#because you could still see the light in my..... not eyes. but something like that in these words.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

[torlibram]

The broth plot thickens...

I was sitting at the bar when he walked in. He was tucking his collar back up over the costume beneath, nobody gets into Joe's without a flash of the mask or cape, and his gaze flicked around the room as he strode towards the bar. I guess he didn't see any challenges to his authority because the stride took on an extra swagger for the last few steps.

"Vodka, no ice," he said flatly and Joe nodded, placing a glass before him before turning to pull the bottle down from the shelf. I watched him from the corner of my eye as he tensed up, then forced relaxation as Joe up-ended the bottle over his glass. Joe made to turn away again, but the newcomer's hand blurred as he caught Joe's wrist. "Leave it," he told Joe coldly. I saw the colour of his sleeve as he took the bottle and I knew.

"You're him," I told him, raising my glass in salute. "Razorfin."

"What's it to you?" he snarled. I raised my hands in apology.

"Whoa, no offence intended, man." None out loud, anyway, I thought. "Just that you're the guy that took Flashflood all the way out to sea."

Razorfin smirked. "Yeah. What were Team Ultra thinking, putting a water hero up against me?"

I laughed and tipped my glass to him again. "Heroes? Thinking with something other than muscles?" That drew an actual laugh. "What was it you actually did to him, anyway? All I heard was the usual scuttlebutt and that you had killed him."

He refilled his glass and held it up to the dim lighting, studying the way the alcohol clung to the sides. "Poetic justice," he said quietly. "A tank of water small enough to stop him getting any strength behind his waves, sealed to stop him pushing the water out altogether, and a grating with four dozen piranha behind it. I'd cut him a few times during the fight, naturally, then lured him into there. All those leetle, teeny fishes with leetle, teeny teeths." He chuckled malevolently. I did my best to hide a shudder.

"Who are you, anyway?" he asked. I sheepishly pulled up the old hoodie I was wearing to show the bowl with the 'S' stylised above it in wisps of steam. He raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know you were still operating. Captain Crouton, isn't it?"

I winced, the local rag had dubbed me that after the big heist four years ago; I was still trying to live it down. "Might as well be," I shrugged, "my original codename got lawyered to death."

He thought for a moment. "Souperm-"

It was my turn to snarl, I tried to put as much effortless menace into as he had, but even to my ears, it rang hollow. "Don't finish that word."

"Or what?" he sneered. "You'll garnish me?"

I sneered right back at him, but again there was the difference between us: He was out-and-out violence, barely restrained by a veneer of manners. I was of an older school of villain, better suited to rough and tumble with a few cops every now and again, give them stories they could tell their kids, give their uniforms stains that would take weeks to get all the way out. Maybe I would get a hero's attention now and again, splash the papers, remind everyone that I was still around, but I wasn't exactly an A-list threat.

And that was the problem, I realised. Razorfin was, if you'll pardon the expression, a big fish in a small pond. The local squad from Team Ultra were B- and C-listers, just like me. He would go through them one after another until he drew some heavy attention. The New York squad, even. Then most of the town would get flattened in over-enthusiastic super-shenanigans and the game would be over for all of us, even the survivors. No, Razorfin had to go, and it had to be permanent. Not like those A-listers who turn out to have been a clone or a robot duplicate or whatever. My gut churned at the thought of what I was going to have to do.

I raised a finger at Joe. "His bottle's on me," I told him. "Fair play for getting Flashflood off the scene." Joe nodded.

"He was just for starters," said Razorfin.

I nodded as if in agreement. "So who's next?" He shrugged.

"Whoever gets in my way."

I stood up and reached out to my power. Maybe it was something in the set of my shoulders, maybe he was just wired and edgy, but suddenly he was in a combat stance, the coat shredding away as his fins flicked out to attack positions. I never gave him a chance to move any further, my power rolled out of me and enveloped him in a cloud that only I have ever been able to see.

He managed a single scream as he melted. Most of his body from ribs to knees was dissolving, losing structure and cascading to the floor. I kept out of arm's reach, just in case and steadied myself on the bar. I'd never killed before, but it was the only way I could see to prevent him from running amok. He managed a last word: "Why?"

"Because you don't want to play the game." I told him. "You just want to hurt people and then hurt more people and hurt them worse and so on until someone manages to stop you. Because that's what you call fun. Well, that someone is me. Because I like this town. I like the people, I like a quiet life with what remains of my ill-gotten gains from a life of crime. And you? You couldn't give a shit, could you? Which is why I did this now before anyone else gets hurt."

I took a deep breath and coughed. What? The smell rising from the pool of villain-turned-soup was unexpected. I mean, I don't get to choose the flavour, but thematically, I would have thought it would be some kind of chowder, a bisque maybe. But no, all that was left of Razorfin were his feet, shins, arms, head and a gallon of minestrone.

You pretend to be a small-time villain. At most, you annoy the local supers, but your crimes never hurt anyone. To you it's all good fun. Things change when a truly sadistic supervillain invades your turf and murders a few of the supers. No one has seen the extent of your true powers until now.

[s4svnn]

Shower

Your stubbornness is part of what brought you together—it’s a fire that keeps things passionate and exciting. But at times, it can also be exhausting, especially when neither of you is willing to admit fault because of your pride. Arguments can escalate quickly, with both of you refusing to back down each determined to prove a point, so when things heat up maybe the best way to cool off is together…in the shower.

Pairing: F1 racer Jungkook x reader

Genre: fluff, angst, smut (18+)

Warnings/content tags: couples argument, egos, stubbornness, slapping, unprotected sex, rough sex, degradation kink, possessiveness, hair pulling, boob play, fingering, mirror sex, back shots, orgasm denial, sub + dom dynamic, spanking.

Word count: 5k

The door slammed shut behind us with a force that rattled the walls, the echo reverberating through the tense silence. My heart pounded against my ribs, my breaths coming in uneven gasps still heated from the argument that had started long before we even reached his house.

The air between us was thick with unspoken words, the weight of frustration pressing down on my chest. The dim glow from the entryway lights cast jagged shadows across Jungkook’s sharp features, emphasizing the tight clench of his jaw and the flicker of something dark in his eyes. His fists were curled at his sides, his posture rigid, as his entire body radiated barely restrained frustration.

"He likes you. I can tell."

I spun around so fast my hair whipped over my shoulder, my blood boiling at the audacity of his words. My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms as I glared at him.

"No, he doesn’t! We’re just friends!"

Jungkook exhaled sharply, the sound more of a scoff than a sigh, his lips twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smirk but wasn’t entirely devoid of amusement either. His head tilted slightly, the way it always did when he didn’t believe a single word coming out of my mouth, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as if he was holding back the urge to laugh at my denial.

"You really believe that?" he asked, his voice slow and skeptical, every syllable laced with quiet challenge.

I folded my arms across my chest, planting my feet firmly against the floor as I met his gaze with unwavering defiance, refusing to let him intimidate me. "Yes, because it’s the truth," I said, my voice steadier now.

Jungkook took a step forward, closing the distance between us just slightly, but enough for the air to shift, enough for the space between us to feel too small, too charged. The weight of his presence was suffocating, the intensity in his gaze making my pulse pound harder, though I refused to let him see the effect he had on me.

"People don’t look at their friends like that, Aylah," he murmured, his voice dropping lower, almost like a warning. "He looks at you like he wants to eat you alive."

A sharp, incredulous laugh burst from my lips, my head shaking as I fought the urge to scream at how ridiculous this entire conversation was. "I told you, he doesn’t like me!" I repeated, my voice rising in frustration. "And even if he did, I don’t like him!"

That should have been the end of it. That should have been enough. But of course, with Jungkook it never was, he just had to get the last word.

Before I could take a step back and create even an inch of space between us, he moved faster, quicker than I could react. His arms came up in an instant, trapping me between them, his hands pressing against the couch behind me as my back met the soft fabric. My breath caught in my throat, my pulse spiking as my body suddenly became hyperaware of the heat radiating from him.

"You sure about that?" he murmured, his voice quieter now, softer, but somehow even more dangerous than before. His eyes flickered over my face, searching, watching, waiting for something—an answer, a reaction, a crack in my defense. "I see the way you smile at him."

I scoffed, forcing myself to hold his gaze even though my heart was hammering so loudly I was sure he could hear it. "What, so I can’t smile at people now?" I shot back, my voice sharp, desperate to shift the focus away from the way his words made my stomach twist.

Jungkook exhaled, the sound rough, like he was trying to push down something simmering just beneath the surface. "That’s not what I’m saying," he muttered, his jaw clenching. "It’s just… I don’t trust that guy."

"Wow," I said, my voice dripping with disbelief. "So you don’t trust him, but you trusted Jade?"

His entire body went still. His grip on the couch tightened, his knuckles turning white as he processed my words, as they settled into the space between us like a ticking time bomb.

"What did you just say?" His voice was colder now—but I didn’t care.

I held my ground, refusing to flinch under the weight of his stare. "You trusted a bitch like Jade," I said, voice steady, unwavering, my eyes locked onto his. "But you draw the line at my harmless secretary?"

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence, suffocating and heavy.

Then, Jungkook let out a dark, humorless laugh, one that sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn’t amused. It wasn’t light. It was empty, hollow, laced with something almost cruel.

"Like you’re any better," he muttered, his voice laced with venom. His gaze flickered with something dangerous. "You were friends with the guy that tried to kill me."

The words barely registered before my hand moved on its own. The slap echoed through the room, the sharp crack of skin against skin cutting through the heavy silence like a gunshot. Jungkook’s head snapped to the side from the force, his cheek instantly reddening where my palm had struck. My chest heaved, shock rushing through me, overtaking the anger in an instant.

My lips parted, my voice barely above a whisper. "S-Shit, Jungkook, I didn’t mean to—"

Slowly, he turns his head back to face me, his gaze dark and unreadable. The tension in the air thickened as the sound of my pulse hammered in my ears.

Before I could fully register what was happening, his fingers tightened around my wrist, his grip firm and unrelenting as he pulled me forward. A startled gasp slipped past my lips, my feet barely keeping up as he led me up the stairs with a determination that left no room for hesitation. 

A strange mix of nervousness and excitement twisted in my stomach, making it impossible to tell whether I wanted to pull away or let myself be dragged deeper into whatever this was turning into. The hallway blurred around us, my focus narrowing to the burn of his fingers against my skin and the charged energy radiating off him in waves.

The moment we reached his room, he didn’t stop. With a swift motion, he shoved open the bathroom door and pulled me inside, the sharp sound of the lock clicking into place sending a shiver down my spine. Finally, his grip loosened, my wrist slipping from his grasp. I barely had time to catch my breath, to make sense of the storm raging inside me, before my eyes widened at his next move.

Jungkook reached for the hem of his shirt, and in one fluid motion, he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. My breath hitched as the dim bathroom light cast shadows across his toned chest, the slow rise and fall of his breathing making the tension between us all the more unbearable. He took a deliberate step forward, his gaze locked onto mine, dark and unreadable.

"You wanna fight?" he murmured, his voice low.

I swallowed hard, but he didn’t give me time to answer.

He took another step forward, and suddenly there was nowhere left to go, my back meeting the cool tile wall as his presence surrounded me once more. His eyes flickered over my face, watching, waiting.

"Then let’s fight."

“W-what?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his fingers curled around the bottom of my shirt, the warmth of his touch burning through the fabric as he slowly, deliberately bunched it up between his fingers. The space between us was nonexistent, the heat radiating off him swallowing me whole, leaving me breathless as if I was trapped in the storm of his presence.

He leaned in, so close that I felt the ghost of his breath against my skin, the scent of him familiar and intoxicating as it pulled me under. His lips hovered just beside my ear, his voice low.

"Show me just how much you hate me."

His fingers loosened their grip on my shirt, releasing the fabric like he was giving me a choice, like he was daring me to move, to say something to stop him. But I couldn’t. My breath was trapped in my throat, my body rooted to the spot as I watched him.

Without breaking eye contact, Jungkook reached for the waistband of his jeans, undoing the button with slow but steady movements, testing my reaction. The fabric slid down his legs, pooling at his feet before he stepped out of them, his confidence unshaken. Then, without hesitation, he removed the last barrier between him and the heat of the shower, leaving nothing between us but the charged energy hanging heavy in the air.

I stood frozen, my mind scrambling to catch up with what was happening, with what he was doing—what he was trying to prove. My mouth parted slightly, but no words came out.

Jungkook didn’t smirk this time, didn’t taunt me like I expected him to. Instead, he turned, stepping into the glass-enclosed shower without another word. The sound of the water turning on filled the space, the steam curling around him as hot droplets cascaded down his skin. And still, I stood there, unmoving, pulse hammering, thoughts spinning in every direction. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

My breath came in shallow bursts as my fingers curled around the door handle. My first instinct was to leave, to put as much space between us as possible before this fight spiraled into something I couldn’t control. But my grip hesitated, knuckles turning white as I stood frozen in place.

If I left now, nothing would be resolved. We’d still be angry, still be drowning in the same unresolved tension that had been building for too long. But if I stayed… I was throwing myself right into the fire, into whatever storm was waiting for me on the other side of that glass door.

My chest rose and fell unsteadily as I slowly pressed down on the handle, feeling the slight give beneath my palm. I could still walk away. I could leave before this went too far. But then my gaze flickered back. The steam clung to the glass, blurring the outline of Jungkook’s figure behind the shower door. Water streamed down his body in rivulets, his movements controlled, as if he was waiting—no expecting me to make a choice.

I swallowed hard, heart pounding in my chest. And then, without fully understanding why, I released the handle. My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the hem of my shirt, dragging it over my head before letting it fall to the floor. One by one, each article of clothing followed until the cool air met my bare skin, sending a shiver through me that had nothing to do with the temperature.

I took a slow step forward, my pulse roaring in my ears. Then another. My fingers brushed against the glass as I reached for the shower door, my breath catching as I pulled it open. There was no turning back now.

The rush of steam hit me first, wrapping around my skin like a second layer, thick and heavy. Water cascaded down Jungkook’s back, droplets tracing over every muscle, his posture relaxed yet tense in a way that made my stomach twist. He didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge my presence at first, as if waiting to see if I’d hesitate again.

But I didn’t. I stepped inside, my bare feet meeting the slick tiles as the heat of the water seeped into my skin. My pulse hammered in my ears, a steady rhythm that refused to slow no matter how deep of a breath I took.

Then Jungkook finally moved. His head tilted slightly, just enough for me to see the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his wet hair clung to his forehead. When he finally turned to face me, his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. Neither of us spoke. Droplets of water rolled down his face, clinging to his lips, his chest rising and falling steadily despite the storm raging between us.

Then, slowly, he took a step forward. Before I could react, his hand shot out, gripping my wrist, and in one swift motion, he yanked me forward. A startled gasp left my lips as I crashed against him, my bare skin meeting his, the heat of his body searing into mine like a brand causing my nipples to harden. Water streamed between us, slicking our skin, but nothing could cool the fire igniting in my veins.

For a split second, we just stood there, bodies pressed together, chests rising and falling in sync. His breath was hot against my lips, his grip on me unrelenting.

Then his lips crashed against mine with a hunger that stole the air from my lungs, like he’d been holding back for too long and had finally snapped. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me impossibly closer, as if he needed me like oxygen, like this was the only way to breathe. I didn’t think—I couldn’t. My fingers tangled into his wet hair, nails scraping against his scalp as I kissed him back just as fiercely, pouring every ounce of frustration, anger, and something dangerously close to desperation into him.

The water pounded down around us, the steam curling between our bodies, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was him—his touch, his lips, the way he consumed me like he had no plans of stopping.

And, god help me, I didn’t want him to.

