’m ready.”

You nudge your nose against hers. “Yeah?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

So you press into her slowly. Carefully. The world narrows to the sound of her breath catching, her thighs tightening around you, her mouth falling open in a gasp. And when her eyes find yours again, wide and wet, you feel her everywhere.

You still, giving her a moment, your forehead pressed to hers. Her breath fans across your lips, fast and shallow. Her eyes flutter shut, then open again like she doesn’t want to miss a damn second of this.

“You okay?” you whisper.

She nods. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

You shift a little deeper and she exhales like the air got knocked out of her. That sound’s going to haunt you for a few days, surely. 

Her back arches just slightly, hips tilting to meet you. It’s messy, ungraceful, bodies slick with sweat and effort. But it works. By God, does it work. Your skin sticks where it touches hers: the inside of her knee brushing your waist, the curve of her calf against the back of your thigh. Her hands slide down your back, nails dragging lightly, coaxing out shivers.

Each movement is tentative at first. Then again. And again. Until it isn’t so shy anymore.

Lottie moans low in her throat– startled first, then thrilled. Her laughter catches somewhere inside it, and she hides her face in your neck.

“You feel so—” she starts, then gives up on words altogether. Just breathes and moves.

You match her pace, slow and careful, but the friction’s maddening. Every shift drives a little more sound from her. Every grind of hips has you biting your lip. Your hand slips between you and you find her clit with your thumb, slick and swollen and aching for attention. 

She jerks against you with a strangled gasp. “Oh, fuck.”

The idea of Lottie Matthews having such a filthy mouth makes you laugh out loud. You circle your fingers gently, teasing just the lightest pressure, and she whines, her whole body twitching.

“Good?” you murmur, fingers sliding a little firmer now, just enough to make her hips stutter.

She makes a high, breathless sound. “Yes,” she sighs. “Just— please don’t stop.”

You don’t. You angle your hand, thumb gliding to press in tighter circles as your hips meet hers again, deeper this time. She’s falling apart already, thighs shaking, nails digging into your shoulder.

“God,” she breathes, voice cracking. “You’re gonna make me—”

You kiss her, quieting her with your mouth, swallowing every gasp and curse. Her body tenses, then trembles, thighs locking around your hips, walls pulsing around you as she comes hard against your hand, against you.

The pull of it– that tight, dragging heat– breaks you. That rubber band inside you snaps. You let out a low groan as you spill into her, hips twitching once, twice, your hand still caught between you as the last aftershocks rip through you both.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Just breath and sweat and silence. Her head pressed to your shoulder, your cheek against her temple, both of you boneless and slick, hearts pounding in time. 

Lottie strokes a hand down your spine, slow and absent. Touch that’s not about sex, not anymore– just reassurance. She hums, soft and content. Muffled against your skin. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs eventually, voice still shaky.

You laugh. You can’t help it. It bubbles up, warm and stunned. “Of course.”

She spreads her legs to let you pull away, winces a little at the mess between you, then slumps back again with a whimpering giggle. “Gross.”

You hum in agreement, eyes fluttering shut as you rest against the tree. A breeze moves through the trees overhead. Sunlight filters down in sleepy patches. You hold her like that for a long time, damp and tangled and peaceful.

Lottie shifts, nuzzles her face into the crook of your neck with a small, satisfied sigh. “We should head back soon.”

You snort. “Oh, now you’re eager to do chores.”

She laughs, tired and light, the sound buzzing gently against your collarbone. “Just trying to avoid the gossip.”

You kiss her hair. “They’ll talk anyway.”

“True,” Lottie mumbles. “At least it was worth it.”

You both linger a moment longer, reluctant to move. The ground is uneven, your limbs are half-asleep, and your clothes are… in an unfortunate state. But there’s something soft here. Settled.

Eventually, Lottie sighs and pushes up on her elbows, grimacing as she pulls her underwear back into place. “Well. We’re disgusting.”

“Speak for yourself.”

She gives you a look— irritated yet fond— and reaches down to help you fix your belt with trembling fingers. Her hands linger at your waistband a touch too long. You don’t mind.

Once you’re both mostly decent, you gather your scattered minds and try not to think about how you’re going to walk back into camp looking freshly ruined.

You glance over as Lottie runs a hand through her hair, fails to tame it, and sighs like she’s given up entirely.

“I look like I got mauled by a bear,” she says dryly.

You grin. “Was the bear hot?”

“Mhm,” she hums, tilting her head like she’s remembering. “She was gorgeous.”

Your face warms immediately. Lottie sees it, of course she does, but pretends not to, biting her lip like she’s trying to hold back a smile. Seven different ways to call her an asshole come to mind, but before you can pick one, she leans in and kisses you again. Quick and sweet, just because she can.

Then, quieter, her voice muffled against your shoulder:

“You’re not still mad at me, right?”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t mad at you in the first place.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, something soft in her eyes. Relief, maybe a touch of surprise. That smile blooms again, fuller this time. Uninhibited.

You reach for her hand. She takes it without hesitation. Together, you start the walk back through the trees, sore, sticky, still laughing, and already missing the moment.

[unluckilyimnot]

“My girl looks so pretty tonight” Yelena x fem!reader

A man hit on reader during a gala

post-thunderbolts, jealous/protective yelena, ~1k

From this list

Note: not my best work but it's still cute I think. Imma do one with bucky for sure

masterlist

Yelena wasn’t sorry for showing up almost an hour late, but she was sure Valentina already found a wonderful excuse for her late entrance. She was kind enough to wear the black dress when she really wasn’t in the mood. It was really tight, clinging to her skin despite the small on her ribs and on the side of her leg. Some of the sewing around her neck scratched her skin uncomfortably and she wasn’t exactly happy about the heels, but at least her arms were free from any fabric. She had to admit she looked good in it.

Walking inside with a not so good faux-smile, she didn’t wait a second before she grabbed a flute of champagne and started wandering around the huge ballroom, looking for her teammates. She hadn’t seen you nor Ava all day, she wondered where you’ve been. Ava doesn’t show up much in the first place, but you happened to linger around the common room more, mostly to keep Bob company. She missed your face and the way you murmured along to the song you’re listening to on the couch so without really realizing it, she went looking for you first.

Her eyes fell on Ava first, she was hard to miss since she couldn’t really leave her suit, but she still looked pretty. Her hair was well done and she had some makeup on, just enough to make her gaze deeper than it already was and her lips sharper. Yelena smiled her way when they made eye contact and she stopped by a second to greet her and the guests she was talking to. She wasn’t the best at it but did her best, yet it was written all over her face that she just wanted to leave already.

“Have you seen y/n ?” Yelena asked quietly in her ear, still following the conversation the best she could. Ava nodded behind Yelena.

“She’s stuck with that guy for at least fifteen minutes, please help her out,” she said as quietly before taking part in the small talk again, leaving her space to leave.

Yelena’s jaw clenched when she saw the way the man looked at you, eyes roaming over your body like it belonged to him. The dress was amazing for sure, exposing your chest just enough so it wouldn’t be considered vulgar, the front of the skirt cut prettily so the long back fell perfectly behind you and let’s not get started on the beautiful and puffy long sleeves. You were breathtaking, and she really hated that he could see it as well.

With a confident walk, enough so that nobody tried to stop her to ask stupid questions, she successfully arrived beside you and wrapped a protective arm around your waist. Your face lightened when you saw her coming, a beautiful smile finally showing up and she saw that, for a second, he thought it was for him.

“My girl looks so pretty tonight,” she said calmly, leaving a kiss on your cheek along with a small lipstick stain. “Don’t you think ?” she turned his way, staring at him intently, enough to make him shift and fix his tie.

“She is yes,” he said a little too quickly for her liking. His eyes still lingering on her body, but now also checking her out and she definitely didn’t want to know what was going on in his sick mind.

“If you’ll excuse us, our Boss is looking for her.” Yelena smiled at him before guiding you quickly away from him, her expression shifting instantly to a frown. “For god’s sake why was he nasty like that,” she spat not even a few steps away, but still making as much space between you and him.

You laughed sadly at her, obviously not having any answer to give her, but really loving the way her hand never left your waist as you made your way among the crowd. When she finally stopped in a corner with fewer people, you smiled at her, laying a hand on her waist as well where her skin was exposed, trying to make it more casual than it looked, as you held your empty flute in the other hand.

“Thank you, Lena, you saved me there,” you giggled, not missing the way the frown disappeared from her face.

“Next time just go to the bathroom, oh my god,” she groaned, her accent thick in annoyance as she rolled her eyes.

“I’d rather have you coming to rescue me,” you said softly as you pushed your nose into her cheek. A smirk formed on her lips.

She shifted closer to your face until her lips brushed against your ear. “I’d rather keep you by my arm all night.”

Your cheeks flushed at her words, you felt suddenly hot as her breath lingered a second around your neck, making your breath hitch in your throat. You played it cool, giggling while you looked away, not believing it. She’ll be the death of you if she keeps flirting like that. When you dared looking back in her pretty green eyes, you knew it was something she said without meaning it. It was a promise. A dumb smile bloomed on your lips and you leaned closer into her.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” you confessed, holding her fingers as they fell off your waist a few minutes ago. She scoffed quietly, before shaking her head.

She grabbed your waist again as she realized you two have been away far too long for it to look acceptable. You didn’t want Valentina to nag all the way back to the tower, but her hand never left your waist or arm for the rest of the night. Even if there were annoying people around, it was way more bearable with Yelena holding you protectively, leaning on seductively to whisper in your ear from time to time – even if it was just nonsense, it made them talk.

Valentina would rather have to deal with rumors of them dating than not seeing them around any gala, right ?

Let me know if you liked it !

[guiltyandashamed]

headcannons: you're under the weather

Whether if it was from being overworked by the 7 brothers, the Devildom's particular climate and mid-season chills, or just plain old human fragility, you were sick. This is how the 7 brothers notice, react, and take care of you, even if they don't have the whole day to dedicate to your wellbeing.

(I'm trying the whole 'you' narrative style. Lmk how it goes)

Lucifer

Lucifer is the type to notice before you even admit you’re sick. He’s attuned to shifts in behavior—less appetite, fewer words, slower movements. Even if he's buried in paperwork or preparing for a meeting with Diavolo, he’ll pause long enough to brew a pot of perfectly steeped herbal tea and leave it on your nightstand with a handwritten note: Rest. You’ll be no good to yourself—or anyone—otherwise.