I barely had time to catch my breath before his mouth found my neck. A sharp gasp escaped me as his lips latched onto my skin, hot and unrelenting. He kissed, sucked, nipped, his breath ragged against my damp skin as he worked his way down, finding every sensitive spot with infuriating precision.

My hands clung to his shoulders, the muscles beneath my fingers tensing with every movement. His tongue flicked over my collarbone before he sucked at the delicate skin, teeth grazing just enough to send a shudder down my spine.

I tilted my head back against the tiled wall, my lips parting as waves of sensation crashed over me. The heat of the water, the steam curling around us, the feeling of his lips against my skin—it was too much and not enough all at once.

Without warning, Jungkook moved lower, his lips trailing a path of heat down my neck, past my collarbone, leaving a tingling trail in their wake. My breath hitched, my body tense with anticipation, but nothing could have prepared me for what came next.

His mouth latched onto my right breast, lips wrapping around the sensitive skin as he sucked, hard and purposeful. A strangled gasp left me, my head falling back as my fingers dug into his shoulders. My legs threatened to give out beneath me, the sudden rush of pleasure making me feel weightless and unsteady.

At the same time, his other hand found my left breast, his fingers rough and demanding as they kneaded the soft flesh. He squeezed, thumb flicking over my nipple before tugging, sending another sharp jolt of sensation straight through me.

My stomach clenched, heat pooling low, my body betraying me completely. The contrast between the warmth of his mouth and the firm touch of his hand had my mind spinning, every nerve in my body hyper-aware of him, of the way he was taking his time, dragging this out like he wanted to unravel me piece by piece.

I tried to suppress a moan, but it slipped out anyway, soft and breathless. Jungkook groaned in response, his teeth grazing over my sensitive skin before sucking harder, like he wanted to hear more, like he wanted to push me past the point of reason.

I clung to him, nails scraping against his damp skin as the heat of the shower wrapped around us, steam curling in the air like a haze, thick and suffocating. My heart pounded wildly against my ribs, my pulse a frantic rhythm in my ears.

Jungkook pulled back slightly, his breath warm against my skin as he murmured, voice low and rough, "Look at you… shaking already."

I barely had time to glare before his tongue flicked over the spot he had just abused, soothing the mark he had left behind. The smugness in his voice should have irritated me, but my body had other ideas, betraying me completely as another shudder ran through me. Jungkook's hands gripped my waist firmly, and in one swift motion, he spun me around. A soft gasp escaped me as my back collided with his chest, the warmth of his damp skin pressing against mine, his every breath sending a shiver down my spine.

Now facing the glass shower door, I was met with our reflection—our bodies slick with water, our skin flushed from heat and something far more dangerous. Steam clung to the glass, blurring the edges, but not enough to hide the way he towered over me, his dark eyes locked onto mine in the reflection, filled with something raw and unreadable.

His hands slid slowly up my sides, leaving a trail of fire in their wake before settling at my waist, his grip possessive, unyielding. I could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back, every inch of him pressed against me, making it impossible to ignore the tension crackling between us.

Jungkook lowered his head, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear as he let out a low, satisfied hum. "Don’t look away," he murmured, his voice dripping with something that sent another wave of heat through me.

I felt his hand trace a slow, deliberate path up the inside of my thigh, his fingertips barely grazing my skin. I refused to look down, knowing that if I did, I would completely unravel. But I could feel everything—his warmth, the steady pressure of his touch, the way he moved with agonizing patience, as if savoring every second.

Then, without warning, his fingers entered me, firm and unrelenting. A sharp gasp tore from my lips, my body jolting at the sudden contact. My hands shot out, pressing against the fogged-up glass in front of me, seeking something, anything to steady myself.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted, but my body had already betrayed me. My legs trembled, my breath coming in shallow bursts as his fingers moved at a maddening pace, pushing me to the edge of reason. My reflection in the glass was barely visible now, steam curling around us, blurring the lines between where I ended and he began. His free hand skimmed up my side, grabbing my left breast tightly, a stark reminder of who was in control.

"Tell me," he breathed, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. "Tell me how much you hate me."

"I-I hate you so much," I stammered, my voice barely above a breath. "You n-never listen… you just assume."

Jungkook let out a low, satisfied hum, but instead of slowing down, he did the opposite. His movements grew quicker, more insistent, tearing another sharp gasp from my lips.

"What else?" he murmured against my ear, his voice a deep, dangerous whisper.

I clenched my jaw, trying to fight against the flood of emotions surging through me, but it was useless. The frustration, the anger, the undeniable pull between us—it was all too much.

"Y-you think the world wants m-me," I managed between ragged breaths, my body betraying me with every shudder, every involuntary movement that pressed me closer against him. "But you never l-listen to what I want."

 "Then show me," he said, his voice low, steady. "Slap me."

I froze, staring at him in disbelief. "What?" My heart raced, unsure if I had heard him correctly, the air between us thick with tension.

"Slap me, take your anger out on me, do whatever the fuck you want to me." he repeated, his voice unwavering, though his jaw tightened as if bracing for my response.

I hesitated. The words lingered in the air, a challenge I didn’t know how to answer. My fingers twitched, my heart still pounding. I looked into his eyes, searching for the meaning behind the request, and finally, after what felt like an eternity, I raised my hand.

With one quick motion, my palm met his cheek, the sound of it sharp in the stillness of the shower.

At that, his pace quickened. His fingers explored with newfound urgency, reaching places that made my breath hitch and my body tense. A sharp gasp escaped me, my forehead pressing against the fogged-up shower door as a deep, twisting pressure coiled in my stomach, winding tighter and tighter with every second. My fingers trembled against the slick glass, my entire body caught in the storm he was pulling me into, leaving me powerless to do anything but hold on.

Then, with a firm grip, he spun me around to face him once more, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sent a fresh wave of heat through me. Before I could catch my breath, his hand slid down my thigh, strong and possessive, fingers digging in just enough to make me shudder. In one swift motion, he lifted my left leg, hooking it over his shoulder with effortless ease, his body pressing even closer to mine.

His face hovered near mine, so close that our breaths mingled, the space between us reduced to mere centimeters. His other hand never faltered, continuing its relentless pace moving in and out of me.

A sharp gasp tore from my lips as the sheer intensity of it overwhelmed me, my body jolting against his hold as I felt myself near my release. His dark eyes stayed locked onto mine, watching, no devouring every reaction, every unguarded moment of surrender as my mouth fell open, a broken sound escaping me.

Before I could even gather myself, he released me abruptly, spinning me around once more. The sudden movement had me slamming against the cold tiles, the impact sharp but oddly grounding. His grip on my hair was fierce, yanking me back so that my ass arched into him, his hardness of his length evident.

His other hand shot out with sudden force, capturing my wrists together, then in one swift motion, he yanked them behind my back the pressure on my arms leaving me vulnerable and completely at his mercy. 

His voice came low and dangerous, a growl against my ear. "You know what I hate about you?" he said, his fingers tightening in my hair, pulling my head back so I had no choice but to look at him. "You don’t fucking listen."

I tried to respond, but the words died on my tongue as he closed the distance between us, entering me in one go. I gasped, my mind going completely blank as I struggled to process the overwhelming sensation.

The fullness was intense, dizzying, and my body tensed in response, fighting to steady itself against the intrusion. Every thought scattered, replaced by nothing but the raw intensity of the moment, leaving me breathless and suspended in a haze of confusion and heat.

Jungkook began to move against me aggressively, the severity of his actions causing my ass to clap against him as he plunged into me harder and harder, "You think these guys want to be friends with you?" His words were sharp, filled with something darker, something that stirred the heat between us even further.

"You really believe they have good intentions?" he asked, his words laced with frustration. His grip on me tightened, before his hand came down on my ass with a firm slap at my lack of response, once, twice, three times.

I mewled at the stinging sensation as I stared up at him, his anger evident in his expression as he continued to move against me. “They don’t care about you,” he said, his tone edged with something sharp and almost desperate. “They just want to know how to get to you. How to tear you apart.”

His words hit me harder than I expected, the rawness in his voice drawing my attention. It wasn’t just anger I heard, but a deep, underlying fear. 

His movements became more frantic, each thrust more urgent than the last. The heat between us surged, my body igniting under the intensity, every touch sending a jolt of electricity through my veins. My skin tingled with an intense, overwhelming mix of sensations as he gripped me with a force that left its mark. Red and purple bruises bloomed across my body, a testament to the desperation in his touch.

Each one felt like an imprint of something raw, something unspoken. I could feel myself nearing the edge, the tension coiling tighter inside me, my heart pounding with both anticipation and fear—afraid that, just like before, he might pull away again, leaving me suspended in that agonizing space of uncertainty, proving his point at the cost of everything we shared.

His grip tightened further, and his breath was hot against my ear as he spoke, his words laced with a possessive edge that sent a shiver down my spine.

“They just want to fuck you," he murmured, his voice low and strained. "They want to know how it feels to be inside you, but I won’t let them. You’re mine."

His words lingered in the air, the weight of them pressing down on me like a heavy storm cloud. There was no mistaking the intensity in his voice, the conviction in the way he held me. 

“I won’t let them near you,” he muttered, his voice dark, almost possessive. “They think they can have a piece of you. Touch you. Know you. But you’re mine, Aylah. No one else gets to claim you. Not ever.”

He leaned in closer, his lips grazing the side of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. “I don’t care if they smile at you or talk to you,” he continued, his breath hot against my skin. “I don’t care what they think they can do. I’m the only one who gets to touch you. You belong to me, and I won’t let you forget that.”

I stood there, frozen for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. The possessiveness in his voice wasn’t just about control; it was about fear. Fear of losing me. Fear that I might slip away, as if I were something fragile, something worth holding onto with everything he had.

“You’re mine,” he repeated, this time softer, but with an intensity that sent a fire through my chest. “No one else matters. You don’t belong to anyone but me.”

At the realisation that I was lost in the moment, completely absorbed by his words, he abruptly released himself into me gasping against the back of my neck as he remained inside me. I gasped sharply, my breath coming in ragged bursts as my chest rose and fell with the intensity of my own release, each inhale shaky, every exhale heavy. 

As his grip finally loosened, I turned to face him, my heart pounding in my chest, still reeling from the intensity of everything that had just happened. Without hesitation, I reached up, cupping his cheek gently in my hand, feeling the warmth of his skin under my touch.

"You need to stop worrying," I said softly, trying to steady the emotions that still swirled between us. "I'm a big girl. I can handle myself."

He leaned into my touch, his eyes closing for a moment as if my words were a quiet comfort, but when he opened them again, the concern was still there. "I know," he murmured, his voice low and almost vulnerable. "But I just...I don't want you getting hurt."

My heart ached at the tenderness in his voice. Slowly, I pressed my forehead to his, grounding us both in the moment. "I know, baby," I whispered. "But you just need to trust me. I promise, I'm not like Jade."

For a moment, his eyes faltered, as if my words had struck something deep inside of him. He let out a shaky breath, the weight of his fear still present. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible. Then, almost instinctively, he leaned into me, his head resting gently against my chest. "I know you're not like her," he whispered, his words full of quiet regret. "But I can't help but be scared. These feelings...they're all I'm used to."

I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him closer, running my fingers through the back of his hair in a soothing motion. "I know," I said softly, the understanding in my voice steady. "And it's okay. It's going to take time, but all I can ask from you is to put faith in us."

He pulled back slightly, lifting his head to look into my eyes. There was something different in the way he looked at me now, a tenderness, a deep honesty. "I do," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you."

My chest tightened at his words, the love between us palpable. And before I could say anything else, he closed the distance, kissing me deeply. I reciprocated, pouring everything I felt into the kiss—relief, love, and the silent promise that we'd face everything together.

Then, without warning I pushed him down so that he was sat on his knees. He looked up at me, startled by my sudden movement, his eyes wide with confusion as he stammered, "W-what...?" I didn’t dignify him with a response and instead threw my leg over his shoulder, pulling him closer with a determined tug so that his face was against my heat.

I looked down at him, a smirk tugging at the corners of my lips, but there was a sharpness to my tone. "You love me, huh?" I said, the words dripping with sarcasm as I raised an eyebrow, daring him to defend it. "Then finish me properly like a good boy."

He was taken aback by my words, clearly caught off guard, but he quickly tried to mask his surprise, forcing himself to regain control. After a brief pause, he let out a strained "Yes, ma’am." 

I gripped his hair tightly, yanking him closer as I guided his movements with a firm, unrelenting pull, pushing him further into my heat until he had no space to breathe. He slowly ran his tongue along my folds, savoring each movement. His eyes flickered up, watching me as he gently sucked on my clit, the rhythm of his actions drawn out, each flick of his tongue creating a subtle tension between us. 

I couldn't help but smirk, the playful edge to my voice matching the energy in the air. "Good boy," I teased softly, my words laced with a hint of approval. "You like that, don’t you?"

As he quickened his rhythm, he gave a soft murmur, “Yeah,” the word rolling off his tongue. Without warning, his hand grasped my other leg, lifting it and tossing it over his shoulder to mirror the first. In one swift motion, he stood, leaving me perched on his shoulders, my body leaning slightly forward as I tried to steady myself.

He stepped forward, pressing me firmly against the tiles, the cool surface sending a shiver through me as he resumed his movements with even more intensity. He sucked harder and harder causing my feet to curl behind his back as I felt myself release into his mouth, but he wasn’t done, instead he kept his mouth in place taking in every last drop of me as I watched it trickle down his chin.

His eyes closed for a moment, "I can’t get enough of you," he murmured.

I smirked, watching him enjoy the moment. “Good thing you’ve got forever to experience this,” I teased, the playful tone in my voice adding a lighthearted edge to the moment.

He met my gaze, his eyes intense, the smirk never leaving his lips. "I'll make sure to savor every second of it then."

[pboogerswbb]

SO IT GOES - chapter 11

Paige Bueckers x oc Warnings: language, sexual content (smut), uhh badly proofread Wordcount: 7.7K A/C: hii i know i know i promised this yesterday but i nearly had a panic attack so i couldn't, my bad. i'm good now! please enjoy this before paige's last game at XL :((

-

Before London

“So as everyone can see, here we have a list of statistics showing the viewership per video and definitely can see an increase from last year, content with Paige seems to do extremely well like we…”

Linda’s voice blends into the background sounds of cutlery and plates and chatter filling the dining hall. For some reason my boss thought an impromptu media team meeting was in order and showed up to College Park Center unannounced. She wanted to catch up on what sort of content attracted most viewership, and to evaluate what worked and what didn’t. I couldn’t have cared less - all I knew is I was doing a good job, fantastic even. I’m not sure why I had to sit through something I already knew just to have Linda reiterate it to me. It wasn’t like me to be resistant to a meeting, or to praise from my superior but I was far too distracted.

My eyes involuntarily keep travelling to the table on the far right where Paige was sitting with her teammates, voice echoing around the walls of the building. A sound I fear I might never get tired of. The blonde is leaning back on her chair, chugging water, biceps more prominent than usual after spending all morning in the weight room. I knew this because she had driven me to work, despite having time off saying she needed to lift. I knew it wasn’t in her schedule as I had, almost accidentally, memorised it. Still there she had been, outside my door with a hazelnut latte, always somehow the perfect temperature whenever she brought me my coffee order. I hated when it was too hot.

As if sensing me, her blue eyes shift from Arike to me, locking with my gaze. Immediately I blush, trying to hide the smirk growing onto my face. But I can’t, so I cover my mouth with my hand to hide it from the team, particularly Linda, Paige’s mouth twisting into a bright smile in response. Yet we don’t break eye contact, keeping our eyes on each other.