He checks in throughout the day under the guise of needing something, but always with a cool hand to your forehead and a silent reassessment of your condition. He pretends not to hover. He absolutely hovers.

Mammon

Mammon panics at first. “What?! You’re sick?! Since when?!” He sounds more offended than concerned, but he’s already tossing blankets into a pile and ordering you to lie down. He’ll cancel his shoot or skip class without telling anyone, opting to sit at the edge of the bed watching over you like a poorly disguised guard dog.

Despite pretending he’s just “being nice,” he quietly swipes medicine from Satan, texts Asmo for skincare-safe tissues, and buys your favorite snacks. If you drift off mid-conversation, he mutters, “Jeez, you better get better soon, or I’m not gonna sleep either.”

Leviathan

Levi doesn’t know what to do at first. His brain goes to worst-case scenarios. But after pacing around and googling symptoms, he brings a tablet loaded with anime, tea, and a pile of blankets. He’ll stay just far enough away not to catch it but close enough to murmur, “I made you a watchlist. All comfort stuff. No heartbreak.”

He checks in by sending you DMs when you're apart, sometimes just sending cat memes or in-game currency he spent hours farming for you. If you were gonna be laid up in bed, might as well, he thought.

If you call for him, he’ll mask his worry behind a hoodie and rush in with a muttered, “Don’t die, normie. I’d be mad.”

Satan

Satan handles illness methodically. He brings books—soothing poetry, mystery novels, anything to distract—and explains the medicinal properties of the teas he brings. He wipes down your room with enchanted cloths to purify the air and keeps the temperature just right.

Even when he’s busy, he’ll enchant pages to read themselves aloud to you or write small notes in margins like: Don’t strain your eyes. I’ll quiz you later.

When you can’t sleep, he’ll sit by the bed, reading aloud in a steady, low voice that always somehow makes you drift off mid-chapter.

Asmodeus

Asmo comes in dramatically, gasping, “My poor baby, look at you!” But under the sparkle is genuine care. He brings silk-soft tissues, eucalyptus balm, and a humidifier set to glow in soft pinks. Even when he has modeling gigs or salon appointments, he finds time to sit at your bedside, painting your nails or playing with your hair to keep you relaxed.

He hums lullabies while dabbing your forehead and insists you stay in bed while he handles everything. “No, no—being fabulous can wait. You’re my top priority."

Beelzebub

Beel notices when you’re too quiet to eat. That’s when he knows something’s wrong. He brings soups—handmade, nutritious, sometimes bizarre Devildom ingredients but always filled with effort.

Even during his tough sports seasons, or after a long shift at Hell’s Kitchen, he comes back with warm food and a clean towel for your forehead. He sits beside you, large frame a quiet comfort, sometimes offering a bite to encourage you to eat.

If you fall asleep with his hand in yours, he doesn’t move, even if his legs go numb. “You can hold on,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay ‘til you’re better.”

Belphegor

Belphie is surprisingly perceptive when you're sick. He’ll tease you with a sleepy smile—“You finally caught a real excuse to sleep all day, huh?”—but he’s already tucking you in tighter.

He climbs into bed with you, back-to-back or arm around their shoulder, and mutters that shared body heat is good for recovery. Even when he has council meetings or errands for Lucifer, he sneaks naps in with you between responsibilities.

He hums soft tunes, drapes his favorite blanket over you, and grumbles when you try to get up. “Just nap with me, will you? You'll wake up feeling better."

[lupically]

#150036 | SAKURA. SUO. NIREI.

genre | meet-cute, (minor) humor

word count | 2885

warning | mention of blood / apologies for potential ooc / reader centric

note | i am an anime watcher (also have not finished haha) i thought a lucky person syndrome would be funny

a lonesome bandaid must have fallen from the medicine cabinet into your bag, or you had used up all but one bandaid from your previous first aid pouch, and it decided to linger in your bag for months.

either way, what a fortunate coincidence that on your first tour into makochi, you found the little girl who was reported missing only a few minutes ago with a wound on her knee.

"she scraped her knee, so i gave her a bandaid," you said, lowering your tone to appear dismissive so the boy would overlook your initial bafflement upon seeing his heterochromia and split hair.

"i found her behind a tree at the playground about four blocks down. a squirrel happened to run by and startled her, or else i would have never known she was there."

the boy regarded you with suspicion, or discomfort. he didn't look hostile, and his outstanding eyes were suppressed from fidgeting by constantly darting off to the side as you spoke.

a chest grumble barely sounded from him, almost as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn't, and his inability was a product of unwillingness rather than a congenital emotional condition.

standing behind him was a boy wearing an eye patch and an identical jacket. one of his eyes was covered, but his gaze held more subtle pressure than anyone staring at you with both eyes.

noticing sakura's reluctance to provide gratitude, he stepped up politely and smiled. "thank you so much! you're a lifesaver!"

"actually, i don't think i've seen you around town before?"

you raised a brow at the sudden appearance of a shorter boy, and then they furrowed when you couldn't tell if he had freckles. trailing your eyes up, you found it surprising that you didn't catch sight of him first when his hair was of such a bright blond color.

"they must be new, nirei," suo mused. he pointed down at your hand. "they have luggage with them, after all."

nirei looked down. as suo mentioned, sitting next to you was a brand new carry-on that, unbeknownst to him, had been used for years. somehow, your luggage never stains, scratches, or breaks; it's nothing short of a miracle!

he panicked and fumbled about before resorting to closing his hands together before his chin and apologizing for questioning you before making an observed decision.

"don't worry about it. you didn't get it wrong anyway. you haven't seen me around town before." you scratched your head awkwardly. the range of emotions shown (or not shown) by the three of them threw you off. "i was just heading home, so if there's nothing else, i will take my leave."

"a–ah! yes! of course!" nirei bowed. "welcome to makochi!"

"thanks," you said. "take care."

you departed without hearing a single word from one of their mouths. not that you minded, though. you understand some people do not take well to strangers.

continuing with your excursion through makochi as you made your way to your new apartment, where you managed to haggle the rent prices down just enough for it to suit your liking, you realized a few things.

one, compared to the city, the town shared a harmonious silence you did not anticipate enjoying so much. there were more sounds of bikes ringing than engines humming, and the atmosphere was less crowded and intrusive because fewer people were taking up the streets.

however, even in a town, you can't escape narrow alleyways and trash flying around corners.

two, most townsfolk were friendly! it wasn't to a point where strangers would greet you on the street, but most were helpful with directions and food recommendations. some even welcomed your return after hearing you were moving in.

it was likely a business tactic, but something was better than nothing!

three, the green and black jackets. the previous group of three was not the first group you saw wearing that jacket. when you entered the town, the first person you sought directions from wore an identical jacket. later, you noticed a group of them being gifted free food from a restaurant. you assumed it must be a school uniform, but somehow, it was the only uniform you've seen so far.

it was almost as if no other schools existed around the area.

every student you see wearing the uniform is a boy, too. all the reasonable possibilities (which was only one) pointed towards it being an all-boys school, which wasn't too much of an issue. you just weren't too keen on attending a school like that at the moment, even though with your lucky streak, some rules would have been bent for that to be allowed.

you could always take up the college offers (which was only one).

"at least the neighborhood is friendly," you whispered.

"hey, you!"

you stopped and widened your eyes after you turned around to find a group of men blocking the wrong way of your path. you hummed, wondering if you'd spoken too soon about the condition of the neighborhood.

"hey, me?" you questioned.

"yeah, you!" he asked, his voice a constant holler. "who else could it be?"

you pretended to look around, then scanned the men standing around him before gesturing towards them with a brief sweep of your arm. "four men are standing around you."

"oi!" another one—he has a beanie, and his hands shoved in his pockets—stepped up. "someone is being a smart ass!"

"okay...?" you scrunched your nose with displeasure. their rudeness blew straight past your head when all it occurred to you was that they made little to no sense.

"we saw you talking to bofurin just now!" the leader, you assumed, regained his spotlight by snapping the accusation. "what's your business with them?"

you pursed your lips. the town was putting your brain to work, that's for sure!

you talked to more than three people since you arrived, but you barely learned anything about them, so it wasn't possible to place 'bofurin' to a face.

you tried the method of elimination. it couldn't have been the little girl. you couldn't imagine why anyone would have issues with school boys, so you counted the three out. you learned the coffee shop owner's name to be kotoha, so it wasn't her.

"i don't know who bofurin is."

"you don't know what bofurin is?"

"oh, it's a 'what'?" you snapped your fingers as if that was helpful information. if anything, it was more confusing.

"what was the name again? sakura?"

"ah, sakura!" you slammed a fist to your palm.

it was the little girl, after all. this was a real breakthrough; these people gave you an actual name! they should have mentioned that earlier, talking about some 'bofurin' or whatever as if you were local enough to understand.

"are you her father?" you asked.

"huh?" his voice was boisterous and impatient. stepping forward to be closer to you, possibly as an intimidation tactic, but you couldn't tell; he said, "What are you mumbling about?"

you grimaced with a faint pout hanging on your lips. your next sentence was a soft complaint, "i didn't... mumble."

either way, his reaction was not up to par for a father whose daughter went missing. you had your suspicions, considering how they showed up in a group. however, you wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt that they were just friends helping to look for a missing child.

she didn't appear to have an issue with the boys you just met either, so if anything needs to be done further, these men should take it up with the police. you have decided to seal your altruism until you get home.

"look, sorry i can't help you, but i don't have all day, so i'm leaving," you said. "good luck with whatever you're trying to do."

you didn't give yourself a chance to see their response, or else you would be compelled to continue the conversation. despite the man yelling after you, you ignored him and continued walking.

clutching the handle of your luggage, you clicked your tongue when you felt a sudden lump of uneven weight, possibly caused by the uneven group and the handle being stuck in place.

you tried to fix it by barely shifting its weight. when it didn't work, you rolled your eyes and turned around while your arm swung to readjust the wheels.

"woah!"

you jumped back in shock when someone brushed past you in a stumble. when you looked closer, you recognized him as the man who yelled after you just now.

his fist was curled and facing forward, a clear indication that he was either trying to hit you or grab you, but your luggage happened to swing right when he neared and tripped him. he fell to the floor, a hoarse yell sounding from his scratched knuckles.

"hey! what did you do?"

the hollered accusation was unnoticed as you let go of the luggage and quickly neared the fallen man to check on him. you reached inside your bag, hoping to find another bandaid somewhere.

as you shifted around quickly, a piece of stray receipt from days ago fell out. you gasped, immediately bolting after it.

as you did, your body lowered to the ground with it, and you missed the arm swing from a man behind you. he yelled in surprise at the air punch, looked down to find that he was about to fall on both you and his friend, and changed the course to his body to find his face greeting a utility pole.

you grimaced in pain but didn't allow yourself to linger too long in sympathy. noticing blood sprouting from his nose, you inhaled sharply and reached for a pack of tissues inside your bag, which you knew you had.

"hold on! i have tissue–ah!" as you stood up from crouching, your head hit the chin of the third man who, unbeknownst to you, attempted to attack you after seeing his two failed predecessors. he must have been talking as he began to exclaim about biting his tongue and tasting blood in his mouth.

"i'm so sorry!" you fumbled, dropping the tissue back inside your bag as you tried to go after the screaming man so you could tell him to not squeeze any more blood out to avoid a worse injury.

a hand found its way to your ankle and caught your attention. you looked down to see the leader crawling slowly toward you, his forehead faintly scratched. you pouted; how could you forget about him?

"i'm sorry! i got you!" crouching, you grabbed his hand and pushed it off your ankle. you pulled at his arm, carelessly helping him to his feet before the sudden weight difference made you stumble backward. he lurched forward because you were still holding his arm, just in time for his face to collide with a fist.

you looked over. the fourth man in the group stood stunned. "why did you do that?"

"i… what?" he turned away from his leader to you. his brows were permanently sewn together after witnessing the altercation, and he took an accusing step toward you. "this wouldn't have happened if you had just given us an answer! this is all your fault!"

you clamped your mouth shut from explaining yourself, not because he was right but because you were frozen from seeing his fist fly towards your direction. your lack of reaction wasn't a product of fear, though. it was curiosity.

you've never been injured once in your life. ever since birth, you have been perpetually stuck in a lucky streak. it was almost like a disease.

you have never bitten your tongue, stubbed your toe, or gotten a paper cut; you have never gotten ill; balls fly past your face in p.e classes; you get every toy you want in claw machines; you blindly tested into college at fifteen because all your randomly filled multiple choice answers were correct.

you genuinely, without a morsal of doubt, wondered how it feels to be hit.

before his fist could collide with you, the man was sent flying to the wall. a boy landed on the ground gracefully. you recognized him to be the one you just met—the discomforted one.

you stared at him, watching his hair fall from the jump and his focused features relax once the threat was gone.

now that you saw him better, his look wasn't as outrageous as you initially thought.

"i would ask if you're okay, but it looks like you handled yourself pretty well," he said.

you brushed your hands together and lowered your shoulders into a sulk. he regarded you with less caution and more intrigue this time. you wondered why. "i didn't mean to do any of that."

"sakura!" nirei caught up from behind. he abruptly stopped and panted with his hands on his knees. "don't run off like that! I can't keep up–" his voice trailed off when he noticed his surroundings–"wow, you did all this already?"

sakura sniffed, his lip twitching up in unreasonable dismay. forget him bolting at the sound of hostile yelling; seeing that you managed to take down a group of men made him feel pesky.

he hadn't known anyone other than those in bofurin or other gangs with advanced fighting capabilities, so this discovery was refreshing.

refreshing, but not pleasant.

"no," sakura gestured toward you, "they did."

you waved sheepishly when nirei turned to you, and you shrunk into yourself even more when he gasped in pleasant surprise. he reached for his pocket and pulled out a small notebook.

he flipped through a surprising number of pages before closing it, and his eyes returned to you with a gleam so bright you had to look away.

"i didn't do it on purpose." you waved. "it just happened."

"either you fought them, or you didn't," sakura said.

"well, i didn't."

"that doesn't make any sense," sakura said. "how did they end up like that, then?"

"okay, sakura." your eyes squinted at his attitude. "you know, this wouldn't have happened if it weren't for you. those men were looking for you."

"not anymore," he mumbled slowly, "since you fought them."

"oh my god?" you threw your arms up and chuckled in disbelief. "i didn't do anything! i was just trying to help."

"you keep saying that, but it doesn't explain why three out of five were bleeding."

"actually four out of five," you retorted as you pointed leisurely at him. "you shoved a guy into a wall."

"uhm–ah! that's common!" nirei exclaimed over your glare, his arms held high as if to catch your attention. once you look, he pipes down and scratches the back of his head, sweat drenching his hair. "some people are weary of sakura because of what he can do."

you straightened your back and hummed. the pieces weren't all here yet, but there was enough for you to make a barely informed assumption about these two: lousy students who like to pick fights with the townsfolk.

suddenly, moving here didn't seem like a good idea! but you were torn between disappointment and feeling positively agitated that this was the first unfortunate thing that had happened to you!

well, this and being rounded by five men because they were looking for sakura.

"the only thing that should be weary of you is the test papers," you said. "try going to classes for a change!"

sakura scoffed. "we go to classes and take tests too!"

"i'm sure you do, sakura."

"why are you saying my name all weird like that?" he exclaimed, moving forward to banter closer to you. "i know what you're thinking! it's not exclusively a girl's name!"

"i wasn't thinking that!" you were thinking that.

"uh... you guys..." nirei darted between you two, his fingers wiggling hopelessly before his chest as he debated his course of action. he didn't know you well enough to tell you to stop, but sakura seemed weirdly agitated about the conversation, which he figured wasn't entirely about the grievance of his name.

he looked behind him when he felt a hand on his shoulder and immediately exhaled with relief to see suo smiling down at him. the taller boy approached with a much calmer demeanor than anyone in the scene and casually got between you both.

"alright, you both," suo said. he turned to you. "here. don't lose your luggage."

"thanks." you received it. "how's the girl?"

"we brought her back to her mom." suo nodded in acknowledgment before turning to sakura. "you know, sakura. if you're curious about them, you could have just asked them to hang out with us later."

a strangled noise blurred with the pinking of his cheeks. sakura curled his fists and waved them about, protesting suo's words without sprouting a coherent sentence, but suo only smiled at you as if waiting for a response.

"has anyone ever told you how stressful you are?" you muttered.

suo shrugged. "not verbally."

"of course not." you widened your eyes into a roll. "i'll pass, though. sorry."

"no hard feelings," suo said.

you smiled and bid them a brief farewell. as you left, you could hear whispers behind you and a faint grumble from sakura, letting you know there were absolutely some complicated feelings around.

[sxytwker]

First Kiss

Summary: You and Luigi are partners for a math project. He goes over to your place to study, to eat a little, and it ends well. But when he comes over again, he gets his first kiss. And a little photo to remember it forever.

୨ৎ I know he went to an all boys school, but just pretend it’s a normal high school.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿. 　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿. .　˚　. 　 ˚　✿. .　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

Luigi Mangione was the kind of boy teachers loved and other guys respected, even if they didn’t quite get him. He was valedictorian material—undeniably brilliant, with a GPA no one could touch and a quiet focus that made him a fixture at the top of every leaderboard. Most kids didn’t know he was on his way to taking multivariable calculus before senior year. Fewer knew he stayed up late watching coding videos for fun or that he had memorized the Fibonacci sequence up to the 30th term just because he was bored.

Luigi wasn’t a talker. Especially not with girls.

He had a presence, though—tall at 5’11, shoulders broader than they used to be since he started hitting the gym last year. His brown curls were short and always neat, his freckles dusted light over his nose and cheeks, and his hazel eyes were quietly captivating—especially when he smiled. And God, when he smiled, it was over. Dimples. Soft. Sweet. Endearing. The kind of smile that made people think twice about what they thought they knew about nerds.

But Luigi? Luigi only had eyes for one girl. And today, she was wearing baby blue.

She was that girl. The one who always smelled warm, like vanilla or fresh linen, like something soft you’d bury your face into. She had that natural put-togetherness that was never forced—gold jewelry catching sunlight, lips glossed just enough, brown wavy hair down to her mid-back. Always shorts. Always a cute top, usually with an open back that made Luigi’s thoughts stutter if he caught sight of it. Pastels. Always pastels.

She loved science, and not the flashy kind. She was good—so good. Sharp, but in that gentle, controlled way. Always knew the answer, always had her notes, and never flaunted it. She was sweet with her friends, nice to everyone, and yet there was this quiet confidence about her. She wasn’t loud, but she didn’t need to be.

She was the type of girl who always knew what to do.

Luigi was the type of boy who tried to.

And now they were partners.

It happened like this:

Mr. Tillman, their Calculus teacher, announced the end-of-semester project with the kind of tired enthusiasm that came from years of repeating the same curriculum. “You’ll be paired randomly. You’ll have until next Friday to finish it. Pick a theorem or application of your choice. Real world. Make it smart. Make it presentable.”

Luigi didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. His mind was already firing off topics—Fourier transforms? Logistic regression? Something physics-based?

“Luigi Mangione,” Mr. Tillman read out, and Luigi barely twitched.

“And…”

She looked up, brushing her hair behind her ear without thinking.

“…you’re with her.”

Luigi blinked. The room tilted. Her.

She turned to him with that easy, sweet smile and lifted her brows. “Hey, partner.”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Then—

“H-Hi.”

God. Come on, man.

She giggled softly and slid her desk a little closer, already pulling her notebook from her bag. Her handwriting was rounded and neat, colored in pastels and gel pen stars. Luigi was suddenly very aware of how hard his heart was thudding in his chest.

They started brainstorming, and to his credit, he kept up—if not with words, then with notes, diagrams, quiet explanations. His voice was a little lower than usual. Soft. He’d catch himself watching her sometimes when she was focused, her lips slightly parted as she thought, her gold earrings swaying every time she tucked her hair behind her shoulder.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, biting her lip. “Wanna just work on it at my place? Maybe tonight or tomorrow?”