Linda had been surprisingly credulous to my claims of a migraine when I missed work just a couple days ago. Since the night the blonde turned my entire world on its head. I hadn’t been able to think of anything ever since except the weight of her lips on my skin, her eager touch and starved eyes. I had been craving her every second since we drove back to Dallas. I needed more. As much as it pained me to admit.

With a grin on her face, Paige grabs her phone and types for a while, my screen lighting up with a notification.

Paige

Did i say how beautiful you look today yet

I blush, tapping underneath the table.

You did. A few times in the car.

Matter of fact she had been repeating it between sentences, and almost crashed the car twice because of how badly she had been staring.

Gotta tell you again

Takin my breath away all the way from over there

Finest girl I swearrrrr

I can’t help but smile.

You look like you’re breathing fine 🙄

I lift my gaze, seeing the blonde rubbing her chest and looking at her phone with a smirk.

Trust me ma

What Linda doin here?

Some sort of unnecessary meeting, I’m not sure why.

What time you getting off work?

I have a couple things to do after this but if you’re done you can go home, I’ll take a cab.

Fuck no i’ll wait

I could do some stretchin

You should join me

I let out a silent chuckle, shaking my head to myself.

Paige!!

What??? Would be good for those tense muscles yk

Could think of sum other stuff to relax you too 😏😏

With a scoff I glance at the blonde who’s already looking with a playful, devilish grin. I look at her scoldingly, watching as she raises her brows and bites her lower lip to kill the smile before pointing at her phone, showing me she wants me to reply.

Why do I have an idea of what that might be?

Yeah? 

“So what do you think Izara?” Linda asks, snapping me back to reality.

“Uhh… Of?” I murmur, placing my phone screen down onto the table, thighs burning with the memory of how good the blonde had made me feel just a few days before.

“Do you think we can reach our goal followers-wise or are we being too ambitious?”

I quickly pull myself together, though I’ve barely heard a word. “Certainly if we keep pumping out content every day.” I don’t actually even know what goal we’re talking about.

However, my answer satisfies Linda, her mouth twisting into a smile. “Excellent!”

“Excuse me,” I hum, getting up from the table to grab an extra bottle of water. Paige, who has been watching, does the same, unable to not take advantage of the opportunity to talk to me.

I feel a gentle bump on my arm, eyes immediately snapping to the girl who’s looking smug as I eye the bottles.

“Hey pretty girl,” she whispers, placing a hand on my lower back. I quickly glance back at the media team to make sure no one was looking. To my relief they’re all too busy leaning in to stare at Trey who’s showcasing our latest content on his phone.

“Hey you,” I reply, my voice soft, quiet so no one can hear. Paige stands behind me, eyes skimming the different bottles of drinks as if mulling over her decision on what to get. But I know better. She’s stalling to stay talking to me. We had barely had any time to spend alone, my mind too busy wrapped up with work, Paige spending every waking moment on the court trying to get her shot back.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask, reaching over for the bottle and holding it in my hand. Paige thinks for a second, grabbing a bottle of gatorade. All I can do is stare at her hands, mesmerised. Perfect hands that made me feel so incredible.

“Uhh nothing, why?”

“I’m coming over.”

Paige’s ears turn red, as she clears her throat, the idea immediately getting the younger girl flustered.

“Y-Yeah okay Iz,” she whispers, voice trembling a little. The effect I have on the girl makes me smile. It pleased me to know I had so much power over her. Little did she know she held just as much power over me, I was just much better at hiding it. However, my cheeks turn a hint of pink thinking about the possibilities of what might happen once we get a moment alone.

“Okay Paige,” I smile, eyes stuck on her flushed face. “I’ll see you in a couple hours.”

-

Waiting a couple hours had turned out to be much harder than I had planned, the thought of Paige’s hands on my body enough to have me growing wet in a matter of minutes. I couldn’t bear to wait a moment longer to feel the younger girl on me. Paige had felt the same, which had led us to our current predicament, my back pushed against the door of the storage room, the girl kissing my neck feverishly as my hands roam her body. The door handle digs into my lower back painfully but I barely notice.

“Paige,” I whimper, but she silences me with a heated kiss, tongue slipping past my lips into my mouth. My kisses are needy, desperate, a quiet moan spilling out when Paige’s hand kneads my ass, my short skirt hiking up as she does.

“You’re so sexy ma,” the blonde groans, lips glistening as she pulls back to look at me. “Killing me in a skirt like that.”

“Wore it for you,” I tease. Paige melts, moaning just from my words.

My arms wrap around her shoulders as I pull her back into a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss by her hair. The blonde groans, lifting my skirt to squeeze the bare skin underneath, eyes opening to see the purple silk panties I was wearing. I hadn’t been prepared for the first time we slept together the way I liked to be, but after a meeting with my wax lady and a vigorous exfoliation routine last night I was prepared for her, my skin silky and smooth all for her from my head to my toes.

“Look at that,” she whispers, pulling back enough to admire the underwear sitting against my golden skin. “Goddamn.”

“Want you,” I hum, looking at her with round, pleading eyes. Paige takes a deep breath through her nose, groaning as she throws her head back. I know I’m driving her insane.

“We can’t,” she mumbles, rubbing the bridge of her nose in frustration. I’m taken back, slightly embarrassed. I never thought she’d reject me.

“Why not?”

Paige notices the surprise in my face, her blue eyes widening. “No, I want to. So fucking bad, you got no idea baby,” she starts, looking me up and down.

“Then what’s the problem?” I ask, getting annoyed which in turn makes my brows furrow.

“Iz I can’t just keep sleeping with you,” she sighs. “You’re more than that. You deserve more.”

I shake my head, pulling Paige back in by her sweaty T-shirt. She kisses me softly, nuzzling her nose into mine.

“I don’t care. I want you,” I repeat, the ache between my thighs nearly unbearable.

“I care,” the girl whispers, resting her forehead on mine. “Need to take you out on a date before we… y’know.”

I’m surprised, my eyes fluttering open.

“Need to do this right Izzie,” she hums, kissing the top of my head. “Need to take you out before I do all the things I’ve been dying to do to you.”

I nearly collapse at her words, grateful for the strength of her grip on my hips.

“Oh,” I say, feeling the blonde pull my skirt back down hesitantly.

“Please, lemme treat you right ma,” she pleads, kissing both my cheeks softly. “Lemme take you out. Been dying to, ever since I saw you. Please.”

-

Taking a deep breath, I look at my reflection in the mirror once more. White shorts and a white oversized button up, both neatly pressed not a single wrinkle on them. I’ve really gotten tan here. I lean closer to add the signature diamond studs onto my ears, smoothing over the hair slicked back into a low bun. I check my nails one more time, making sure each one is short and filed up to my standards. No, not mine. Up to Izzie’s standards. I look good, I wanted everything to be perfect for her. For my gorgeous, perfect London girl.

I grab the huge bouquet of white lilies and head downstairs, toying with my silver chain as I knock on the door. I don’t remember the last time I had been nervous over a girl before Izzie. So much for my plans to stay celibate this season. Like clockwork, the door opens.

I feel breathless when I see her. She’s wearing a bronze coloured satin dress, the perfect contrast against her skin, with spaghetti straps and a slightly plunging neckline, her breasts on display just enough to make me wanna look for a little too long. The dress isn’t too tight, clinging to her curves in all the right places, the hem ending at her calves. Her skin glows from her arms decorated with gold bracelets, all the way down to her calves and feet, beautifully arched in matching sandals. Izzie looks stunning, glowing with the power of a hundred suns.

I let out a low whistle, unsure what to say. I feel flustered, nervous in front of her. It was as if I was seeing her for the first time all over again, two months ago in this same hallway. 

“Whoa,” is all I can say, my palms sweating already.

Izzie giggles and then she does something I’ll never get over. She simply tilts her head, sharp eyes sparkling at me, slender fingers reaching over and fixing the collar of my shirt. And my knees nearly buckle.

“We don’t need to go out,” I mutter, leaning down to kiss the girl. But she tuts softly, pulling back and placing two fingers on my chin to stop me sternly.

“Lipgloss,” she grins, pushing my face back by my jaw playfully. “And yes we do, took me three hours to get ready.”

I can see that, every strand of her black hair carefully set in uniform waves running down her back. All I can do is stare at her, mouth open.

“Paige?” Izzie giggles.

“What?” I ask, cheeks bright red.

“The flowers?”

I glance down at the bouquet in my hand, handing them to the girl. “Oh yeah, these are for you,” I laugh awkwardly, nearly unable to look the girl in the eye.

“I love lilies,” she gleams, inhaling their scent and humming contentedly.  

“I know, you told me,” I smile, stepping in as she turns her back on me to put the flowers in a vase. My eyes travel from her hair downwards to the curve of her ass just for a moment, fighting the urge to pull up the hem and dive between her legs. I quickly glance up, trying to keep myself in check. Date first. Be respectful.

“You remembered,” Izzie smiles to herself, setting the flowers onto her dining table. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

The girl turns to me, throwing her hands around my shoulders and kissing me lovingly. 

“What about your lipgloss?” I mumble against her lips, one hand on her lower back, the other on her neck pulling her in.

“I’ll reapply,” she sighs. I loved the way she was, meticulous and disciplined. But my God did I adore the way she had loosened up around me, the way she seemed to have a newfound ease about her. How she arrived to work yesterday wearing pants and flats, giggling with her co-workers lightheartedly, the pearls of her laughter echoing around every room she entered. 

“Shit,” I pull back from the kiss with a struggle. “I got us a car baby, we should go.”

Iz whines in a way that pulls at my heartstrings, her brows furrowing in desperation, tracing her fingers up and down my arms, squeezing my biceps that had grown exponentially during my time in the league.

“You look so gorgeous,” Izzie hums, smoothing over my collar one last time, leaning close and pressing a kiss onto my collarbone. My eyes flutter shut momentarily.

“C’mon,” I sigh. “If we don’t go now we ain’t ever gon leave.”

-

“Paige,” I gasp as she opens the car door for me and I realise where we are. 

“What? You like?” The blonde grins, offering her hand to help me out and watching my face for approval. I step onto the pavement, wrapping my arm around hers as we walk into the building, the doorman letting us in with a polite smile. We step into the gorgeous, high-end restaurant, Paige smoothly letting the hostess know that we had arrived. 

I had mentioned Monarch countless times in conversation, brought up how the customer from Dallas that left an irrevocable mark on me made me swear to dine there at least once in my life. It was on the pricier side, and I’d grown used to a certain lifestyle which my current pay couldn't maintain so I had been burning through my savings - it simply wasn’t in the budget. Except now, with this millionaire girl on my arm I suppose it did. Truthfully, I would’ve been happy with less. But I won’t lie that she really hit the nail on the head with this one. I mean she listened. Remembering my brother’s name, my favourite flower, now this? She really listened to me. I didn’t know it could be like this.

“Paige,” is all I can mutter out with a happy sigh, my mouth twisting to a smile. Paige tugs at her silver chain absentmindedly, her eyes flickering around the room before always landing back on me.

I slide myself into the booth, Paige following behind me, making me laugh.

“Paige, your plate is on that side,” I giggle, pointing to the set cutlery opposite of me. 

“I’ll ask em to move it over here,” she mumbles, her arm snaking around my waist and pulling me close so my side presses into hers, the pressure of her thigh on mine.

“Isn’t that gonna look a little silly?” I chuckle, watching as Paige reaches over the table and moves her entire table arrangement next to mine. I blush, looking around hoping no one noticed. This was a nice place. I could tell it wasn’t the blonde’s scene. Something about that made this even more endearing. It was all for me.

“Ion care if it does, it’s too far from you,” she whines, entangling her fingers with mine underneath the table. My eyes land on her blue ones, her face only a few inches from me. Paige licks her lips, her gaze flickering to my lips. I feel a familiar ache between my thighs return just from the sheer proximity of the blonde, and the smell of her cologne.

“Wanna kiss you so bad right now,” she whispers, both our breathing growing heavy. I nod, wanting the same. But we both knew it was better not to. After Luka was traded out of Dallas Paige was one of the biggest athletes in the entire city. A household name easily. We weren’t just sneaking around behind Linda’s back, we had to keep this on the low from the whole world. It’s not like we had to talk about it - we both knew it.

“Gotta wait,” I hum, jumping slightly as the waiter interrupts the moment, looking to take our orders. Paige, in her American manner, orders multiple side dishes and salads for us to share, the table filled with Wagyu Carpaccio and Octopus. But the real star of the night is the lamb, which the customer made me swear to get if I ever ended up at Monarch.

“Oh my Gosh,” I groan quietly, letting the meat melt into my mouth. I smooth the napkin on my lap, the luxurious linen smooth underneath my palm. Taking a sip of my Merlot, I notice Paige beside me, cutting the gorgeous lamb into multiple bite-size pieces before putting the knife down and beginning to eat with the fork. I watch, astonished, amused and embarrassed at the same time.

“You are so American,” I laugh, swallowing the wine and covering my mouth. The younger girl turns to me, confused.

“Whatchu mean?” She giggles but I eye her plate, rolling my eyes.

“Can you not eat with a fork and a knife at the same time?” I ask, raising my brows. Paige huffs, though the small curl a the corner of her mouth tells me she’s basking in my slightly condescending tone, the scolding lilt of my voice.

“Guess you’ll have to teach me your fancy English ways huh?”

“Oh my Gosh,” I sigh amused.

“The fork is in the wrong handddd,” she complains, continuing to eat, fork on the right hand. I make a mental note to teach her table manners before she meets my parents. Then, realising that she never would, decide to stay quiet. This is just a fling, a summer romance at most. A rebound - it’s what I tell myself to ease the slight panic in my chest when I thought more about what the end of the season would bring, me going back home to London, leaving my American girl here. My one summer in Dallas, cruel and much too short. Just a few months is all we’d ever get. Against my nature, I try not to worry about it, hoving the anxiety to some deep, dark corner of my mind, under all the other things I didn’t want to deal with.

The moment I notice my glass is empty, the blonde is already reaching for the jug of water and pouring me some. I watch closely, heart fluttering with affection.

-

Dinner is amazing, a dream come true. The food, of course, delicious. But even better is the satisfied smile on the dark haired girl’s face. The way her eyes gleamed every time she looked at me. The sound of her sweet laughter whenever I did anything she redeemed “American”. The slightly condescending manner with which she corrected my table manners, praising me every time I did something right. Every cell in me wanted to please her. Hear more of her “good job” and “that’s it”. Feel the hand on my shoulder squeezing, affirming her words. I was ecstatic, even more so knowing that this was just the first of many dates. That I would get to take Izara out for years to come, hear her praises forever if I played my cards right. And I desperately wanted this to be forever. I know I was going way too fast. But I couldn’t help my mind from picturing her in a white dress, playing with our children, waiting for me at home after practice.

“I’m so full,” Izzie sighs, leaning back against the booth and rubbing up and down my arm affectionately. “You did so good with this darling.”

I melt, my eyes nearly rolling back at her praise, never mind the pet name.

“Lemme order you some dessert,” I nearly whine, my plate finished much earlier than Izara’s.

The girl leans over and checks the dessert menu, quickly skimming it over and scrunching her face.

“You too full baby?”

“Could we just go out and get some ice cream from a stand?” The girl asks, her green eyes fluttering at me. How could I ever say no?

“You sure? They got some nice dessert here. Fancy,” I ask, flipping the menu over in my hand. I wanted the girl to have whatever she wanted. I wanted to give her the entire world.

Izzie nods, placing her hand on my thigh. “Don’t want fancy, just want some ice cream.” I’m surprised, thinking the fancier the better. Maybe I was wrong.

-

The Dallas night is still as hot as the day, but there’s a pleasant breeze in place of the scorching sun from earlier. Izara looks even more beautiful in the glow of the city lights and under the twinkling night sky. I can’t tear my eyes away, nearly running into a pole from staring at her so much.