Luigi nearly choked on his breath. His hand flew to the back of his neck.

“Uh—y-yeah. Yeah, sure. That’s—that’s fine.”

“Cool,” she smiled. “Lemme give you my number.”

She scrawled it out in purple pen on the corner of his notebook. He stared at it like it might explode.

“Text me after school,” she said, already turning back to her notes like it was no big deal. Like she didn’t just destroy his entire emotional system in one sentence.

“Okay,” he breathed.

The bell rang not long after, and she gave him a little wave as she stood, her perfume trailing behind her.

Luigi didn’t move.

He just stared at the number. Then he smiled to himself. Soft. Uncontrolled. Dimples showing. Shoulders relaxed like someone just told him he won a lottery he didn’t even buy a ticket for.

He’d never texted a girl first before. But he would now.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d get the courage to sit next to her on purpose tomorrow.

It was 4:42 p.m. on a Thursday.

The late-afternoon sun poured through Luigi Mangione’s bedroom window, casting golden stripes across his bed. He was lying flat on his stomach, hoodie bunched up at the shoulders, face buried in the crook of his elbow as his other hand hovered over his phone. He’d been staring at her number for a full four minutes.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking to the message box again. His legs kicked slightly behind him like he was fourteen, not seventeen. But it was happening. He was really about to text her.

His thumbs finally moved.

Hey, um…

You still down to work on the project at your place?

His heart rate spiked immediately.

He watched the little “Delivered” pop up and stared at the screen like it might spit out a rejection. But then—

Typing…

God. He could’ve died right there.

Then her message popped up, casually sweet, like she hadn’t just sent a jolt of electricity straight to his spine:

hey! yeah totally!

come around 6? :)

Followed by:

my address is [redacted]

let me know when you’re here 💛

The heart. The heart. His brain stopped working for a second. He smiled—couldn’t help it. It was small at first, then wider, then stupid. Dimples showing. He bit his bottom lip, just trying to get a grip.

He typed back quickly.

cool yeah 6 sounds good

should i bring anything?

Another bubble appeared.

maybe just your laptop and ur brain

and like… water? if you get thirsty?

Luigi let out a breathy laugh into his arm. His phone rested on the bed for a second as he grinned to himself like a complete idiot. He picked it back up and typed one more time.

got it. brain + hydration

see u soon

She hearted the message.

That was it. He was done.

By 5:10, Luigi was already out of bed.

He moved around his room with a kind of quiet purpose—methodical, even if a little jittery. He grabbed his backpack off the floor, unzipped it, and started packing.

Laptop. Charger, neatly wound. A water bottle—his nice one, matte black, no scratches. A pencil case he probably didn’t need but packed anyway. A notebook, even though he usually just did math in his head or on his laptop. He grabbed his hoodie (even though it was summer, what if it got cold?) and then paused at his mirror.

He looked… fine. Plain black t-shirt, gray shorts, hair a little messy but not in a bad way. His brows were furrowed—of course. He was always furrowing them, even when he was thinking about nothing. He smoothed a hand over his curls and tried to relax his face.

“You’re not going on a date,” he told his reflection, voice flat. “You’re going to do calculus.”

Still, his stomach fluttered. And he was smiling again.

He didn’t know why this girl made him feel like this. Maybe it was the way she always looked so composed, even when she was scribbling notes like a madwoman. Or maybe it was how she always smelled like sugar and warmth, like something you’d lean toward without thinking. Or how she was the only person in class who never looked surprised when he answered every question right—like she expected him to be brilliant, and not in a weird way.

She just saw him. And he couldn’t stop thinking about that.

At 5:45, he slipped his backpack on and double-checked the time. He didn’t want to seem too eager. But also? He kind of didn’t care.

He just wanted to see her again.

6:05 p.m.

Luigi pulled into her driveway, car humming low as he shifted into park. His fingers tapped the steering wheel for a second—once, twice—then stopped. He stared at her front door like it held the secrets of the universe. Then he grabbed his backpack from the passenger seat and stepped out.

His heart was pounding, but his face was neutral. That signature Luigi Mangione expression: brows slightly furrowed, jaw set, tongue pressing into his cheek for just a second as he exhaled. His hoodie was draped over one arm. He almost brought flowers. Almost.

He texted her:

here :)

Not five seconds later, the door swung open.

She stood there in baby yellow. A cropped sweater that hit just above her waist, open back with the bow tied loosely, and white shorts that showed off just enough to make his brain stutter. Her hair was down, soft and shiny, gold hoops catching the sun. She smelled like vanilla and something cozy. His pulse kicked up, and he tried not to stare, but…

“Hey,” she smiled, brushing her hair behind her ear. “C’mon in.”

He swallowed. “Hey. Thanks for having me.”

She giggled. “You’re so formal. Relax, you’re not meeting my parents.”

She stepped aside, and he walked in—backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes scanning everything without trying to be obvious. Her house was warm. Not in temperature, but in feeling. Everything smelled faintly like cookies. There were small framed pictures on the wall. A faint sound of jazz hummed from somewhere, low and classy.

“Upstairs,” she said, starting up the steps.

He followed.

And yeah—he tried not to look at her legs the whole time. But come on.

Her room smelled like her.

Like sugar and vanilla and clean sheets. He stepped in and slowed to a stop without even realizing it.

It was simple, but warm. A string of fairy lights ran along the wall above her bed. A soft fuzzy carpet sat in the center of the floor, where a few notebooks and highlighters were already waiting. There were candles on her desk—one lit, glowing softly. A record player in the corner, a little stack of vinyls next to it. Her bed was neat, sheets soft pink, a few stuffed animals tucked near the pillows.

Luigi smiled, unguarded and boyish. “Your room’s nice,” he said, voice low.

She looked back at him and grinned. “Thanks. I cleaned it just for you.”

His ears went pink. She dropped onto the rug and crossed her legs, motioning for him to join her. He did, setting his backpack down, pulling out his laptop.

“I was gonna put something on in the background,” she said, grabbing the remote. “Do you care?”

“Nah,” he said quickly, voice quieter now. “Whatever you want.”

She scrolled through Netflix before settling on Gilmore Girls. Soft voices and guitar strums filled the background, comfortable and warm. He didn’t know the show, but he didn’t care.

They worked quietly at first. Their knees kept brushing. He could smell her perfume every time she leaned closer. And when she asked a question—something about slope fields—he explained it gently, his voice low and calm, showing her on paper while she leaned close enough for her shoulder to graze his.

He couldn’t focus.

She was nodding, listening, smiling. Her lip was slightly glossy, and her gold necklace shifted every time she tilted her head. She smelled so good. He tried not to notice. He failed.

“I’m hungry,” she announced after a while, stretching her arms over her head. The sweater lifted, showing a hint of skin. “Wanna come downstairs with me?”

He nodded, standing too fast. “Y-Yeah.”

He followed her quietly into the kitchen, eyes wandering. He didn’t say much—just kept close behind, noticing everything. The photos on the fridge. The little cat-shaped cookie jar. The pink sticky notes on the calendar. It all felt… like her.

“Do you like grilled cheese?” she asked, already opening the fridge.

“Yeah. That’s perfect.”

She grinned. “I make a good one. Trust.”

He sat at the island, fingers laced on the countertop, watching her work. She moved around the kitchen like she knew exactly where everything was—grabbing pans, butter, cheese. No hesitation. No awkwardness.

Luigi didn’t say much. Just… watched. Quietly.

“You okay over there?” she teased, glancing at him over her shoulder.

His lips quirked. “Yeah. Just… you’re really good at this.”

“At what?”

“Everything.”

She paused. Looked back at him. Her smile softened.

“Well,” she said lightly, “you’re really good at math, so we’re even.”

He looked down, cheeks pink, dimples showing as he tried to hide his grin.

The kitchen was warm with the smell of melted butter and cheese. She handed him a plate a few minutes later—cut on a diagonal, obviously. He swore it was the best grilled cheese he’d ever had.

They stood in the kitchen, plates in hand, and she leaned against the counter while they ate. Her eyes flicked to him now and then. His did the same.

Neither of them said anything about it. But they both felt it.

Something.

The grilled cheese was half-eaten in his hand when she glanced toward the back door and said, “Oh—hold on. I need to let Ollie in.”

Luigi blinked. “Ollie?”

“My dog,” she smiled, already walking toward the sliding glass door. “He’s been out in the yard.”

Luigi followed her, plate in one hand, and stood back as she slid open the glass. A small golden retriever bounded into view, tail wagging so hard it looked like his whole body might take off. His tongue lolled out of his mouth as he ran up the steps.

“Ollie!” she grinned, crouching down to greet him.

But before she could get there, Ollie turned his attention to Luigi, skidding across the hardwood toward him like he’d known him for years.

Luigi blinked, caught off guard, and then broke into a grin so wide it practically split his face.

“Hi, buddy!” he said, voice an octave higher than usual, hand going down to ruffle Ollie’s fur. “Oh my God, look at you. You’re perfect. Are you kidding me?”

Ollie licked his wrist enthusiastically, tail still going like a metronome on fast-forward.

“Ollie loves everyone,” she teased, giggling as she walked over. “But I think you might be his new favorite.”

Luigi laughed, dropping to a crouch and letting Ollie nuzzle into his hoodie. “Same. This is the best part of my week. No offense to math.”

She just smiled. Watching him like this — shy Luigi, careful Luigi, now petting a golden retriever like it was Christmas morning — something shifted in her chest. He looked so relaxed now, softer than she’d ever seen him in class. The dimple in his left cheek was deeper when he laughed like this.

“Bring him upstairs,” she said, turning to head back toward the steps. “He’ll keep us company.”

Luigi looked up at her. “You sure?”

“Of course,” she said, glancing back with a wink. “If he likes you, I like you.”

Luigi flushed but didn’t respond — just smiled again, then gently tugged Ollie’s collar as he stood.

“Let’s go, bud,” he whispered, still grinning. “You and me. Big night of calculus ahead.”

Back in her room, she was already seated on the rug again, flipping open her notebook and stretching her legs out. Luigi dropped his bag next to her and sat down with Ollie flopping down right beside him, tail thudding lightly against the carpet.

Ollie rested his head on Luigi’s thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I think he’s claiming you,” she said, amused.

Luigi looked down at the dog, then up at her, smirking. “Can’t blame him. You’ve got good taste.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “You calling my dog a flirt?”

He lifted one brow, cocky smile in full force now. “He’s not the only one.”

She rolled her eyes, but the grin stayed on her lips.

They got back to work, scribbling formulas, trading ideas. Her handwriting was neat and full of pastel highlights. His was sharp, quick, like his thoughts. They leaned closer without thinking — shoulders brushing, their knees pressed side by side now. Her perfume was still sweet in the air, cozy like vanilla and warm linen.

Ollie let out a content sigh, eyes closing as he settled deeper against Luigi’s leg.

Luigi barely noticed. He was too focused on her.

On the way her lips parted slightly when she was focused. On the quiet way she said his name when she needed help. On how she laughed softly when he solved a problem too fast and called her smart at the same time.

He felt like he was in the center of the softest moment of his life. In her room, with her dog, the sound of her laugh.

And for the first time in a while, Luigi Mangione forgot to be nervous.

The sun was setting, golden light bleeding through her curtains and casting a warm, honey-colored glow across her room. The fairy lights blinked faintly above her bed, and one by one, the corners of the room faded into shadow.

She reached up and turned on her lamp—a soft amber bulb in a glass shade. The room didn’t brighten so much as glow. Cozy. Dim. Gentle.

Luigi leaned back slightly, blinking as his eyes adjusted. He looked around the room again like he had when he first stepped in, but now he saw it differently—more clearly. The flicker of the candle near her record player. The texture of the fuzzy rug under his palms. The sound of Rory Gilmore’s voice in the background, crisp and familiar. Everything was warm, and soft, and hers.

And somehow, he felt like he belonged in it.

He didn’t even realize his curls had started to fall messily across his forehead, looser now from running his hand through them too many times. His hoodie was slightly wrinkled where he’d been leaning against the bedframe, but he didn’t care. Not now. Not here.

They sat side by side on the floor, notebooks long forgotten in front of them, Ollie snoozing on Luigi’s other side. Their legs were still touching, but now neither of them adjusted. It just felt… right.

“Okay,” she said softly, gesturing to the screen with a bite of a smile, “so Lorelai just said yes to Max, but she’s definitely not over Luke. You’ll see. It’s a mess. You’re gonna love it.”

Luigi glanced over at her. “You really like this show, huh?”

She shrugged, hugging her knees slightly toward her chest. “It’s comforting. Like, I don’t know—people say smart things fast. It makes you feel like everything will figure itself out eventually.”

He nodded slowly, eyes still on her more than the screen.

“I like it too,” he said quietly.

She turned to look at him. Her expression was soft now, serious in that way where you know something’s shifting. Like a question was floating in the air neither of them had asked yet.

His voice was lower now, more certain. “This… all of this? It’s really nice.”

She tilted her head a little, smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. “Yeah?”

He nodded, eyes not leaving hers. “Yeah. You’re—like—you’re really easy to be around.”

She laughed under her breath. “That’s a first.”

“No, seriously,” he said, lips curving as he watched her. “I thought I’d be nervous the whole time. But I’m not. I’m just… happy I’m here.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him. Like she was seeing him a little clearer now too—messy curls, soft freckles, the way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when he smiled. He looked comfortable now. Still a little shy, but not afraid. And in this light, he looked almost too beautiful to be real.

“I’m glad you came,” she said softly. “I was kinda hoping you’d say yes when I asked.”

He smiled again—wider now, with that same shy confidence he had when solving an impossible problem in class. He glanced down at their notebooks, then nudged her playfully with his elbow.

“We’re, uh… definitely not gonna finish this tonight, huh?”

She snorted. “Not even close.”

“Guess I’ll have to come back.”

She looked at him. Let the silence settle for a second too long. And then she said, “Good. You should.”

They sat like that for a while. The show playing. Ollie snoring gently. The sky outside darkening. Her room glowing in that soft, cozy light.

And Luigi?

Luigi Mangione—math nerd, valedictorian, future coding genius—sat next to the girl he liked, her perfume in the air, her dog at his side, and nothing in the world on his mind except how right it all felt.

9:54 p.m.

The show was still playing, but the glow of her lamp now felt deeper, cozier, like it had melted into the walls. Outside, it was fully dark—deep navy skies and the low hum of distant crickets. The kind of night that made everything indoors feel extra warm.

She glanced at her phone and sighed. “Almost ten.”

Luigi sat up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. “Damn. Already?”

She nodded slowly, gathering a few scattered pens and slipping them into her pencil pouch. “Yeah. I didn’t even realize how late it got.”

He didn’t want to leave. Not even a little.

He started to pack up too—laptop slid into his bag, charger coiled loosely and tucked beside it. Ollie, as if sensing movement and impending goodbyes, lifted his head with a sleepy grunt.

Then, without warning, the golden retriever plopped himself directly between the two of them. Rolled over. Four paws in the air. Belly out.

Luigi froze mid-zip.

She laughed, eyes lighting up. “Oh my God, Ollie. You’re so needy.”

Luigi grinned, leaning down to give the dog what he clearly wanted. “How could you say no to this face?”

They both reached down at the same time, hands brushing lightly over fur—and over each other.

Her fingers grazed his. Warm. Soft. Just for a second.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, pulling his hand back slightly.

“No, it’s okay,” she said, and smiled. “Sorry, too.”

But they didn’t move apart.

They just looked at each other. A quiet pause settled between them—comfortable, charged in its own small way. Then Ollie let out a sigh so dramatic that both of them burst into soft laughter, breaking the moment gently.

Luigi scratched behind Ollie’s ears one last time. “You’re lucky I like dogs,” he murmured.

“You’re lucky he likes you,” she teased.

Downstairs, the soft clinking of plates and the smell of food filled the hallway as she led him out of her room, backpack slung over one shoulder. The staircase creaked just slightly as they walked down. And then—voices.

Her parents were at the dining table, plates in front of them, eating what looked like leftovers and talking low.

Luigi froze.

Her hand hovered near the railing, then she turned her head and said casually, “Hey, this is Luigi. He’s my math project partner.”

Her mom glanced up first, eyes flicking from her daughter to the tall boy in the wrinkled hoodie and curls standing very still by the stairs. Her dad gave a slow, pointed look.

Luigi felt like he was in a job interview he didn’t prepare for.

“Hi,” her mom said after a beat, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Evening,” her dad added, polite but obviously sizing him up.

Luigi cleared his throat, the nerves kicking in again. “Uh—hi. Nice to meet you.”

She gave him a look, subtle and sharp, that said chill out before you start reciting the unit circle or something.

He managed a small, shy smile.

They didn’t say anything more. Just nodded and went back to their food.

Once the front door clicked shut behind them, Luigi exhaled like he’d just survived an exam he hadn’t studied for.

He turned to her as they stood on the porch, the porch light casting a soft glow over her face. “Okay, I did not expect to meet your parents tonight.”

She rolled her eyes and smirked. “Yeah, well, welcome to the family. Get in the car.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and opened the car door, backpack slung lower now, his curls a mess. Before he got in, he looked at her again.

“Thanks for tonight. Really. It was… nice.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled softly. “It was.”

“And…” he rubbed the back of his neck again, his voice lower now. “I’d like to do it again sometime. If that’s cool.”

“Of course it’s cool,” she said, eyes shining a little under the porch light. “Don’t be a stranger, Mangione.”

He smiled. Nervous again. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “Bright and early. Math class waits for no one.”

“Great,” he muttered with a laugh, sliding into the car. “Can’t wait to act normal in class after all that.”

She tilted her head. “You’ll do fine, Luigi.”

Then the door shut, and he drove off—heart full, cheeks pink, hoodie wrinkled, curls messy, and for once, not thinking about equations at all.

Friday. First period. Calculus.

Luigi was already in his seat, laptop open, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, a pencil resting horizontally across his lips. He looked calm on the outside, but his mind was still running laps from last night—her room, her laugh, Ollie, the way she’d smiled at him under the porch light. He’d gone to bed still smelling her perfume faintly on his hoodie and woken up thinking about her.

He heard her before he saw her—her voice, soft and sweet, laughing at something a friend said as she walked in. His stomach did a little flip. He didn’t mean to look. He tried not to. But when she slid into the desk beside him, he turned his head just a little too fast.

His thoughts stopped cold.

She was wearing a fitted cami today. Light pink, spaghetti straps, low cut—really low cut. It hugged her perfectly, the soft fabric dipping just enough to show the curve of her chest. She had shorts on, legs crossed under the desk like it was nothing. Gold necklace glinting right against her collarbone.

And then she turned her head, smiled, and said, “Hey, Luigi.”

He blinked, his brain short-circuiting for a second. “H-Hey.”

She leaned over her desk slightly, pulling out a sheet of notes, and that was it. He was gone. The cami shifted, and Luigi caught the top of her chest, the faintest outline of the curve below—a lot of curve. His eyes flicked down, just for a second. Then again when she wasn’t looking.

Stop it, he thought, jaw clenching. Focus. It’s math class. Not—God, not this.

But it was no use. Every time she looked away, tilted her head, bent forward to write something down—his eyes followed like they had their own GPS system.

He mentally cursed himself. Why do I even have to have hormones? This is actual hell.

She smelled good again today—warm and sweet, the same perfume as last night. Her hair was down, curls resting gently over her shoulders. And now she was biting her lip, reading a problem from their worksheet.

“Do you think we should use the chain rule here?” she asked, turning to him, eyes wide and curious.

He nodded a little too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, for sure.”

She smiled, wrote it down. He tried to follow the problem, but his brain was moving at half capacity. Maybe less.

She scooted closer, pulling her chair in so their elbows could brush. “Wanna come over again tonight?” she asked casually, like it was just another Friday.

His head turned toward her slowly, eyes searching hers for a beat. She looked calm, focused on her notes, completely unaware of how hard it was for him to even think right now.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

She smiled again, the side of her knee brushing against his. She didn’t move it.

Neither did he.