“Could I taste yours?” Izzie asks, handing me her chocolate ice cream cone. Wordlessly, without hesitation, I give her my strawberry cone, honestly ready to turn around and order five more of them for her.

I watch closely as Izara’s tongue darts out to taste the ice cream, a jolt running down my spine to my core, with dirty thoughts flooding my mind.

“Mmh, this is delicious,” she murmurs.

“Take it,” I say without hesitation. Izzie hums, accepting my offer quickly. Almost as if she expected it. Something about it drove me wild.

We walk around the city, hand in hand, easily blending in with the crowd, not worrying about familiar faces, making sure that with every turn I was walking on the street side, keeping her safe. I felt proud walking side by side with Izara, knowing that people walking by knew she was all mine. That I got a girl like this, far from my league. I wanted everyone to know that she’s mine - having to keep this hidden would turn out to be much harder than I imagined. Still, the idea of this being our little secret felt exciting.

The breeze and the ice cream cause goosebumps to form all over Izzie’s arms, a slight chill running through her. I curse myself in my head for not bringing a sweater, making a mental note to never go anywhere without one for her from now on.

“You ever miss London?” I ask, pulling her closer by her waist out of the way of someone walking by.

“No,” she quickly replies, surprisingly bluntly. I’m taken aback.

“Not at all?”

Izzie shakes her head. “Too many bad things in London.”

I immediately understand what she means. Jasper. At least the desperate phone calls had seemed to stop.

“You really don’t miss anything?”

The dark haired girl thinks for a while. “Well, I miss the chocolate. Nothing here tastes like Cadbury.”

We walk around, eager to finish the chocolate ice cream Iz ordered, but I slow down, trying to match the pace with which she’s eating out of politeness. My blue eyes roam her face, trying to memorise each little detail. Her dark, perfectly arched brows, long lashes darkened with mascara, plump lips with only a hint of the lipstick from earlier, fading from eating the ice cream. Her dark curls stick to her neck, desperate to escape the carefully shaped waves, golden necklace dangling at her collarbone. I reach over, my cold fingers making the girl jump when they adjust the clasp, dragging against her skin from the base of her neck to the back.

We come to a stop, Izara’s green eyes lined with black glimmering, her face turning different colors as ads flash red, blue, green on a screen by the sidewalk. The words spill from between my lips faster than I can think, let alone stop myself.

“I really like you Iz,” I murmur, looking into the girl’s eyes. “I mean, I think I’m fallin’ for you.”

Her breath hitches, eyes softening only for a moment, and then widening. With surprise? With panic? I’m not sure. I wouldn’t blame her. It wasn’t something you said on a first date. I wanted to smack the back of my own head for that. I quickly look up, in a momentary prayer hoping God would let me rewind just 20 seconds. But no one answers my request.

“Shit, I’m sorry if it’s too much. You don’t gotta say anything okay?” I tell Izzie, avoiding her gaze.

“It’s okay love,” she smiles, thumb brushing against my skin comfortingly. However, I see a hint of hesitation on her face. “But Paige I thi-”

“Look, let’s just forget I said that aight?” I ask, my chest aching, begging to God I didn’t just ruin this before it could even start.

“Paige,” Iz sighs, trying to comfort me. But I could tell she felt uneasy about something. “I think we just gotta remember that we need to be really careful about this, yeah?”

I sigh nodding. She’s right. “Yeah.”

“I mean the stakes aren't the same for you and me. If we get caught,” she starts, letting out a heavy breath. “I’ll be back in London in no time. You however would be completely fine.”

I nod, wanting the girl to know I was really hearing her out. “Gon be really careful okay?”

“No slip ups.”

“No ma’am,” I answer reassuringly.

“And you can’t tell anyone. Not a soul. Not Arike, not Lou, no one. They can’t know.”

“I agree,” I tell the girl. “Look, I meant what I said. Whatever you want me to be I’mma be.”

The girl smiles, for a moment I think there’s a hint of sadness there, but it’s gone just as fast as it appeared. “Today’s been… amazing.”

I bite my lower lip, hand coming to her lower back just for a moment. There was nothing in this world that felt as good as hearing her praise. Maybe winning the national championship. Top two things I’ve ever experienced.

“Wanted it to be special for you, Iz,” I hum, blushing a little. Just as she’s about to answer, her phone rings.

“It’s Trey,” she murmurs. Of course it is. I can’t help but roll my eyes, watching as she raises the phone to her ear and answers. That’s how we walk back to the car, the girl next to me talking animatedly on the phone about whatever, my irritation growing with each moment. I knew they were friends. But everytime she giggled or laughed at whatever the man on the phone was saying, my jaw clenched and breathing grew heavier.

“Okay, Trey I really must go. I’ll see you in a couple days,” Izzie, who had been trying to politely end the call, says. I hear Trey’s defiant protests all the way from the driver’s seat, making me want to grab the girl’s phone and hang up for her.

Iz laughs politely at whatever he said. “Treeyy, I’ll talk to you about this at work okay? Alright, bye now.”

Finally, she hangs up.

“I’m so sorry, I thought it might be about work but he was just calling to explain about some sort of couch he was considering getting,” Iz chuckles, finally turning her gaze to me.I feel my annoyance settle down the moment her eyes land on me. Having her attention just had the effect of soothing me. Still, it bothered me that the girl was so oblivious to Trey’s obsession with her. I sigh, chewing on the inside of my cheek. 

“What?” Izzie asks, noticing my irritation as we sit in the parked car.

“You know he likes you, right?”

Izara rolls her eyes. “Don’t start with that again.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

I turn to her, raising my brows. “You prolly don’t see it but I do. He’s always calling or texting you, following you around or tryna touch you. All the time. He obsessed, trust.”

Izzie scoffs, turning to me. “I think you’re just reading into it too much.”

I shake my head. “He likes you.”

She looks like she's about to get defensive, but then her face softens. “Well, even if he does, I don’t care.”

“You don’t?” I ask, my voice growing needy.

“No darling,” she hums quietly, reaching over and placing her dainty hand on mine. “I couldn’t care less about Trey.”

My heart flutters, the warmth in my chest spreading all over my body, chills forming underneath her touch. All the frustration and annoyance that had been growing are replaced with affection now that I feel reassured

“Yeah?” I ask carefully, nearly flinching at how whiny it comes out.

Izzie smiles, leaning over the center console and kissing my cheek. I catch a whiff of the pear and lavender notes of her perfume, my head spinning.

“Yeah.”

I lean over too, my lips finally crashing against hers, both hands holding her face gently like a baby bird, doing everything in my power not to disrupt her. Her lips taste like strawberries, and a hint of red wine from dinner. The wine had loosened Izzie up, her body turning into putty in the passenger seat just from one kiss. 

Her hands wrap around my neck, scratching at the back of my neck to pull me impossibly closer. I groan, arousal growing quickly between my thighs. A passing car honks, reminding me of our surroundings and the fact that the windows were not tinted. At the sudden realisation, I pull back abruptly, wiping my lips. 

Izzie looks breathless, cheeks flushed and lips parted and glossy. 

You wanna come to mine, ma?” I ask, or rather plead. The thought of getting to bring her home after had been the only force to give me the strength to keep my hands to myself all night.

“Yes,” she simply exhales. I feel a thrill, pulling out of the parking lot and beginning to head towards our home, my hand never leaving her thigh, mind filled with the thoughts of lifting the skirt and diving into her.

-

My chest heaves as we climb the stairs, Izara’s heels tapping against the marble and echoing in the corridor. As I open the door, I let the dark-haired girl in, my heartbeat loud in my ears.

“Whoa,” she gasps. Stepping inside after her, I watch her face brighten as a trail of red rose petals on the floor leads all the way to the bedroom, just as I had set them before picking her up.

I step closer, pressing my front against her back, leaning down to kiss her neck as my hands find their position on her waist. I loved that even in heels she was a few inches shorter than me. Her body melts into me quickly, the curve of her ass pressing into my hips. The satin is smooth and cool under my fingertips, and her neck smells like her perfume and the fruity hair products she uses. Guava?

“You did this?” she asks, her voice gasping as my lips glide against her neck, feeling for her pulse under my kisses. 

Finally, I find the steady beating on the side of her long neck, my lips wrapping around it and sucking. Izzie exhales softly, her hands finding mine at her waist.

“Mhmm,” I hum, nuzzling my nose into her ear before kissing it feverishly. I needed her so desperately, like I had been travelling the desert for days and finally found an oasis filled with fresh water and sweet fruit and cool shade. I’m surprised I’m even able to stand upright.

“Oh so you knew I’d be coming over? That’s how you see me?” Her voice is stern, sending a jolt through my body. It makes me want to get on my knees and apologize, repent.

“N-No baby, I mean I was hopin’ but I didn’t assume. Iz, I swear I don-”

I’m joking, Paige,” she laughs, craning her neck to look into my face, an amused smile on her lips. My cheeks turn red as I laugh at myself.

I walk the girl forward, following the rose petals into the bedroom. They reach the bed, the white sheets decorated with the flower petals as well. Izara looks around, a smile on her face. I feel the ache between my thighs grow knowing I had made her happy.

Before I can say anything, she flips around to face me, kissing me heatedly. Her mouth is wide open against mine, tongue circling mine and fingers digging into my shoulders.

“Lemme light the candles,” I hiss, furrowing my brows and trying to pull away. But Izzie pulls me in by my collar, kissing me again.

“Fuck the candles,” she murmurs and, to my surprise, walks me backward into the bed.

I crash onto my back, Izzie pushing me down by my chest. “Let me dim the lights,” she says, but I grab her hand.

“Please don’t,” I whisper, my brows furrowing. “Wanna see you baby.”

She hesitates for a moment, but I grab her hand and bring it to my lips, kissing it gently. “Please.”

Izzie pulls her hand back, convinced by the simple gesture, and reaches behind her back to her zipper. She unzips the dress far too slow, driving me insane. I wanted her now. So I whine, furrowing my brows and squirming on the bed, but the girl only shakes her head, slipping one strap off her shoulder. I nearly pass out.

“Patience,” Iz tells me, her voice low and gravelly. I can’t look away, wetting my lips with my tongue as I watch the second strap fall from her shoulder, the dress finally hitting the floor.

“Oh shit,” I murmur to myself, my boxers growing wetter and wetter the moment I realise she wasn’t wearing a bra at all, her body only covered with black lace panties. My gaze is stuck on her chest though, her round breasts covered in goosebumps. Breathing heavy, I sit up, mouth watering to wrap my lips around her hard nipple, to knead the skin.

“Nuh uh,” Izzie snaps, pushing me back down onto my back. I feel a thrill, surprised to find how much this turned me on. I was so used to being the one in charge, I didn’t even know how insanely hot it would be for the dark haired girl to be giving me commands. Though, in hindsight, I probably should have known from the way my core throbbed everytime she demanded something from me.

“Iz,” I groan, watching as her nimble fingers begin to unbutton my shirt, painfully slowly. I feel like I might pass out.

“Remember what I said baby,” she hums, straddling my hips, thighs becoming even thicker on both sides of me as she sits down on them. Izzie leans down, lips hovering over my ear, hot breath tickling it. “Patience,” she whispers, and then ghosts my skin, leaving me writhing.

Finally she pulls my shirt open, revealing the white sports bra underneath. Her long nail drags from my neck downwards, to my chest, and finally to the muscles of my abdomen.

“You’re so beautiful,” I whine, watching the way her eyes darken as she gazes down at me. My hands come to her hips, easily reaching over to knead her ass. To my relief, she lets me, exhaling heavily and throwing her head back as I feel her skin. My hands feel up her sides, to her breast, kneading them in each hand and bucking my hips to look for any relief on my soaked core.

My chest heaves vigorously, right hand dragging downwards, down the skin of her stomach, fingertips dipping into the band. I needed to feel her. Now. I was dying, and I needed to make sure she didn’t feel like I did, desperate and throbbing.

“No,” Iz says, grabbing my wrist. I look at her pleadingly, eyes nearly welling up at the thought of how wet she might be.

“Please,” I whine. “Ride my fingers ma.”

Izzie’s eyes flutter shut at this, but sternly, she shakes her head. leaning down to kiss me. It’s sloppy, our tongues meeting in heated movements, spit covering both our mouths. The girl on top of me continues her open mouthed kisses, finding her way from my neck downwards. It’s then I realise what she’s about to do, the puddle between my legs growing unbearable.

I maneuver upward on the bed, too wet to notice the nervousness in the girl’s eyes when she starts kissing along the band of my shorts, hands coming to pull them down.

“Fuck ma,” I whimper, my entire body shaking with need. I had been dreaming of this moment, spent many hours lying in my bed with my hand between my legs imagining what her green, sharp, catlike eyes would look watching up at me.

She leaves me in my boxers, nails digging into my inner thighs as she spreads my legs apart.

“Please,” I murmur, eyes fluttering shut from how badly my cunt is soaking through the white boxers.

“What’s wrong my love?” Izzie asks, voice so sweet it’s bordering on condescending as she leans down between my legs, kissing my thighs, biting the skin. The wine had made her bolder, more liberated. It drove me insane.

“Need you baby,” I whine, bucking my hips. It’s no use, the dark haired girl’s hands holding my body still.

“What do you need from me darling?” She asks, fingertips playing with the band of my boxers in a way that made me want to flip her over and take her this very moment.

“Shit,” I hiss to myself, wiping the sweat off my forehead. “Baby please. touch me. Gon’ die if you don’t.”

“Yeah? You want my mouth?”

She’s pressing kisses on top of the soaked fabric of my boxers now, brushing lightly against my clit. I need more, so insanely bad. I feel like I might explode.

“Mhm,” I whimper, my voice shakier and needier than I liked - not that I cared much in this very moment.

“Tell me baby,” she smiles, looking up at my scrunched up face, slowly pulling down the last layer of fabric between her and where I needed her most.

“I-” I’m stuttering, overwhelmed, feeling like I might cum just purely from the sight. “Your mouth, mama, please.”

As I say the words, she pulls my boxers down, and begins to kiss around my wet cunt, everywhere but where I need her the most. Still, I’m moaning like crazy, knowing there must be a few concerned neighbours listening by now. I couldn’t care less.

Finally, the dark haired girl touches my clit, starting with small kitten licks. 

“That’s it, holy shit,” I gasp, hands coming down to her hair, trying to maintain the urge to yank it wherever I want her.

“Mhmm,” she moans against my core, lips wrapping around my clit and sucking gently. 

“Fuck, you’re so- holy shit,” I murmur, unable to think straight, legs already shaking, chest heaving uncontrollably. I can’t tear my eyes away from hers, as she looks up at me. my thighs on each side of her face.

“Taste so good,” she mumbles, a blush on her cheeks from the filthy words. Still, she keeps going, the vibrations of her moans bringing me closer and closer. Embarrassingly, it doesn’t take long for that familiar heat to start spreading in my abdomen, making my pussy throb around nothing as her tongue flicks back and forth in my folds.

“Make me feel so good, fuck baby, look at you,” I praise, my voice high pitched and whiny. “Look so fuckin’ pretty between my le- aw shit.”

I feel it, already growing hotter and hotter, the fire inside me making my muscles tense.

“I- I’m so cl-” I whimper, yanking on the girl’s hair.

“Baby,” Iz moans, wrapping her lips around my clit while her tongue flicks against it, making it impossible to hold back.

“Keep doin’ that, don’t stop. Don’t st-” I cry out, legs trembling and muscles tensing as the girl between my legs keeps pushing me closer and closer. “Shit mama, I’m gon’ cum.”