They kept working—more or less. Mostly less, if you were asking Luigi. His handwriting was worse today, a little rushed, a little crooked. Because every time she leaned forward or flipped her hair or laughed softly under her breath, his eyes betrayed him. Just a peek. One more. It was innocent enough, but it didn’t feel innocent.

He rubbed the back of his neck again, cheeks a little pink, hoodie sleeves pushed up higher now like he needed to breathe.

He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to survive another night at her house. But he knew one thing for sure:

He wanted to.

It was almost 5:30 when Luigi knocked on the half-open door of his sister’s room. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he was wearing his usual hoodie and shorts combo—though he’d actually put thought into the color this time. Black hoodie, white drawstrings, clean. Casual but clean.

Luciana was sitting cross-legged on her bed, earbuds in, painting her nails while some crime podcast played from her phone. She looked up when she saw him at the door and immediately narrowed her eyes.

“Oh God,” she said flatly. “Why do you look like that?”

Luigi frowned. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about to confess to a murder or ask me for a favor. Either way, I already hate it.”

“I need help,” he said, stepping in and closing the door behind him.

She groaned. “Do not ask me about Python again. I swear to God, Luigi—”

“It’s not about coding.”

She blinked. Slowly set her nail polish aside.

“Oh. Ohhh.” She sat up straighter, smirking now. “This is about her. The girl you’ve been making stupid little smiles about all week.”

Luigi rolled his eyes and flopped onto her carpet. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You’re making it weird. You came in here like a sad little Victorian boy needing advice on how to court a woman.” She raised an eyebrow. “So what, she finally kissed you or something?”

“No. No one kissed anyone.”

“Lame.”

“But I’m going to her house again tonight.”

Luciana crossed her arms, now clearly invested. “Okay. So what have you done so far?”

He ran a hand through his curls, already messier again. “We worked on math. Talked. She made grilled cheese—like, real grilled cheese, not the microwave kind. We sat close the whole time, and her dog literally claimed me. We kinda touched a few times and didn’t move away. She asked me to come over again tonight. And like… it just feels different.”

Luciana squinted at him. “Okay. So… she’s into you.”

Luigi rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”

“No, trust me, she is. She cooked for you? She invited you over again? She let you meet her parents?”

“That was an accident—”

“She sat close, didn’t move away when you touched, and kept giving you those soft little ‘I like being around you’ smiles?” She leaned forward, staring him dead in the eye. “Dumbass. She wants you.”

Luigi blinked. “…You think?”

Luciana threw her hands up. “Yes, I think! Look, do I think you’re awkward as hell? Yes. Are you hot enough to get away with it? Barely. But here’s what you’re gonna do.”

He sat up straighter, eyes locked in.

“Don’t be weird,” she started, counting off on her fingers. “Don’t overthink every single thing. Don’t analyze her body language like it’s a physics problem. Be yourself. Be sweet. Smile. Sit close. Ask her questions. Make her feel seen.”

“I do that,” he said defensively.

“Then keep doing it. Because she clearly likes it. Just let it happen. Stop being scared of the fact that she likes you.”

Luigi paused. Took a breath. “Okay.”

Luciana smirked. “Also? If she does kiss you, don’t say something dumb like ‘I didn’t think this would happen.’ Just kiss her back. Jesus.”

He groaned. “Luciana—”

“No. This is why I’m here. You’re lucky I love you.”

“You love yourself too much to give good advice without being an asshole.”

She grinned. “You’re not wrong.”

Luigi stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder again. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Text me if she actually makes a move. I wanna know if I was right.”

He glared at her. “I’m not texting you about that.”

“Coward.”

He turned for the door.

“Hey!” she called after him. “Don’t let your hoodie bunch up weird like it always does. Fix it before you walk in.”

He tugged at it instantly, already nervous. “Shut up.”

She cackled.

Luigi’s car rolled up her driveway just before six. The sun was still out, but golden hour was settling in—sky streaked with soft pinks and oranges, the warm kind of light that made everything feel slower, softer. He sat in the driver’s seat for a second, exhaling, trying not to overthink everything his sister had said.

Be sweet. Sit close. Smile. Don’t be weird.

He grabbed his backpack, smoothed out the back of his hoodie like Luciana told him, and stepped out.

When the front door opened, he swore he short-circuited all over again.

She stood there in low-rise gray sweats and a tiny white cami—fitted and ribbed, hugging her waist, the straps thin over her shoulders. Her wavy brown hair was clipped back halfway, a few strands falling around her face. And her gold jewelry glinted against her collarbone, delicate and warm. She was still her usual, sweet self—but quieter. Shy in a way he hadn’t seen before.

“Hey,” she said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Come in.”

“Hey,” he replied, voice soft. “You look… really pretty.”

Her cheeks flushed instantly. She smiled, lowering her eyes for a second. “Shut up.”

He grinned.

She led him upstairs again—bare feet on the carpet, that same comforting smell in the air: vanilla, sugar, her. He followed behind, heart racing just a little, watching the soft sway of her sweatpants and the light bounce of her clipped-back curls.

Her room was just like before: warm, soft, lit by her bedside lamp and the quiet flicker of the fairy lights. The candle was lit again, the same record player in the corner. Gilmore Girls was already on the TV, low in the background.

She dropped onto the rug and crossed her legs again, patting the spot next to her. “Let’s get this over with before I make cookies or something and we forget again.”

Luigi laughed and sat down beside her. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

They opened the shared document on their laptops, notes and graphs already filling the screen. Ollie snoozed by the bed, stretching once and then curling back up.

Luigi worked quietly for a while, eyes flicking to the screen, then to her, then back again. She was chewing lightly on her pen cap, focused on her screen, her shoulders brushing his every now and then. Her cami dipped just slightly, neckline open and soft, collarbones catching the golden lamplight.

He blinked, refocused. Be sweet. Be normal. Not a perv.

But about twenty minutes in, as she flipped to another tab to double-check their equations, Luigi casually hid his own screen by tilting it slightly away.

Then he opened a new tab and typed:

“how to kiss a girl for the first time”

He scanned the articles quickly—“read the moment,” “don’t rush it,” “make eye contact,” “lean in slowly.” His jaw tightened slightly as he read, legs crossed, hoodie sleeves pulled down around his thumbs. This shouldn’t be this complicated. But it is. Because it’s her.

She glanced over.

“What’re you doing?”

His head shot up. “Huh?”

“Your screen. You’re hiding it like you’re watching something weird.”

He flushed instantly, clicking back to the doc. “Just… researching.”

She raised a brow, suspicious but amused. “Researching what?”

He shrugged, face heating. “Nothing. Math. Maybe. Science of love. Who knows.”

She gave him a side glance but let it go, biting back a smirk as she focused on the worksheet again.

Luigi leaned in a little more now, shoulder brushing hers intentionally this time. His voice came out lower, smoother. “I think your chain rule section’s perfect, by the way.”

She looked up at him, eyes warm. “Thanks.”

“You’re really good at this,” he said, smiling at her now, eyes soft. “I mean, like, you always just… get it.”

She blinked. Her lips parted for a second, surprised by how sincere he sounded. “That’s… really sweet of you.”

“I’m just being honest.”

She looked at him a second longer, her expression a little shy again—but flattered. She tucked her hair behind her ear and gave him a small smile that made his chest twist in that way he wasn’t fully used to yet.

They turned back to the screen, knees still touching, their notebooks slowly forgotten. Gilmore Girls played in the background, and for the first time, Luigi didn’t feel like the awkward nerd who didn’t know what to do.

He just felt like the boy she wanted in the room.

By 8:47 p.m., the shared doc had been closed.

“I can’t look at another derivative tonight,” she sighed, dropping her pen and stretching her arms above her head. The hem of her cami lifted slightly with the motion, revealing a sliver of soft skin above the waistband of her low-rise sweats. Luigi tried not to stare.

“I say we leave the rest for another day,” he said, his voice lighter now, relaxed. “A day where our brains aren’t fried.”

“Agreed.”

Without even thinking, they both leaned back—shoulders touching again—and then slowly lowered themselves to the rug, lying side by side, their heads propped just enough to watch the TV. Gilmore Girls kept playing in the background, Rory mid-monologue, Lorelai firing off fast, clever lines.

Ollie shuffled over a moment later and plopped down between them, tail wagging once before curling up into a warm golden loaf of contentment. His paws nudged against Luigi’s arm, and Luigi smiled, reaching down to scratch his head.

They laid there in silence for a few minutes. The kind of silence that felt easy. Safe. Her hand was just inches from his, resting palm-up on the rug.

Luigi turned his head slightly to look at her. Her lashes were long, her cheek pressed gently to the carpet, her gold necklace catching the lamplight. She looked calm. Soft.

He exhaled slowly and said, “So… do you still wanna make those cookies?”

Her lips twitched. Then she turned her head to meet his eyes and nodded, smiling. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

They padded down the stairs quietly, Ollie trailing after them like a sleepy little guardian. The house was quiet except for the muffled sound of a show playing from the living room where her dad was still watching something, half-asleep in his recliner. The kitchen, though, was theirs.

She turned on the soft under-cabinet lights, casting the countertops in a warm yellow glow.

Luigi stood near the island while she grabbed a roll of cookie dough from the fridge. “This is the good kind,” she said proudly, holding it up. “Like, the real chocolate chunk kind. Not the weird powdery stuff.”

He chuckled. “You take your cookies seriously, huh?”

“Dead serious.”

Luigi moved closer, peeking over her shoulder slightly as she began pulling apart little pieces of dough and rolling them into neat, perfect balls.

“Here,” she said after a moment, glancing at him. “You do some.”

He hesitated, then nodded and stepped closer. Their shoulders brushed again, but this time, she didn’t move away at all. If anything… she leaned in a little.

“Like this?” he asked, mimicking her technique, his hands gentle as he worked the dough.

“Almost,” she said, smiling. She reached over, her fingers brushing his as she shaped his attempt into a rounder ball. “Here. Just use the base of your palm.”

His heart skipped. Her hands were smaller than his, soft, warm, and now just… right there.

“Better?” he asked, voice lower now.

“Much.”

Behind them, she’d switched the TV to something else—his favorite show this time. One he’d mentioned once in class and never thought she remembered. But here it was, playing softly on the kitchen TV above the stove, the intro music low and familiar.