With that, I tip over the edge, pleasure crashing through my body, writhing and moaning. The orgasm is just as intense as it was fast, making my grip tighten around Izzie’s hair as she keeps up with the movement of her tongue.

As I come back down, the dark haired girl climbs back up, kissing me with authority. I feel embarrassed, from how wet her face is, and most of all from how fast I came. Couldn’t have been more than two minutes. It was something about her that made me yield, completely submit to her, my body too weak to fight it.

“Well that was quick,” Izzie giggles as she pulls away from me. I roll my eyes, flipping the girl on her back.

“Just wanted it to be your turn fast ma,” I mumble, beginning to kiss her neck.

-

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, P- Paige, fuck,” I cry out, tears filling my eyes as Paige presses on my lower back, pinning my hips down against the mattress. Her fingers are buried deep inside me, slipping in and out of me with a rapid pace, making my pussy drip all over the sheets. It was overwhelming, the strength of her fingers something I had never experienced before - what didn’t help was the three times I had already cum after she finished.

“Just one more, I promise. Swear baby. Can feel how much you’re throbbing around my fingers,” Paige coos, pressing sloppy kisses onto my sweaty back before sitting back up and kneading on the skin of my ass to get deeper inside me. Something about her filthy words made me willing to keep going, my orgasm building quickly from how sensitive I had been left after the past couple hours.

“Baby,” I cry out, grabbing the sheets desperately, tears spilling down my cheeks into the cotton blanket underneath me, sticking to my skin. 

“So perfect,” the blonde groans, eyes watching closely the way my pussy molded around her fingers, stretched out just for her, gushing around the long digits slipping in and out.

“P- I’m gonna-” I gasp, back arching as the muscles inside me coil tighter and tighter.

“C’mon ma, lemme make you cum,” she moans, leaning back down and kissing my ear, her hot breath sending chills all over as her fingers keep pumping into me. “So fuckin’ gorgeous you know that?”

With a high pitched whine, the coil finally snaps, my core clenching around her fingers as she makes me cum for the fourth time that night. My entire body trembles, hands grabbing the sheets desperately. The blonde brings her free hand to mine, long digits entangling with mine comfortingly.

“That’s it, fuck, look at you,” Paige murmurs into my ear, talking me through it as the waves of pleasure wash over me. I feel sore, tired, but in that moment everything else is forgotten, except the ecstasy taking over my entire existence, and the blonde’s praise in my ear.

“You are so fucking sexy,” the blonde whispers into my ear, slipping her fingers out of me and wrapping a comforting arm around me. In a haze, I nustle myself into her side, still attempting to slow down my rapid breathing.

I chuckle, finally opening my eyes and flipping onto my back. I couldn’t believe how many times she had just gotten me off. Most of all I couldn’t believe I let her do that all to me with all the lights on, and enjoyed it too much to even care. 

We both lie in each other’s arms, completely naked. Paige’s blonde hair is falling out of her bun, sweat glistening against her bare arms, covered in veins from the strain. She’s breathing loudly through her nose, watching my face. Surely I looked horrendous, makeup all over my face, hair fully out of place, curls wild and unruly. But the younger girl’s blue eyes continue to stare, soft and adoring. She leans in, pressing a soft kiss onto my forehead, loaded with emotion - feelings I wasn’t ready to face.

“You’re so beautiful,” Paige whispers, nuzzling her nose into mine. My heart flutters almost painfully. At that moment I know - I’m in trouble. That leaving Dallas behind after the season is over won’t be as effortless as I had hoped. I decide to worry about that later, wrapping my leg around the blonde and pressing my naked body against hers.

“So are you,” I murmur, letting Paige cocoon me with her big arms.

"One more time ma, please?"

-

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[animamii]

Hit Different | Eren Jaeger

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Eren meets his match when Ymir's cousin crashes into his life. Classic playboy meets maneater. ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

𖹭.ᐟ modern aot verse! college au!

.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・

Eren sat there on the couch in his garage, legs spread out as his brows were furrowed deep in thought. Arm slung over the worn-out edge of the armrest, blunt ashes falling to the cold cement floor. He stopped smoking inside of his house when you said you didn't like the smell of tobacco, didn't like the way it stuck to your hair. That was months ago, but he still kept the habit. Or tried to. He told himself it wasn’t because of you, that it was just better this way. But he would almost catch himself saying your name when Connie tried to spark up in the living room.

"Don't light that shit up in here y/n doesn't like that shit—" His eyes would go wide, stopping himself midsentence, lowering his raised hand as a confused Connie moves the lighter away from the tip of his dutch.

Now he's sitting here, irritated as hell with thoughts of you. It hits different. The silence. Wondering what the hell you were doing right now. Wondering if you were with somebody else. Eren takes another slow drag, the cherry at the tip of his blunt glowing in the dim light of the garage. He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening as the smoke curls around him, dissolving into the cold night air. His leg bounces, restless, and he hates that he's thinking about you again. Hates that the silence only makes him wonder more.

He tells himself he doesn't care. That it's none of his business if you're out, if you're with someone else. But the thought sticks, stubborn and unwanted like gum to his shoe. He could just text you. Just ask what you’re doing. Maybe something casual—Where you at? or You good? Something that wouldn't make it so obvious that you're in his head. But his phone stays face down on the armrest, screen dark, and his fingers twitch with the urge to reach for it anyway.

His jaw clenches as he swipes his tongue over his teeth, eyes narrowing at nothing in particular. It's fine. He’s fine. He doesn’t need to know. It’s not like you owe him anything. Then his mind wanders to thoughts of you under someone else. Makes his other hand ball up into a fist, has his chest tighten for a second as his jaw feels tension. He hates how even just the thought has him sick to his stomach.

The garage door is cracked open just enough for the night breeze to slip through, and Eren finds himself staring at the empty street beyond it. It would be so easy to get in his car, drive to wherever you are, just to see for himself. Just to make sure. His fingers tighten around the blunt as he exhales sharply. He needs to get a grip. Needs to stop thinking about you like this. How did he even start thinking about you like this?

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

8 months ago

Eren had never really been one for romantic attachments. He simply preferred the hit it and quit it, no strings attached life. In short, he was just a slut. Everyone knew that. Everyone was fine with it. Except the occasional girl who would think they knew what they were getting themselves into but fall into the sinkhole of charm that was Eren Jaeger.

"Yo, Jaeger!" Ymir bursts into Eren's place, plopping herself onto the couch across from Eren, who was laying with a blunt lazily between his lips, preoccupied with his game of Rainbow Six. Flicking through the operators before he goes with his main, Kali.

"W'ssup Ymir?" His eyes flit to her for a second, greeting muffled as he tries to keep the lit blunt balanced, tiny tufts of smoke leaving his mouth with each word.

"Nothin' much. Just got back from helping my cousin move into her place. Girl has so much shit, my back is fuckin' aching from carrying her dresser. I know I'm a masc lesbian but fuck, I'm still a damn girl," Ymir rubs her aching back as she sits up, watching Eren snipe yet another person. "I need some damn indo to help with this back pain."

"Cousin?" Although Eren and Ymir were close, Eren felt like he knew jack shit about her. He didn't even think she had actual parents. In his mind she just spawned onto the earth with no attachments.

"Yeah. My cousin on my pop's side," Ymir leans forward to grab the blunt dangling from Eren's lip, which he side eyes but allows, "We used to be hella close growing up as kids til she moved up north. But she just moved back for school. Got into some fashion design program or some shit." She takes a fat puff, coughing a bit as she leans back into the couch once more.

Eren hums, barely paying attention as he respawned in-game, fingers moving lazily over the controller. “Fashion design, huh? Sounds high maintenance.” In his mind he was envisioning a bubbly, ditzy girl who could barely form a coherent sentence without using the word 'like'.

Ymir snorts, shifting to get more comfortable on the couch, blunt between her thumb and index finger as her other hand rests behind her head. “Please, she’d eat you alive, Jaeger.”

That caught his attention. His brows lift slightly as he glances at Ymir out of the corner of his eye. Taking the blunt back for another hit, the ember at the tip of his blunt glows a fiery red as he took another slow drag, letting the smoke sit in his lungs before exhaling through his nose. His free hand runs through his already-messy hair before he leans back, posture relaxed but interest piqued.

“That so?” He drawls, as if the idea of someone getting the best of him was comical. It was utterly laughable.

Ymir smirks knowingly. “Yeah. She’s not like those girls that throw themselves at you.” She reaches over to grab the blunt from his fingers again, taking a slow inhale before flicking the ashes onto the dirtied rolling tray that sits on Eren's beat up coffee table. “She’s a fuckin' problem.”

Eren lets out a short laugh, eyes still trained on the screen, but the way his leg bounces slightly betrayed how much she had his attention now. “A problem, huh?”

Ymir rolls her eyes, exhaling deeply. “Don’t do that.” She already knows what's going on in Eren's head. She can already see that conniving look on his face. Like a bad ass kid plotting.

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like a challenge,” she scoffs, watching as the smirk tugged at his lips. Aaaaand there it was, that conniving look.

His fingers twitched slightly against the controller, but he shrugs, feigning indifference. “You make it sound like I couldn’t handle her.” But the tone in his voice was anything but indifferent.

Ymir lets out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “Handle her?” She stretches her arms behind her head, amused. “Jaeger, she’d ruin you.”

That made him pause, just for a second. He tilts his head toward Ymir now, fully interested. “How so?”

“She’s just like you,” Ymir says simply with a casual shrug of her shoulders, blowing out a fat swirling cloud of smoke before handing the blunt back to him. “Except worse.”

Eren raises a brow, taking a slow hit before exhaling toward the ceiling. “Worse?”

“Oh yeah.” Ymir’s grin was almost cruel. “She’s got a new guy every other week. Doesn’t do relationships, doesn’t do feelings. The second she gets bored? You’re out. No explanations. No second chances. Sound familiar?”

His fingers momentarily stilled over the controller. “Lemme get this straight,” he says after a beat, bringing the blunt back to his lips. “She’s a maneater?”

“That’s an understatement,” Ymir mutters, rolling her neck. “She’d chew you up and spit you out, Jaeger. And I’d pay good money to see it.”

Eren exhales sharply, shaking his head, but the smirk that tugs at the corner of his lips gives him away. He wasn’t used to hearing about a girl like this. Someone who played the same game he did, who knew how to keep things casual and clean.

But the way Ymir spoke about you… the certainty in her voice, the absolute conviction that you were the one who would wreck him and not the other way around—it irked him. Because no one ever got the best of Eren Jaeger. No one.

“She ever try to sink her teeth into you?” he asks, mostly just to push Ymir’s buttons.

Ymir lets out a barking laugh, smacking her knee. “Fuck no. I'm one of the few lucky ones. She actually respects me.” Then her grin widens. “Which is more than I can say for you, by the way.”

Eren clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes as he gives Ymir a dubious smile, but he couldn’t shake the way his mind was suddenly fixated on you. For the first time in a long time, it wasn’t about how fast he could get someone into bed. It was about how long he could last before you decided he was disposable. And for some reason, he really wanted to find out.

Eren exhales a thin stream of smoke, tapping ash onto the makeshift ashtray as he gives Ymir a sideways glance. “You talk about her like she’s some kind of myth.”

Ymir snorts, kicking her feet up on the edge of the coffee table. “She might as well be. Every dude she’s been with thinks they’re gonna be the one to change her, to get her to stay. And every single one of them ends up ghosted, wondering what the fuck just happened.”

Eren smirks, tilting his head slightly. “Sounds like they’re just weak pussies.” He can't imagine any self-respecting guy to be groveling at a girl's feet.

Ymir lets out another laugh. “Nah, they’re just dumb. She makes them feel like they’re special, lets them think they’re running the show. But the second she’s bored? She moves the fuck on, no hesitation.” She takes the blunt from him again, flicking the accumulated ash onto the coffee table by accident when she misses the ashtray. “Shit’s actually impressive.”

Eren leans back against the couch, stretching his arms over his head, pensive smirk still in place. “So, what? You’re warning me?”

“I’m telling you not to waste your time,” Ymir says casually, leaning forward. “You think you’re hot shit because girls let you do whatever you want, but she ain’t like that. She’ll let you hit, sure—if she even finds you interesting enough—but she won’t think about you after. You won’t be special, Jaeger.”

That had something curling hot and stubborn in his chest, something he wasn’t used to feeling. Not special? Eren Jaeger was always special. He didn’t say anything, just grabbed the blunt back from Ymir and took a slow drag, eyes narrowing at the screen in front of him, pretending her words didn’t get under his skin.

Ymir watches him, and when he stays silent, she grins knowingly. “Ohhh shit,” she drags out. “You’re actually interested, aren’t you?”

Eren exhales a faux laugh through his nose, jaw tightening. “Relax. I’m just curious.” But Ymir already knows you have your claws sunk into him, even before he met you. That's just the type of hold you had on boys.

“Curious, my ass,” Ymir cackles. “This is gonna be fucking hilarious. I cannot wait to see you get humbled.”

Eren scoffs, shaking his head, but Ymir’s words stick to him like gum on pavement. He hated how much this was getting under his skin, how much he already wanted to see for himself. Because if there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was someone thinking they had him figured out. And right now? It sounded like you were the one to beat.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

Music lowly plays from the tiny Bluetooth speaker on the white dresser, bass thrumming low as you stand in front of the full-length mirror that sat in the corner of Ymir and Historia's room, applying a final coat of lip gloss, rubbing your lips together to blend your lipliner just right. The dim amber-yellow light of the bedroom reflects the shimmer against your lips, and you press them together with a satisfied smirk, blowing a kiss to yourself.

Behind you, Historia sprawls on the bed, one knee bent, her phone resting against her thigh. She scrolls lazily, barely sparing you a glance until something about your outfit catches her attention. She looks up briefly, eyes flicking over your outfit before raising a brow. “You’re actually trying tonight?”

You turn, placing a hand on your hip as you pose for her, making those cunty faces you two see on Rupaul's Drag Race. “This is minimal effort, babe. I'm going easy tonight.”

Historia rolls her eyes but smiles, propping herself up on her elbows. “Yeah, yeah. You just like making it look easy.”

You grab your pair of hoop earrings from the nightstand, sliding them on as you check your reflection again. Tight, flattering, just the right amount of skin—tonight is going to be fun. “Speaking of looking easy, what about you? You’re not pulling up in that sweater, right?”

Historia huffs dramatically, tossing a pillow at you. “I’ll change later. Ymir is taking forever in the bathroom, and I am not getting dressed in front of her just so she can talk shit about every outfit I try on the entire time.”

You snicker, knowing she’s not wrong. Ymir has a talent for running her mouth, and Historia—despite her sharp tongue—usually ends up the easiest target. Blame the innate sweetness that she harbors. Something you don't really have.

As if on cue, Ymir’s voice calls from the echoing hallway. “y/n, you better not be corrupting my girlfriend again!"

You turn to Historia with a grin. “As if she needs my help.” Historia flips you off before sitting all the way up, long blonde hair cascading down her back.

“Who’s gonna be at this party tonight? Anybody interesting?” You ask, turning back to the mirror as you adjust your top with a shift and a squeeze.

“Dunno. Sasha said she’d be there, and Connie’s probably already pregaming," Historia swings her short legs off the bed.

“And the guys?” You ask, voice laced with mild interest. Might as well peruse the menu before you get to the restaurant. Maybe choose who you want to sink your teeth into before you arrive, make things easier.

“Why? You got your eye on someone?” Historia raises an eyebrow, curious as to what your chaotic ass would have planned for tonight. You and Historia have been out together countless times, and each outing has its own insane story.

“I’m just asking," shrugging your shoulders, you walk over, plopping onto the bed beside her.