“You remembered,” he said quietly, smiling toward the screen.

“Of course I did,” she said, her eyes flicking to his. “You light up when you talk about it.”

He paused. Looked at her for a long second.

And then smiled. A real one. Slow, wide, with that soft hazel-eyed glint that only came out when he wasn’t nervous anymore.

They went back to shaping cookie dough in that small, golden-lit kitchen, her arm brushing his now and then, her hip close to his as she leaned in. It was such a small space, and yet it didn’t feel crowded. It felt right.

He glanced down at her again—her profile perfect in the glow, her lashes low as she focused—and thought about what Luciana had told him.

“Make her feel seen.”

He already did. And right now? He could tell she saw him, too.

The cookies were in the oven. Ten minutes left on the timer. The kitchen was quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the low murmur of his favorite show playing in the background. The air smelled like vanilla, sugar, and something just starting to turn golden.

They sat on the kitchen floor now—backs against the cabinets, legs stretched out, Ollie curled up like a fluffy guardian a few feet away. She had her phone in her hand, scrolling absently, her head tilted just enough that her hair brushed against Luigi’s shoulder.

He’d never been so aware of how close someone was without touching.

Her voice broke the silence gently: “Do you wanna take a picture with me?”

Luigi turned to look at her. “What?”

She gave a little shrug, the kind that was both casual and a little shy. “I just… wanna remember tonight.”

He blinked. And then smiled—charming, quiet, his dimple showing instantly.

“Yeah. Sure.”

She pulled her knees up and scooted in even closer, holding her phone out with one hand. Luigi leaned in, his arm naturally pressing along hers now. The soft light from the overhead stove light made everything warm. She smiled sweetly, natural and soft. Luigi gave that trademark Mangione grin—boyish, open, a little crooked, and completely disarming.

Click.

She looked at it quickly, then turned her screen toward him. “You look cute.”

He tilted his head. “You look better.”

She scoffed. “Shut up. I’m not the one with secret dimples.”

He smirked, cheeks pink now. “They’re not secret. Just… rare.”

“Mhm. I get a special smile, then?”

He looked at her—really looked at her. Her lashes low, gold necklace glinting against her collarbone, that baby pink cami hugging her frame, her legs pulled in close beside his. She looked so beautiful it made his chest ache.

“You do,” he said softly.

She blinked at him. The silence stretched for a second. The smell of the cookies wrapped around them like a blanket.

“Can I take one more?” he asked, nodding toward the phone.

She smiled and nodded. “Yeah. One more.”

She raised the phone again, angling it just slightly, face tilting toward him. Her thumb hovered over the shutter button.

But right before it clicked—

He turned.

Gently, slowly, he brought one hand up and touched her jaw—barely there, just his fingertips—and guided her face toward him.

And kissed her.

Soft. Uncertain. Warm.

The phone shutter clicked anyway—an accidental photo snapped just as her eyes fluttered shut and her mouth opened in surprise.

But she didn’t drop the phone. Not right away.

Instead, her hand lowered slowly to the floor as she tilted into him, kissing him back. Deeper. More sure now. Her hand resting lightly on his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart pounding under her hoodie.

The kitchen disappeared. So did the timer, the show, everything.

Just her, and him, and the quiet truth between them—finally breaking the surface.

When they finally pulled back, breath low and warm between them, she looked at him and whispered, “I think that picture’s gonna be my favorite.”

Luigi laughed quietly, his forehead almost resting against hers. “Can I see it?”

She unlocked her phone and held it up. And there it was—frozen in time. Her eyes just starting to close, his hand at her cheek, their mouths barely meeting. Honest. Caught in the moment.

“I kinda love it,” she said softly.

He looked at her again, that soft-boy smile returning. “I kinda love you.”

She blinked. Then smiled back, just as warm, just as sure.

“I know.”

Ding.

The oven timer broke the silence, but neither of them moved for a second. Their kiss still lingered in the air between them, like heat from a flame just blown out.

She finally stood, cheeks pink, smile light, and padded over to the oven. “Saved by the cookies.”

Luigi stayed seated on the floor, legs stretched out, heart hammering so hard he thought maybe the cookies could hear it too. His lips still tingled. His fingers were still curled slightly, like they were holding on to the shape of her jaw.

She pulled the tray out with a practiced ease, setting it on the stovetop. The smell was divine—melted chocolate, golden brown edges, warm sugar. She turned to him, lifting an eyebrow.

“Taste test?”

He nodded, standing and walking over slowly. “Obviously.”

She picked one up with a spatula, still steaming slightly, and broke it in half—one chunk for her, one for him. She handed it to him with a look that said this matters.

He bit in. Still warm, gooey in the center, edges crisp. The chocolate melted instantly on his tongue.

His eyes actually closed for a second. “Holy shit.”

She grinned. “I told you.”

They slid back down to the floor together, settling beside each other, their shoulders pressed tight. She leaned into him now—her head slightly against his arm, bare legs curled to the side, her fingers brushing his as they both held their halves of the cookie.

It was quiet again. Just the hum of the kitchen, the soft buzz of the show in the background.

He turned his head slightly toward her, his voice low, almost like he didn’t want anyone else—not even the walls—to hear.

“That was my first kiss,” he said.

She froze for half a second, turning to look at him, eyes wide. “Wait. Seriously?”

He nodded once, a little shy, a little proud. “Yeah.”

She blinked. “But—you’re so… you.”

He laughed. “That doesn’t mean girls are throwing themselves at me, you know.”

“I just… I figured you had kissed someone at some point.”

He looked at her, really looked at her, and said, “I didn’t want to waste it on someone I didn’t mean it with.”

Her smile softened into something else. Something quieter. Deeper.

She turned her face toward him, their foreheads nearly brushing.

“How was it?” she whispered.

He tilted his head slightly, cheeks pink, lips curling up.

“I loved it,” he said. “And I want more.”

She bit her lip, fighting back a grin. “Later,” she whispered back.

“Promise?”

She lifted her pinky. “Pinky promise.”

He laughed, linking his with hers. “Official now.”

They leaned back again, sharing the last bite of cookie between them, the taste of sugar still on their lips.

And they didn’t talk much after that. Didn’t need to.

They just sat on the kitchen floor—bodies pressed close, warm cookie in hand, soft smiles playing across both their faces. The kind of moment that makes you forget everything else.

For Luigi Mangione, math prodigy, future coder, and perpetual overthinker—this wasn’t a moment he could calculate.

It was just perfect.

By the time the clock hit 10:02 p.m., the cookies were mostly gone and the warmth of their shared kiss still buzzed softly under their skin. The kitchen was lit low, the show still playing on mute now, forgotten in the background. The house had gone quiet again.

Luigi stretched slightly, a soft sigh escaping him. “I should probably go before my mom thinks I joined a cult or something.”

She smiled sleepily. “Want some cookies to take home?”

He looked at her like she was offering him treasure. “Please.”

She packed a few in a napkin-lined Tupperware, sealed the lid with a little snap, and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed again—no longer shy, no longer questioning. Just soft.

He packed up his backpack slowly, slinging it over one shoulder, hoodie slightly rumpled now, curls falling over his forehead. Ollie let out a little huff from where he lay on the rug, tail wagging faintly in goodbye.

She followed him to the front door, both of them quiet but smiling. The porch light was on, casting that warm amber glow that made everything feel softer, like the night had wrapped around just the two of them.

Luigi turned on the step and faced her.

“Thanks,” he said. His voice was low, quiet. “For the cookies. For helping me study. For…”

His eyes flicked to hers. Then her lips.

“…everything.”

She tilted her head, gold earrings catching the light, and smiled. “You’re welcome. Anytime, Mangione.”

He hesitated just a second, shifting on his feet. Then slowly—nervously—he reached forward, his hands brushing her waist, tentative and unsure, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. His fingers just rested there, light against the fabric of her low-rise sweats.

He leaned in.

And kissed her again.

This time slower. More sure. Still sweet, still soft—but with that quiet kind of yearning that had been building since the night before. Her hands rested gently on his chest, his thumb brushing the edge of her sweater’s hem. He could taste a little sugar from the cookies still on her lips.

The night air was cool around them, but she was warm, and his hoodie smelled like her now, and everything felt impossibly right.

They pulled away slowly. Her cheeks were pink. His were burning.

His dimples showed instantly when he smiled.

“Goodnight,” he whispered.

She smiled back, like she couldn’t even help it. “Night, Luigi.”

He turned, walking toward his car, backpack slung, cookie container in one hand. His curls were messier now than when he’d arrived, and his smile didn’t fade once—not even as he opened the car door.

And back on the porch, she leaned against the frame, still grinning, fingers brushing her lips, heartbeat steady and happy.

Both of them knew.

That was only the beginning.

Luigi walked in through the front door as quietly as he could, trying not to wake anyone—even though Luciana was definitely still up. The hallway light was on. His mom had left him a sticky note on the fridge that just said “Don’t eat the good bread. We’re using it for sandwiches tomorrow.” His hoodie smelled like cookies and her perfume. His cheeks were still warm.

He kicked off his shoes, set the container of cookies gently on the counter like it was some priceless artifact, and turned to head upstairs—

Luciana was already standing at the top of the staircase.

Arms crossed.

Eyebrows raised.

Grin fully loaded.

Luigi didn’t say a word. Just kept walking up slowly.

She cocked her head. “Well?”

He kept walking.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, catching the look on his face. “You kissed her.”

He shrugged. Smirked. Didn’t even try to hide it.

Luciana grabbed the stair rail and let out a low scream through her teeth, jumping slightly in place like she couldn’t contain it.

“I KNEW IT,” she hissed. “I KNEW IT. You’re so smug right now I could slap you.”

He passed her on the stairs with the tiniest smug grin. “Told you she liked me.”

“YOU’RE IN LOVE,” she called after him.

“Goodnight,” he said, completely ignoring her chaos, heading to his room.

“I’m the best sister ever,” she muttered, beaming behind him.

Later that night, he lay in bed in the dark, hoodie still on, hair still a little messy from her fingers. He hadn’t stopped smiling. He’d gone over that kiss at least twenty times in his head. The way she smiled before it, the warmth of her hands, the soft way she whispered later. He was toast.

His phone buzzed.

Her:

you should spend the night sometime

when you can :)

His heart stuttered.

Then another text came in—two image attachments.

He opened them.

The first was the selfie: the two of them on her kitchen floor, her smiling soft and sweet, her hair brushed gently over her shoulder. And him—messy curls, dimple deep, that look in his eyes like he couldn’t believe his life in that moment.

The second:

The kiss.

Just before it.

His hand on her cheek, her eyes just beginning to close, the kiss caught right at its beginning. The moment he went from wanting to having.

He stared at it for a long time.

Another message popped up.

Her:

goodnight, lu 💛

That did it.

He pulled his hoodie tighter around himself, the collar brushing his cheek, and smiled behind the screen like an idiot. He didn’t care. It was a nickname. And it was hers.

He typed slowly:

Luigi:

goodnight

sleep good okay?

i’m still thinking about you

He didn’t wait for a reply.

Just turned onto his side, phone on the pillow next to him, that stupid, boyish smile still stretching across his face.

And somewhere across town, under soft sheets and fairy lights, she smiled too.

[ahgasegotarmy116]

The Art of Etiquette Part 11 | Jeon Jungkook

Summary: The days leading up to the ball become fewer but a harsh reality hits you leaving you more conflicted than you already were. Pairing: f!reader x Etiquette instructor Jungkook Word Count: 2k~ Warnings: No real warnings a/n: So yeah...it's been a while. Sorry it took me so long to update this story and sorry it's so short but I wanted to bring this one back into the light. I know I keep on saying the ball is in the next chapter but it really will be in part 12 I promise. I wanted to make this chapter longer but I figured I made you guys wait long enough...plus I needed to reintroduce something I spoke about in the first chapter. Start from the beginning

The next couple of days go by in a blur. 

Extra long lessons with Jungkook after my seemingly never ending lectures have my head pounding. 

"Miss y/n?" my professor calls me over to his desk, finishing up my last lecture before I have to go see Jungkook. "Yes?" I ask and wait patiently for him to hopefully get to thee point sooner rather than later. 

"The submission deadline for the writing contest is this weekend. Have you submitted your piece?" he asks, looking up at me through his glasses from his seated position.

I curse at myself internally, having completely spaced about it.

"I haven't but I plan on doing so as soon as I can! The deadline is Sunday night right?" I pray, hoping that I'm correct. "It's Saturday night at 11:59 pm. Do you think you'll be able to complete it in time?" he questions, adjusting his glasses. 

"Yes, of course. They won't be holding the awards ceremony until next month though correct?" I ask and he hums, confirming my suspicions. "Should be around two or three weeks after depending on how many submissions they get" 

I nod and thank him once more for the opportunity and luckily the reminder as well and quickly rush out. I choose to text Jungkook this time the reason why I'll be a few minutes late again, hoping that'll keep him from nagging me about it too much

~~~~~

"You seem...distracted today" Jungkook points out, watching as I wondered off in thought for the fifth time today. 

"Sorry, I didn't mean to. What were you saying?" I ask, feeling guilty since he's gone out of his way to go through the guest list of the rsvp'd attendees of the ball this weekend. Making sure to tell me a little about each family to hopefully prepare me for the kinds of people that'll be there and how to compose myself around them.

"Let's take a break, otherwise you'll start mixing everyone up" he chuckles and sits down in a chair that's more or less facing me. 

"Are you alright?" he asks, tilting his head and taking note of the wrinkles between my brows as I'm clearly fighting some sort of internal battle that doesn't involve him today. 

"I have this writing contest that I had completely forgotten about and the due date is this Saturday" I sigh, slumping in my chair but this time he luckily doesn't scold me for it. 

"The same day as the charity ball..." he trails off and I nod, covering my face with my hands.

"He told me about it over a month ago" I grumble and Jungkook chuckles warmly at my inner turmoil. I groan as a response and he decides to not tease me about it anymore. 

After a while of sitting in silence he pulls my hands away from my face, making me glare at him as a response.

"Today is Tuesday correct?" he asks and I respond with a sigh of a small 'yes'. "I have an idea then" he says, peaking my interest. "Why don't we spend part of our time on our lessons and the rest of the time on your paper" he offers making my brows furrow.

"You'd do that for me?" I say, sitting up straight in my chair, trying to figure out if this is a joke or not but he simply nod.

"I don't see why not. You've been doing well in all of your lessons with me and I think you're more than prepared for the ball so there's no need to beat a dead horse. We'll just spend a little bit of our time getting to know the attendees and do a dance or two to keep you sharp and then I'll help you with your paper" he says and get's up to clear a space on his desk. 

"You'll help me?" I question, his willingness to sacrifice our lesson time for my extracurriculars surprising.

"I know it's important to you and if there's any way I could be of any sort of help to you then just let me know. You can work at my desk if you'd like" he says, picking up my bag that he knows has my laptop in it and bringing it over to said desk. 

It's times like these where he's sending me mixed signals of going from an etiquette teacher to someone who seems to truly care about me that makes me almost want to ask him questions like 'What are we?' or 'What are your intentions with me?' but even that last one is too open ended. 

"Are you alright?" he asks, when I haven't moved a muscle to walk over to his desk yet leaving me shaking my head in a way to get me out of my train of thought. 

"Yes. Sorry, yes I'm fine. I'm just trying to figure out what sort of topic I'd like to write about" I explain, owning up to what my partial train of thought might've been earlier. 

"Well what sort of contest is it? Is it for an article? A study?" he asks, going at it with a more academic approach, which makes sense in this case it's anything but that.

"It's creative writing. Basically anything from stories of love to poems of heartbreak to even the most suspenseful horror thrillers you could come across!" I say, getting more excited as time goes by, thinking about all the possibilities and topics I could write about. 

Picking one though is going to be difficult.

"Have you chosen your genre yet?" he asks and I plop myself down on his desk chair, sighing and opening up the blank document that I've been staring at off and on for weeks. 

"You haven't even started it?" he sighs and I shake my head, disheartened at the thought of waisting so much of my precious free time with nothing to show for it.

"What do you usually write about?" he asks, helping me work through the creative process. "Mostly love stories" I sigh and when I look up at him I see him smiling down at me, "Don't laugh" I glare and he holds his hands up in surrender. 

"I wasn't laughing, I was smiling. There's a difference" he smirks and brings a chair over to sit near me. "Yeah well don't do that. It makes me feel like you're mocking me for being a lovesick schoolgirl" I grumble and he chuckles. 

"Aren't you?" he says, resting his elbow on the desk and propping his chin on his fist, giving me that infuriatingly attractive grin he knows does wonders on a girl's nervous system. "No, I'm not. Now would you please be quiet if you're not going to be helpful" I huff, pulling the flyer out of my bag and giving it a once over. 

"Okay enough with the teasing I'll help" he says and looks over my shoulder to check it out as well before I hand it to him and go looking through my Pinterest board to see if I can find some inspiration.

"Have you ever written a love story set in the eighteen hundreds? Something to do with kings and queens? Princes and Princesses?" he suggests and I know for a fact that I haven't. "Isn't that a little too cheesy with the whole fairytale kind of route?" I say, pointing out how cliché it would be.

"Not if I help you" he offers and I look at him suspiciously. "What sorts of people do you think I would have to study in order to be a proper etiquette teacher?" he says, his words answering the question I had telepathically asked. 

"I guess you'd be the perfect collaborator in that respect" I admit and he nods and moves his chair closer making me lean away from him as a response. 

"You know I don't bite pretty now come on, we've got some work to do" he taunts, slipping in that pet name he knows messes with my head, leaving me scoffing in response before turning back to the blank document staring me in the face on my computer screen. 

~~~~~

The next two days we do just as he had said, spending an hour or two on my lessons and the rest on my story. However rushed it is I feel like it's my best story yet. 

The research on the time period has been simple since Jungkook's had all the answers and if not he finds them out for me, making this whole piece seem even more authentic.

When I take breaks Jungkook pours over the text, doing edits here and there and talking me through the scenes to help formulate some parts a little more artistically, making the regal setting come to life. 

Friday has been a different story, as both deadlines approach us the time we have left is in conflict of where our priorities should lie.

"We can skip our lesson today" Jungkook finally says after I've put my heels on. "But tomor-" "You're ready" he say, cutting me off mid sentence. "Spend the rest of your time on your story" he smiles softly and places a hand on my shoulder before leaving the room, no doubt to get us some sustenance to keep us going.

Something about the interaction made my heart flutter. His confidence in me as well as his want for me to spend time on something I'm truly passionate about makes a sort of funny feeling settle in my stomach. 

Am I-?

"Black or green tea this time?" he asks, coming back into the room with a little tray of food and tea pot ready to envelop the tea leaves of choice. "Black please, I need all the energy I can get" he chuckles and does just that, adding a few scoops to the pot before closing the lid and letting it steep. 

"Were you able to work on it again once you went home?" he asks, bringing my bag over to his desk and pulling my laptop out for me. "I did but it's hard to work on it without yo- without being here" I say, not wanting to admit that I in some way needed him, my cheeks heating up at the slip up.

"Right" he smiles, not sparing me a glance as he plugs in my charger and pulls the chair out for me. 

"Is everything alright?" he asks once he sees my hesitance in coming closer but I shake my head and as a result shake myself out of the headspace I had allowed myself to trail into.

"There's nothing to be nervous about" he says, reading me perfectly like he always does. "What if it's not good enough?" I sigh, my hands resting in my lap, not making moves to reach for the keys. 

"It's a beautiful story told from the heart about a love so true one could only dream to experience something so heartbreaking" he says and his compliment however sincere seems unable to reach me now.

Once he's seen my head droop further he turns my chair around and crouches in front of me, tilting my chin up the slightest bit. "Your writing is beautiful. Anyone who's eyes get to land on a single word of yours should thank their lucky stars" he says making me smile just the slightest bit.

"There she is" he says with a warm tone, one I had never heard before making my heart flutter once again. 

"Now come on" he says spinning me back around to face the screen. "We've got a deadline to meet do we not?" he says and places his hands on my shoulders as a way to show some confidence and solidarity, believing in me until his last breath.

"We do indeed" I chuckle softly and finally rest my fingers upon those familiar keys.

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