“I guess it depends on what you mean by ‘interesting.’ Jean will probably be there. You know how he is—loves the attention but gets all soft when a girl actually plays back," She explains to you. You've met some of Ymir and Historia's friends, become slightly acquainted.

You hum in acknowledgment. “Reiner, probably? Bert too. I think they were talking about it last night,” you continue, running through the other friends you had met in passing.

Historia tilts her head, looking down at you as you stare up at the ceiling. “What about Eren?” She knows exactly why she's bringing him up. Little freakin' instigator.

At that, you pause, blinking once before snorting. “Eren Jaeger?”

She nods, her cerulean eyes still focused on you and your reaction to the boy. “Yeah. You two have never met, right?”

You shake your head. “Nope. Ymir’s mentioned him before, though. Total playboy, right?” You had only been in town for a couple of weeks, and it seemed like every other conversation was 'Eren this, Eren that". It was annoying, really. Ymir's friends acted like he was some kind of God.

Historia smirks. “Yeah, textbook.”

Your lips curl at the corner. “Hmm.” You don’t say anything else, but you can feel Historia watching you closely.

“What?” she finally asks, nudging your arm.

You stretch your body before standing up from the bed with a slow, lazy smile. “Nothing. Just wondering what kind of playboy we’re talking about here.” You've dealt with more than a handful of so called 'playboys' and they've all crumbled before you. Reduced to groveling messes. Snot nosed, teary eyed, on their knees begging pathetic puddles of men.

Historia rolls her eyes, but she's smiling something mischievous. “Don’t even try it. Ymir already said you’d destroy him.”

Your smirk widens, that's exactly what you wanna do. “Then maybe it’ll be fun to prove her right.”

Before Historia can respond, Ymir strolls into the room, towel draped over her defined shoulders, damp strands of chocolate brown hair sticking to her forehead. She takes one look at you, then at Historia, and groans, throwing her head back.

“Oh, hell no,” she says, rubbing a hand down her grimaced face. “What are you two talking about? And why do I feel like it’s something that’ll piss me off?”

Historia smiles, tilting her head innocently. “We were just talking about the party.”

Ymir narrows her eyes before turning to you. “Uh-huh. And why do I get the feeling that you’re plotting something?”

You shrug with a toothy grin, smoothing out your top as you turn back to the mirror. “I don’t plot, Miri, you know that. I just go with the flow.”

Ymir scoffs, rolling her eyes as she sits down on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, and that ‘flow’ usually leaves a trail of broken hearts and emotionally scarred men in its wake.”

You laugh, tossing a menacing wink at her. “Not my fault they can’t keep up.”

Historia snorts, and Ymir groans again, rubbing at her temples. “Alright, for real. What’s the topic of the night? Who are you planning on destroying this time?”

You turn back to them, leaning casually against the dresser. “We were just talking about Eren Jaeger.” Your tongue presses against your cheek as your lips curl into a conniving smile.

Ymir stops mid-motion, eyes locking onto yours, and grimaces. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

You raise a brow, your lips slightly parting in feigned innocence and confusion. “What?”

Ymir throws her hands up. “Nope. No. I refuse to let this happen.”

Historia leans back against the bed frame, amused. “You say that like you can stop it.”

Ymir groans, looking between you and Historia. “Listen, I know my cousin. And I know Jaeger. You two? That’s a goddamn collision waiting to happen.”

You smirk, crossing your arms. “Sounds fun.”

Ymir points at you, eyes sharp. “No, sounds like a mess. He’s the worst kind of playboy—thinks he’s untouchable, gets what he wants, then bounces. And you?” She gestures vaguely yet dramatically at you. “You’re the female version of that. The only difference is that you don’t even let them think they had you in the first place.”

You tap a manicured finger against your lips, feigning deep thought. “So, what you’re saying is… I’m better at it?” A devilish smile forms on your glossed lips, perfect brows rising in satisfaction.

Historia cackles, and Ymir grabs a pillow off the bed, throwing it at you. “I’m serious, dumbass! Eren’s the type who doesn’t get played, and you—” She shakes her head, eyes shut. “You’re gonna ruin his fucking ego.”

You shrug, catching the pillow and tossing it onto the bed. “And? Sounds like a him problem.”

Ymir drags a hand down her face. “I don’t got the energy for this.”

Historia grins. “Oh, I do. This is gonna be hilarious.” If there was popcorn she would definitely be eating it right now.

You laugh, stretching before grabbing your phone from the dresser. “Well, guess we’ll just have to see for ourselves, won’t we?”

Ymir groans one last time, muttering something about needing a drink already, while Historia smirks knowingly. The three of you are just about ready to head out when chaos strikes—in true you and Ymir fashion. It starts with a missing sneaker.

“Where the fuck is my shoe?” you mutter, crouching near the bed, tossing aside a hoodie, a hairbrush, and what looks like a half-eaten granola bar (probably Ymir’s). “I literally just had them both here.”

Historia, standing by the door with her arms crossed, sighs. “Ymir probably kicked it under the bed or something.”

“Excuse me?” Ymir squints, sitting on the dresser with her arms draped over her knees. “Why do I get blamed automatically?”

“Because you’re always the reason,” Historia deadpans, icy blue eyes lidded.

“Valid,” Ymir admits with a sensible nod, but then tilts her head. “Still not my fault.”

You blink at her before getting down on your hands and knees, blindly reaching under the bed. “I swear to God, if I find some weird ass shit down here, I’m gonna kill both of you.”

“I told you not to look under there,” Historia says, completely unhelpful. All she wants right now is to be downing vodka cranberries and dancing to Saweetie. She might even pretend to be straight so guys will pay her to kiss Ymir like at the last party they went to.

Your fingers graze something soft and cold and squishy, and you scream. Ymir howls with laughter as you jerk back so fast you nearly smack your head on the nightstand. “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!”

Historia wheezes, clutching her stomach as she leans against the doorframe. “Oh my god, I forgot about that!”

“Forgot about what?!” you snap, eyes wide and chest heaving, with your hands raised up as if they were contaminated. Which they probably were with the rest of the stuff Ymir hid under her bed.

Ymir can barely get words out between gasps of laughter. “Bro, it’s the ice pack! The one Historia left down there weeks ago when she fucked up her knee!”

Historia nods furiously, laughing so hard she has to brace herself against the wall. “I— I was icing it while watching TV and then it just… stayed there.”

You stare at both of them, disgusted. “You two are feral. Ymir, I understand. But you, Historia?”

Ymir wipes a tear from her eye, finally catching her breath. If she laughed any harder, she'd be having an asthma attack. “Oh, man. You’re so fucking dramatic.”

You shake your head, completely over it, and reach back under, finally finding your missing sneaker. “If I die from some unknown bacteria because of you two, my ghost is haunting this place.”

Historia, still snickering, straightens up. “Noted. Now can we go? I need some Grey Goose in my system pronto.”

You dust yourself off and slip your shoe on. “Yeah, yeah, let’s go before I change my mind.”

Ymir hops off the dresser, slinging an arm around Historia’s shoulder. “Finally. I need a fucking drink.” With that, the three of you head out the door—completely unaware that tonight is about to be the beginning of something more dramatic than a damn Shakespeare play.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

“Bro, hurry the fuck up!” Connie yells from the living room, mouth probably full of chips if the muffled sound of his voice is anything to go by. “You take longer to get ready than my sister.”

“Shut up, Connie,” Eren calls back, dragging a comb through his hair one last time. He’s not even trying that hard—just the usual: white tee, black jeans, and a flannel he doesn't care all that much about just in case his overly drunk ass misplaces it. Simple. Easy. Still, something feels off, like he’s overthinking tonight. And Eren Jaeger never overthinks.

He steps back from the mirror, eyes scanning himself once more. Sharp jaw, messy hair that still somehow looks good, green eyes that’ve gotten him out of more trouble than he cares to admit. Yeah. Still got it. He grabs his phone from the bathroom counter, ignoring the flood of unread texts sitting in his inbox—three different girls, all wanting to know if they’d “run into him” tonight. His thumb hovers over one of their names for a second before he snorts to himself and shoves the phone in his back pocket. Not in the mood.

He’s not really sure what he’s in the mood for. Lately, all of it’s been feeling… boring. Same faces, same lines, same routine. A couple of drinks, a little flirting, and by the end of the night, they’re tangled up in his sheets. No attachments. No feelings. Easy. It’s supposed to be easy. But for some reason, Eren can’t shake this weird, restless feeling creeping under his skin tonight.

He walks into the living room, where Connie and Jean are already half a bottle deep into Eren’s liquor stash like they pay rent here or something. Connie’s stretched across the couch, feet shamelessly on the coffee table, while Jean flips through a playlist on his phone, back slightly hunched, sitting on top of one of the kitchen counters.

Jean glances up before doing a double take. “You’re still wearing that flannel?” Jean raises a brow. “Thought you’d retired it after that blonde last month—what was her name again?”

Eren rolls his eyes, snatching a bottle of Hennessy off the table. “Mind your business.”

Connie chortles. “Man, you are off tonight. Usually, you’re already texting some poor girl by now, setting up your after party plans.”

“Yeah, what gives?” Jean adds, leaning back against the cupboards. “Having an identity crisis or somethin'?”

Eren ignores both of them, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a swig. The burn slides smooth down his throat, but it doesn’t do much to quiet his thoughts. He doesn’t know why he’s on edge tonight—he’s been to a thousand of these. Same people, same drinks, same easy hookups. Girls who know what they’re getting into with him and guys who pretend not to care that Eren always seems to be the center of the room. But tonight? Tonight feels different.

Maybe it’s because Ymir mentioned that her cousin would be there—you—the so-called female version of him. He leers at the memory of Ymir's warning. The way she said you’d ruin him like it was an undeniable fact. Like it was already written in the stars. Like it was already decided. Please. No one ruins Eren Jaeger.

Connie’s voice cuts through again. “Ohhh wait.” His eyes narrow playfully. “This got something to do with Ymir’s cousin? What’s her name again?” Eren doesn't answer, just stays quiet. Connie grins. “y/n, right? Yeah, I heard bout her. She’s bad.”

Eren’s jaw flexes again, his grip tightening slightly around his phone. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Connie raises a brow, sparking up a blunt that he seemingly pulled out of thin air. “Means she's bad, bro. As in hot. As in way outta your league.” Connie takes a hit, pulling it back to see if it's burning just right before passing it to Eren, who takes it without glancing.

Eren scoffs, smoke curling from his lips. “No one’s outta my league.” He says it with the confidence of a man who’s never heard the word ‘no’ in a way that actually mattered. Since birth Eren had been one cocky son of a bitch, and for good reason too.

“Yeah? She might be.” Connie smirks, pouring himself another shot. "Heard she's already got a roster and she's barely been here a couple weeks."

Eren leans forward, resting his elbows on the kitchen counter, blunt dangling between his fingers. “So?”

“So,” Connie says, shrugging as knocks back the Hennessy like its water, “I’m just saying—she’s like you. Probably already got some dude lined up for tonight and won’t give a shit about whatever game you think you’re running.”

Eren’s tongue presses against his cheek, brows furrow and his gaze darkening. He doesn't like the way that sounds. Doesn’t like the idea of you brushing him off—of anyone brushing him off.

“She’s just another girl,” Eren mutters, more to himself than to Connie. “They all play hard to get till they aren’t.”

Connie laughs. “Yeah? Well, good luck with that.”

Eren takes another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs like he’s locking in a decision. On the outside, he’s calm, collected, the usual brand of cocky. But inside? Oh, he’s already made up his mind. If you’re really as untouchable as they say, there’s only one thing to do. Find out for himself.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

The bass shakes the walls, vibrating through the floorboards and straight into the bones of anyone standing too close to the speakers. Red plastic cups litter the countertops some half full some tipped over. The air is thick with the sting of liquor, the stench of sweat, and the occasional hint of weed. Floors sticky as they get covered in track marks.

Eren spots you the second you walk in. He doesn’t mean to. It’s not like he was waiting for you or anything. But the second the door swings open and you step inside, it’s like the party shifts. Like you shift the air just by being here.

And fuck, do you look good. Your hair is tousled, lips glossed, and that skimpy outfit—shit. Eren’s eyes flicker down for a split second, a slow smirk tugging at his lips as he takes in the way it clings to you just right. Top hugging your tits just right and skirt shifting with each step. He doesn’t even have to try to picture it bunched up around your hips. The thought just plants itself in his head like it belongs there. He exhales through his nose, rolling his jaw. He’s seen beautiful before. Had them in his bed, in his car, against bathroom sinks at parties just like this one. But there’s something different about this. About you.

And then? You fucking ignore him.

You and Historia weave through the crowd like you own the place with your arms interlinked, Ymir following close behind, and you don’t even spare him a glance. No knowing smirk, no subtle check-over, nothing. You just flick your hair over your shoulder and move straight for the kitchen, where a handful of people are already pouring drinks.

Eren’s smirk twitches. Oh. This is gonna be fun.

He watches as some guy—Jean, of all people—gravitates toward you, already pulling that smooth nice guy act. Eren doesn’t even have to hear the conversation to know exactly what’s happening. Jean leans in just a little, eyes dipping to your lips between words, smiling like he’s got a shot. And then you laugh—head tilted back just enough to make it look effortless. Eren’s fingers tighten around his cup.

Connie, now posted up against the wall beside him, follows his gaze and grins, letting out a low whistle. “Daaaamn,” he drawls out the single syllable just for the dramatics. “Jean’s already on that? Tough break, bro.”

Eren scoffs, tipping his drink back and swallowing slow like he wants the liquor to burn his throat on purpose. “Not my break to be tough.”

“Sure.” Connie sneers, stretching the word out like he’s not buying a damn thing. “So it’s not pissing you off that he’s—”

“I don’t give a fuck what he’s doing.” The words snap out faster than intended.

Connie raises a brow, like he’s just caught onto something real interesting. “Yeah? Then why do you look like you wanna knock his ass out?”

Eren doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. Instead, he pushes off the wall, weaving through the party with that lazy, self-assured stride that’s gotten him anything he’s ever wanted. People move out of his way without him even trying, girls trailing their eyes over him as he passes. But his focus? Locked. Jean is still talking, still smiling like he has a chance—until Eren’s presence shifts the entire energy of the space. Jean notices first. Then you do. And finally—you meet his eyes.

Eren doesn’t look away. He doesn’t break that charged stare, doesn’t let you see anything but that knowing smirk playing at his lips. You knew this was coming. You had to. The way your own lips curve at the edges tells him everything. He expects you to turn, to give him your full attention. After all, you're such a lucky girl to be graced with the presence of Eren Jaeger.

But no. You let out a soft snort, flipping your hair as you continue your conversation with Jean. Eren’s smirk falters for half a second. Oh, so that’s how you wanna play it? His grip tightens around his cup, but then—he laughs. A deep, low chuckle that rumbles through his chest as he tilts his head, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. You think you can just brush him off like that? Like he’s nobody?

Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see how long you last.

Eren leans back against the counter, swirling the liquor in his cup as he watches you, waiting for the moment you’ll crack and finally look at him. He’s patient—cocky, but patient. Girls always fold first. But you? You don’t even glance his way. Instead, you tilt your head at Jean, lashes fluttering just enough to make the poor guy swallow hard.

“You were saying?” you prompt, voice smooth as silk. Eyes looking up at him so steadfast, making him feel like the only boy in the world.

Jean blinks, briefly thrown off before he collects himself. “Uh—yeah. I was saying—you should totally let me take you out sometime.” He leans against the counter, confidence settling back into his stance. “No pressure. Just two good lookin' people getting food together. Maybe some drinks.”

You hum, pretending to consider it. “Sounds more like a date.”

Jean grins. “It can be. Or it can just be a good time. Your call.”

Eren scoffs under his breath, barely audible over the thrum of music. This guy. Jean thinks he’s smooth. Thinks he can keep your attention just because he’s playing nice. Cute.

You smirk, tipping your cup toward Jean. “I like the idea of a good time.”

Jean raises a brow. “Yeah?” Eren can just hear the excitement in his voice, the undertone of him surprised that you'd even consider it.

“Mhmm,” you sip, eyes flickering over him as you size him up and down. “And you’ve been looking real good tonight, Jean.” You can't deny that Jean is attractive. Six foot something, muscular but not too much. Stubble highlighting his sharp jawline.

Jean’s brows lift slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” You lean in a little, lowering your voice like you’re telling a secret. “Been hitting the gym, haven’t you?” Your breath is warm against his ear, subtle but effective. Jean tenses, then exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to play it cool.

Jean then chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck to calm his nervousness. “Maybe a little.”

“It’s working,” your voice is soft and sweet, masking your devilish intentions. A sly hand creeps up his arm, gently squeezing his bicep. Jean subconsciously flexes it, an obvious attempt to impress you.

Jean’s ears go a little pink, and Eren rolls his eyes. Jesus. This is painful. You’re just playing with the guy, toying with him like a cat with a string, and he’s eating it up. His fingers tighten around the rim of his cup. Pathetic. Jean’s lapping it up, oblivious to the fact that he’s just another name on your list, just another temporary distraction. And maybe that’s what really pisses Eren off.

Eren bites the inside of his cheek, swirling the liquor in his cup with a slow flick of his wrist. The ice rattles against the plastic, but his focus is razor sharp on you. On the way your fingers graze Jean’s forearm, the way your lips curve at something he says—something that wasn’t even funny. The sudden tug on his wrist rips his attention away.

"Eren," a voice purrs, dragging his name out like a slow sip of honey. He barely has time to register who it is before soft hands pull him away from the counter, dragging him into the depths of the party. He exhales sharply. Of course. One of the girls from Mikasa's sorority, Louise. She’s all over him before he even gets a word out, pressing against his side like she belongs there. “Where the hell have you been, Jaeger? Too good to say hi now?”

Eren scoffs, eyes flickering toward the kitchen one last time, but you’re still wrapped up in Jean, still laughing at whatever dumb thing he’s saying, still not sparing Eren a single glance. Fine. He lets Louise pull him toward the hallway, weaving through sweaty bodies and the fog of cheap liquor and weed. Her grip is possessive, like she thinks she can stake some kind of claim over him just because they fucked once. They stop near the base of the stairs, away from the worst of the party but still close enough that the music pulses through the walls.

“I was starting to think you were avoiding me,” Louise hums, pressing a manicured hand to his chest, almond shaped nails scraping lightly over the fabric of his shirt as she tilts her chin up, batting her false lashes. Eren notices the inner corner of her strip lash lifting up a bit, making her look wonky, but he doesn't care enough to say anything.

Eren’s smirk is lazy, practiced. “Should I be?”

Her lips part slightly, caught between intrigue and challenge. “I don’t know. You tell me.” Flashing him a smile, she tilts her head to the side, blue eyes trying to pierce through the emotional wall Eren currently had up.

Eren exhales through his nose, tipping his head back slightly, bored. She’s doing that thing—the same thing every girl does when they want to get a second round with him. Soft touches, sultry looks, a voice dipped in sugar and suggestion. It’s textbook.

It would be so easy. He could take her upstairs, let her kill the frustration building in his chest, let her drag him under and replace the image of you and Jean still talking. Laughing. Touching. But when he looks down at Louise—he doesn’t see you. Doesn’t feel anything.

His jaw tightens, body burning with frustrations that you're the irritating source of. “Not happening.”

Louise blinks dumbfounded, jaw going slack. “What?”

Eren steps back, shaking her hand off his chest. “I’m good. Go find someone else.”

Her lips part, the briefest flicker of shock crossing her face before it hardens into something sharper. Annoyance, maybe. Embarrassment. Either way, she doesn’t like it. “You’re serious?”

Eren just shrugs, rolling his shoulders as he shoves his hands into his pockets, already feeling like this conversation is a complete waste of his precious time. “Dead serious.”

She scoffs, crossing her arms, agitation showing in her posture as one leg steps out, her hip pointed. “You really think you’re all that, huh?”

He just shrugs. Doesn’t deny it. Pursing his lips and swirling his solo cup of henny and coke, waiting for her to catch the damn hint and kick rocks.

“Whatever,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. “Your loss.” She flips her hair and stalks off, disappearing into the party with a dramatic sway of her hips.

Eren exhales, rolling his tongue over his teeth with a tchht before turning back toward the kitchen. And when he does—you’re looking right at him. Not with jealousy. Not with anger. Just amusement. Like you knew this would happen all along. Eren smirks, shaking his head slightly as he lifts up his drink to his pink lips. He takes a slow sip, holding your gaze over the rim of his cup.

You hold eye contact for a small second before you turn your attention back to Jean. He's actually such a sweetheart you're genuinely enjoying the conversation. Which was... refreshing. You don't remember when the last time you had such an interesting conversation with a person of the opposite sex. One that didn't consist of hook ups or how 'fuckin' hot' you looked.

Jean was in the middle of a passionate tangent about Sailor Moon being able to solo Goku if they were to go one on one. It was cute to see such a straight browed guy defend a shoujo protagonist against the poster boy for shonens.

“I know, I know. Everyone always goes ‘But Goku’s a Super Saiyan, blah blah blah,’ right? But Sailor Moon—she’s got that moon power, bro. You know how powerful the moon is? No one knows the moon’s potential. It’s like, this massive source of energy.” He takes a few more gulps of his drink, making that little ahh' sound before he continues, “And Goku’s just a dude, right? Yeah, he’s got all this strength, but Sailor Moon? She’s literally a magical being. She can manipulate the power of the moon—and that’s not even the best part. She’s got that Silver Crystal, man. That thing can destroy entire universes. If Goku’s even trying to throw a Kamehameha at her, she can just use that to, like, wipe him out before he even finishes charging it.”

Jean huffs out a breath, swaying slightly as he sets his drink down. All that Jameson was going straight through him. “Shit—I gotta take a piss.” He flashes you an easy grin, thumb pointing over his shoulder toward the hallway. “Don’t go anywhere, yeah?”

You let out a tiny laugh of air, smiling as he gives you a flushed boyish grin. “No promises.”

Jean chuckles, rolling his eyes playfully before he disappears into the crowded party. You shake your head, turning back toward the counter, scrolling through your phone like you’re not hyperaware of the gaze burning into the side of your face. Then, before you can even process it—he’s there. A slow, lazy presence stepping into your space like he belongs there. You don’t look up, don’t acknowledge him, but you hear the way he exhales, the entitlement practically dripping from his voice.

"You done playing yet?" It’s smooth, teasing, but there’s an edge underneath. Like he's nagging like an impatient child.

You hum, taking another sip from your drink, still not looking at him as you half watch people's instagram stories. “Playing what?”

Eren chuckles, trying to cover the bratty scoff that somehow leaves his breath. You can hear the way he shifts, arms crossing, the way he fixes his stance. "You tell me."

Finally, you glance up, tilting your head as your squinted eyes flick over him. Jaw tight, bottom lip catching in his teeth, biceps flexing under his shirt like he doesn’t even realize it. Oh, he’s pissed. Amused, but still pissed. Your lips part, a retort on your tongue—

"y/n, we gotta go. Like right now." Ymir’s voice slices through the tension like a blade. You blink, turning just in time to see her hoisting Historia up by the waist, the blonde giggling into her shoulder. "Before Christina Aguillera here falls off another table and gets a concussion," Ymir grumbles, adjusting her grip as Historia hiccups dramatically. You sigh, downing the rest of your drink before setting the cup down. Eren is still looking at you, now frowning like a child whose ice cream just fell off the cone.

You smirk, letting your eyes trail over him one last time before pushing off the counter. “Night, Jaeger.”

Eren exhales sharply as he watches you leave. That was his shot. He should’ve said something—should’ve done something. But no. You slipped away. He licks his lips, tongue pressing against his cheek as he tips his head back, exhaling through his nose.

Next time, sweetheart.

[gracie-eilish]

could you write something about billie and reader whos insecure about her body?? with like lots of fluff and comfort🤍

pretty girl🪞

The late afternoon sun stretched lazily across the sky, casting golden hues over the backyard as the warm California breeze rustled the trees. The pool shimmered under the light, inviting and serene. Billie had been practically bouncing at the idea of a spontaneous swim, already clad in her swimsuit and tossing playful grins your way as she urged you to get ready.

You had agreed, laughing at her excitement, but now you stood frozen in front of the full-length mirror in your bedroom, stomach twisting into knots. The swimsuit you had picked out—one you had loved when you bought it—suddenly felt like the wrong choice. Every flaw you had ever noticed, every little insecurity, seemed to magnify under the unforgiving reflection. Your arms crossed over your stomach instinctively, as if shielding yourself from your own gaze.

Billie’s laughter echoed from outside the room, along with Sharks barking, the sounds soft and full of life. But she must’ve noticed your absence, because a few moments later, the door creaked open, and her voice, sweet and gentle, called out, “Baby?”

You swallowed hard, pressing your lips together. “I’ll be out in a sec,” you said, trying to sound normal. But Billie wasn’t one to be fooled so easily.

She stepped in, already barefoot and slightly damp from testing the water, her hair loose and slightly tousled. The second she saw you standing in front of the mirror, unmoving, a knowing softness melted into her features.

She didn’t say anything at first, just padded across the room and came up behind you, her arms snaking around your waist as she rested her chin on your shoulder. You felt the warmth of her body instantly, her presence grounding you in a way nothing else could.

“What’s goin’ on in that pretty little head of yours?” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder.

You hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your swimsuit. “I just… I don’t know. I don’t feel great.” Your voice was quiet, but Billie heard every word. “I don’t like how I look in this.”

Billie frowned, and before you could move away, she tightened her grip, pressing herself closer. “Oh, no. Nope. Not gonna let you do that.” Her voice was light, teasing but firm. “You’re standing here looking like a whole dream, and I’m supposed to just let you talk bad about my girl?”

A soft chuckle escaped you despite the insecurity still lingering in your chest. “Billie…”

“What?” she challenged, nuzzling her nose against your neck. “I’m serious. Look at you.” She turned her head so you could see both of your reflections in the mirror—her arms still locked around your waist, her expression nothing but pure adoration. “You see what I see?”

You sighed, eyes flickering to the reflection before quickly looking away. “I just see me.”

Billie hummed, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your jawline. “Mhm. And you are stunning. Breathtaking. The kind of gorgeous that makes my heart race every time I look at you.”

Heat bloomed across your cheeks. “You’re biased.”

“Obviously,” she quipped, grinning. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.” She let her hands slide gently over your sides, her touch slow and deliberate. “You see this?” She squeezed your waist slightly, then trailed her hands to rest just above your stomach. “I love this. So much.”

You swallowed, a little nervous. “Why?”

Billie tsked, feigning offense. “Why? Oh, baby, let me count the ways.” She turned her attention back to the mirror, her fingers tracing small patterns against your skin. “First of all, you fit so perfectly in my arms. Like you were made for me to hold onto. And this tummy right here?” She pressed another kiss to your shoulder. “The softest, warmest, most comforting place on Earth. You know how much I love laying my head here? Feels like home.”

A small laugh escaped you, and Billie grinned, clearly encouraged. “Your thighs?” She let her hands trail lower, squeezing affectionately. “Oh, don’t even get me started. Absolute perfection. The perfect lap for me to sit in, by the way.”

You groaned playfully. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re gorgeous,” she shot back without missing a beat. “Baby, look at you. Every inch of you is so you, and I’m completely obsessed.”

Her hands slid back up, resting over your heart as she nuzzled into your neck, pressing tiny, delicate kisses along your jaw. “You wanna know what I see when I look in the mirror?” she whispered.

You bit your lip. “What?”

“I see my girl.” Her voice softened, full of genuine adoration. “The most beautiful person I’ve ever known, inside and out. I see someone who makes me laugh, who makes me feel safe, who is so damn easy to love that sometimes I don’t even know how to handle it. And I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”

Your eyes stung slightly, overwhelmed by how much love Billie poured into every word. You blinked at your reflection again, and for the first time, instead of picking apart the things you didn’t like, you saw Billie behind you, holding you close like you were something precious. Like you were everything.

She noticed the shift, the way your body relaxed just a little, and smiled against your skin. “There she is,” she whispered. “There’s my baby.”

You exhaled, the tightness in your chest loosening as you leaned back into her hold. “I love you.”

Billie grinned, pressing one final kiss to your cheek. “Love you more.” Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she suddenly spun you around and scooped you up into her arms, making you squeal in surprise.

“Billie!”

She laughed, effortlessly carrying you toward the door. “Enough mirror talk. You, me, pool, now.”

“But—”

“Nope. No buts. The only thing I wanna see right now is you in the water, looking like the goddess you are.” She winked. “And maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll let you dunk me first.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. With Billie looking at you like that, with love in every inch of her expression, your insecurities didn’t seem quite as loud anymore.

Maybe, just maybe, you were as beautiful as she said you were.

[nick-writes-stuff]

Various Squid Game Characters x reader, A Chance Meeting After the Games

Includes: Thanos, Nam-gyu, Dae-ho, In-ho, and Gyeong-seok (Player 246)

!warnings: drug use (Thanos and Nam-gyu), canon-typical violence (All), implied fem!reader [reader called señorita] (Nam-gyu), Gyeong-seok is probably ooc, use of y/n (In-ho, Gyeong-seok), ~1k words each

a/n: hey guys! i've been cooking this one for a while but it's here now! i think i probably could have done these more justice by making them individual and fully fleshed-out fics, but i still like the way these turned out. hope you enjoy!

Player 230, Thanos:

The two of you never formally agreed to meet up anywhere. You hadn't thought about it because you had been so scared that you wouldn't make it out of there alive. He didn't consider it because he was high for a considerable amount of time.

But you both realized it the second you got back to your routine. Well, as routine as things could be after experiencing something like the games.

You found yourself missing the cheesy flirting and the pet names. But it was the quiet moments in between his rambunctious highs that truly stole your heart. Beneath the chaotic exterior, there was a man who cared about you more than he liked others to think.

He missed your flustered reactions and genuine interest in him. You didn't throw yourself at him because he was a celebrity. You didn't just like Thanos, but you saw him for Su-bong, a person he hadn't felt like for a long time.

It was a good thing Thanos was never hard to find. He was an up-and-coming celebrity after all, so it was very easy to find a show near you and buy tickets. You added the meet and greet package as well so you could talk to him. Normally, this would have been out of your price range, but that wasn't an issue anymore.

You had never heard of Thanos before the games, so you didn't really know what to expect. There was a part of you that assumed he had been exaggerating his influence in the games to appear cooler, but he clearly wasn't.

There were a few moments during the show where he thought he saw you in the crowd, but he disregarded it. Between the lights in his eyes, the sheer amount of people before him, and the drugs in his system, he didn't trust his own perception right now.

He was probably just seeing what his subconscious wanted him to. Because he really, really wanted to see you.

As the VIP ticket holders were being escorted to the designated meet and greet location, you listened to the fans talking highly of Thanos. It was oddly comforting to hear people praise him like you would. You got so used to the players in the game shit-talking him. You were glad that you weren't the only one who saw something good in him.

While you were in line, you eventually caught the gaze of Nam-gyu. He opened his mouth to say something, but you stopped him with a finger to your lips. He gave you a knowing look and a smirk, keeping quiet.

As you neared the front of the line, you looked down to your phone, trying to avoid looking at him so as to not spoil the surprise. You did hear a fan behind you give a distasteful comment about your demeanor, but you didn't care.

“Next.” Nam-gyu said, signaling you to step forward. You slid a CD case toward him. He didn't look up. You could see that he was getting a little burnt out from the sustained interaction with fans. Either that or the drugs were wearing off. Maybe both. “Who should I make it out to?” He asked, holding a marker in his hands.

You smirked slightly. "Player 438.” You said.

He started to sign it, getting his signature written and pausing as he realized what you said your name was. You could see his eyebrows furrow as he thought about it for a moment before looking up at you.

He gave a gasp of shock before laughing. “Oh my god, no way you're here!” He said loudly. He got up from his seat, walking around the table to pull you into a tight hug.

You laughed as well, hugging him back as you heard some of the fans who were still waiting murmur about you. “Of course I am, I missed you.” You said, soft enough that only he could hear it.

When he pulled away from the hug, you could see the goofy smile on his face and you couldn't quell the fluttery feeling in your stomach. “Bro, how did you know that I would be here?” He asked.

You were the one being confused now. You blinked a few times, trying to process what was going on. Did he just-

You stopped your train of thought when you noticed just how large his pupils were. He definitely wasn't sober right now.

You laughed. “Thanos, it's literally your show.” You said. He let out a soft “oh” when he realized his mistake.

He told you to stick around while he finished his obligations and you obviously agreed.

You, Thanos, and Nam-gyu spent the rest of the evening in Thanos's trailer. You all ordered an embarrassing amount of fast food to share between you three.

You all just sat on the floor and talked. There was a lot of catching up to do regarding what had happened since the games ended. It had been a month or two since you all had seen each other.

It felt like you talked for hours. You could notice the drugs leaving Thanos's system. His voice slowly got softer and his demeanor was becoming less chaotic.

Eventually you leaned your head on Thanos's shoulder, an action that actually made him blush slightly.

“I really missed you, you know?” He said quietly.

You smiled up at him. “I did, too.”

You were telling him and Nam-gyu about something your landlord had said to you, but his mind was elsewhere, trying to figure out how to ask you to go on the tour with him. He didn't want to be apart from you anymore.

----

Player 124, Nam-gyu:

“Do you think we'll ever see each other again after this?” You had asked before the vote. A few more games had taken place, and the player numbers had decreased enough that most players were satisfied with the amount they would be taking home. It seemed that you guys were really going to make it out of here.

His face remained blank. “Would you even want to?” He asked, sounding uninterested. But he was actually ecstatic that you even considered seeing him after this. He was just afraid you wouldn't be okay with his… hobbies.

You seemed confused. “Why else would I ask?” You responded.

He shrugged. “I don't know. I just didn't think clubs and drugs were your thing.” That wasn't something that was going away after this. Honestly, he knew himself and Thanos, some of this money was going to be used to go on a bender.

You sighed. “They aren’t. But I think I could tolerate it if I got to see you.” You said.

He rolled his eyes, trying to remain unaffected but you could see the faintest dusting of pink on his face. “You are so cringe.” He said with a scoff.

You gasped in mock offense. “Wow.” You said, crossing your arms. “I should have let you die during Mingle.” You spat with false venom.

He laughed, shaking his head. Your look of annoyance softened, smiling at your success in making him laugh.

When he spoke again, his tone was much more genuine. “Well, you'll know where to find me.” He said before nodding toward Thanos. The purple-haired man was tormenting Myung-gi again. “Wherever that dumbass is, I'm usually there babysitting him.” You both laughed.

When you got out, you had some things you had to deal with before you could think about seeking out Nam-gyu. You needed to find a new place and get things back into working order in your life. You had been kicked out of your apartment right before you had met the Salesman, so you needed to find a place to stay and replace most of your belongings.

Every day that passed after the games had ended felt like a weight on Nam-gyu's shoulders. At first, he tried to get rid of the feeling with drugs, but that was only a short-term solution.

Were you ever going to seek him out? Maybe you had just been trying to be nice to him. Did you ever actually intend on coming, or were you trying to let him down easy? Why did he think this would be any different? His brain couldn't shut off the rumination, and he hated it.

You did try to find him eventually. It had been a few weeks until you got back on your feet, but you couldn't stop thinking about how much you wanted to see him again. So when you heard Thanos would be doing a set at a local nightclub, you jumped at the chance to go.

You found your way across the dance floor, pushing your way through the crowd to get closer to the stage. You could hear members of the crowd talking about how excited they were to see Thanos perform, but that was the farthest thing from your mind.

When you got to the entrance of the backstage area, you looked around for any sign of him. You didn't see him, and it seemed like the bouncer had left the area for a moment. You entered the backstage, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible. People don't ask questions unless you don't seem like you are supposed to be there.

“Hey, what do you think you're doing?” You heard a deep voice call out from behind you. You winced, thinking of ignoring him but you ultimately turned around. “This is a restricted area. You can't be here.”

Before you could say anything, you heard a different voice. “Back off, they're with me.” You turned to see Nam-gyu with his arms crossed, giving the bouncer a glare until he backed down and left you alone.

You sighed in relief. “Thank you.” You said softly, taking a step toward him.

Before you could say anything else, Thanos emerged from what you assumed to be his dressing room. Upon seeing you, he laughed loudly. “Hey, I was wondering when you'd finally show up. Did you miss me, señorita?” He asked, a flirtatious glint in his eyes. From his demeanor, you could tell he was definitely high.

“Dude, what the hell?” Nam-gyu said with annoyance.

You chuckled awkwardly to try to clear some tension. “It's nice to see you too, but that's not why I'm here.” You said.

Thanos seemed puzzled, his brain taking longer to piece together the situation due to the substances. He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Don't tell me you came here to see Nam-su and not-” You both corrected him in unison.

“Yeah. Nam-gyu, whatever. I-” Thanos said dismissively, but he was interrupted by someone calling for him. He sighed and went to see what they needed.

You looked back over to him. “I was starting to think you weren't going to come.” He said, trying to keep his voice level despite his excitement.

You chuckled. “I had to find a new place. I got kicked out of my old one.” You said. He nodded slightly, but you could see that there was a part of him that wasn't satisfied with your response. You smirked slightly. “Aww, did someone miss me?” You teased.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, go to hell.” He said. He was thankful the room was dark so you couldn't see him blushing.

You laughed lightly. “If it helps, I missed you too.” You knew he missed you. He just had a different way of showing it.

----

Player 388, Dae-ho:

Ironically, you and Dae-ho had actually met multiple times before the games. You worked as a barista in the coffee shop he frequented.

You had never spoken very much outside of the typical pleasantries expected in the situation. The conversation had never gone much past small talk about the weather if his drink was taking longer than usual.

You both were caught up in your own struggles. You both had debts hanging over you, keeping your minds too busy to socialize. You helped your parents manage the shop, and the business was struggling to stay afloat. He had his own problems in his life, some demons he couldn't put to rest.

You both ended up in the games due to your debts. Neither of you recognized the other, but you both thought the other looked vaguely familiar. There were more important things to focus on at that time. Your fight or flight response took precedence over trying to figure out if you had seen each other before.

The two of you were very close, near inseparable, during the games. You both found comfort in the other's presence. You would talk about anything and everything under the pretense that these conversations may be some of the last. From embarrassing stories to your deepest fears, you both poured your hearts out to each other.

Before the last vote, he asked you a question. “Do you think we'll see each other again? Out there, I mean.”

You looked up at him. “I hope so.” You said softly.

His smile grew. “You'll miss me too much.” He said teasingly. It felt easier to joke with you than admit that he didn't know what he would do without you.

You feigned offense. “Oh, so you're saying you won't miss me then?” You asked.

He started to apologize but your smile betrayed you and he realized you were messing with him. He laughed, but he made sure to add, “I will miss you though. A lot.”

From talking further, you found that you lived in the same area, so maybe you would see each other after all. You hadn't thought about the fact you may have already met before.

About a week after you had been released, you were back at work at the shop. You were still working there even though you had enough money to live comfortably. You put most of it into the business and into your parents’ retirement fund.

You were making a drink as your co-worker was taking orders. It was quiet, so you were able to overhear their interaction with the customer.

“What's the name for the order?” They asked politely. “Kang Dae-ho.”

You were so shocked you almost dropped the cup in your hand. You set it down a bit too quickly, causing it to clatter against the counter and getting both of their attention. “Dae-ho?” You asked.

You met his eyes, and his lips curled into a smile. “Hey. It's so nice to see you.” He said softly. He seemed considerably less tense than how you were used to seeing him in the games. Happiness was a good look on him.

Your coworker looked back at you. “Oh, how do you two know each other?” They asked. Your eyes widened, looking over to Dae-ho realizing there was no good way to explain it.

“It's uhh... It's a long story.” He trailed. You agreed quickly. They seemed confused but eventually continued taking his order.

The shop was busy, so you didn't have time to talk in depth, to Dae-ho's dismay.

He left the building a little bummed out, but it was short-lived. He noticed on the side of his cup there was something else written aside from his name.

You wrote your phone number on the side of the cup, along with a note saying “Call me. I miss you.” You added a small smiley face with it.

He laughed. He couldn't wipe the smile off his face. He had been afraid he would never see you again, so meeting you like that was a relief.

He only wished he'd been paying attention to his surroundings more. He had gone to the coffee shop for years, and once he saw you behind the counter this time, he realized why you had seemed somewhat familiar to him.

You had been hiding from him in plain sight. You meant the world to him now, and maybe if he had taken the initiative to talk with you before, who knows how your lives would have been different. You could have been great friends right now, maybe more than friends.

He sent you a quick text, telling you that this was his number and when he would be free to chat. He soon sent another message telling you that his drink you made him was amazing.

Once again, he smiled like an idiot as he stared at his phone, realizing you weren't going to be the one that got away. He wasted no time putting your number in his contacts.

Just ignore the heart next to your name.

----

Player 1/The Front Man, In-ho:

You had tried your best not to give up on your hopes of survival after the failed coup of the games. Your closest ally, your friend, died and you hadn't even been able to say goodbye. He was doing something so heroic just to be killed and disposed of unceremoniously.

You didn't give yourself time to grieve. Grief would only distract you. It didn't hit you until the night before what would be the last vote. You weren't sure what the outcome of the vote would be, but you were just so overwhelmed and sad and angry. So fucking angry.

Angry at the people who run the games, angry at the other players who have been keeping you here, angry at Gi-hun for even suggesting the attempted uprising, and angry at Young-il for going to play the hero and getting himself killed.

You finally broke down in the dead of night after a few hours of failing to fall asleep. Hyun-ju tried her best to comfort you to no avail.

In-ho watched from the control room. He felt his heart wrench hearing you sob. While the mask made him seem cold and collected, this affected him more than he wanted to admit. He hated that he had to do this to you. He had to leave you and it wasn't fair to you.

It wasn't fair to himself either. He finally made a strong, genuine connection with someone and his job had to ruin it. Neither of you deserved the cards you were dealt in this situation, but it didn't have to stay this way.

While you were getting back into your normal life, In-ho was thinking of a way to reintroduce himself to you. He had a few people doing surveillance on you. Nothing major, just trying to see what your routine was. The places you frequented, your schedule, things of the like.

He waited a bit less than a year to make a move. He needed to make sure your memory of him had faded slightly. This would never work if you recognized him as Young-il. Waiting was excruciating. He just wanted to talk to you. To hear your voice. To see you smile.

You hadn't been the same since the games. You felt like you were in a haze. You were only alive because of the deaths of hundreds of people. You lived, and Young-il didn't. There was a voice in the back of your mind that told you it should have been you instead. You hardly slept anymore. Nightmares plagued you any time you closed your eyes.

After a few months, you finally decided to seek out a therapist. It was hard to describe the situation to him, seeing as you couldn't explain much about the death game aspect. You simply told him that someone close to you died in a violent manner, and you had survivor's guilt.

He advised trying to reintegrate yourself into the world. Social interaction could help to pull yourself out of the depressive episode. Which is how you ended up becoming a regular customer at a cafe near your apartment. You didn't talk to anyone very often, but existing in the presence of others and having basic interactions with the staff was helpful to you.

You noticed someone who you had never seen before come in while the cafe was somewhat busy. He bore a striking resemblance to Young-il, but you brushed it off as his image haunting your mind.

He was dressed up like he was straight out of a business meeting, dark hair slicked back. You tried not to stare, and while he didn't make it obvious, he did notice. You eventually tore your eyes away from him, focusing on the book you were reading.

You hadn't noticed him coming toward you until he spoke. “Is this seat taken?” He asked, hand resting on the chair across from yours. You looked up at him, and he could have sworn he felt his heart skip a beat.

You were a bit confused. The cafe was busy, but there were certainly other places available. You shook your head while returning to your book.

He took a sip of his drink before speaking again. “How do you like it?” He asked. You looked up at him, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. He chuckled, realizing his vague question. “The book, I mean.”

“Oh, it's really good. One of my favorites, actually.” You said. He already knew the answer to his question. One of the nights when you were bordering on a panic attack, he asked you questions about it to distract you. You rambled for a while, and he was entranced by your passion. After the games ended, the first thing he did was find a copy of it.

“What's it about?” He asked. You started talking in a rather closed-off manner, as if you were trying to distance yourself from him. You found it hard to get close to anyone since Young-il. But the more you spoke, the more he saw the old you peeking through.

You both spoke for over an hour, first about the book and then about other things. You both talked about where you were from, what you did for work, and the like. although you were both withholding some of the truth

You didn't even notice time passing by until you saw one of the workers starting to sweep the floor. You had talked until the cafe was about to close. You laughed awkwardly at that fact. “We should probably go. I don't want to hold them up.”

You said your goodbyes and parted ways. It wasn't until you got home that you noticed the slip of paper in your bag. It was a phone number with a small note: We should do this again sometime. - In-ho

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, but then you just smiled. Your cheeks hurt at the motion, and you realized how much you had been smiling that evening. Your fear of getting close to people was forgotten at that moment.

You typed out a single message: Hey, it's Y/N. Same time next week?

----

Player 246, Gyeong-seok:

You were trying to get back into the swing of things after being put through the horrible games. You had tried to close yourself off from the other players. After seeing the brutality of Red Light Green Light, you didn't want to get attached to anyone. You just wanted to get out of there.

But Gyeong-seok managed to break down the walls you had made. Your number was right after his, so you stood next to each other on the X side of the room. You noticed him glancing over at him but you didn't react.

He struck up a conversation with you afterward while eating dinner. You tried to ignore him, but he was stubborn. You eventually relented, and you both talked for a bit. It was all fine until he told you about his daughter at home, Na-yeon, and how she was sick.

You sympathized with him, and it scared you. You had no intentions of betraying him. Quite the opposite, actually. You were afraid of being attached because it would make the inevitable hurt even worse. A death game was no place to make friends. But that's exactly what you did. Maybe even more than friends.

When he decided to help Gi-hun and the others during the raid, you felt an intense feeling of dread, and the blood in your veins ran cold. You were already grieving him, silently lamenting for the daughter whose father would never return. That was until he came stumbling into the room with a gunshot wound.

You tried to treat the wound the best you could, but the lack of supplies and the incessant trembling of your hands hindered you. Luckily, your makeshift bandage wouldn't see too much use, as the Xs had a majority in the next vote.

Before anything else happened, he pulled you aside. “Hey, thanks for everything. I couldn't have asked for a better friend here.” He said.

You tried to ignore the fluttery feeling in your stomach after his praise. “Thank you, too. I think you kept me sane.” You said softly with a slight chuckle.

He smiled before pulling you into a hug. You tensed up slightly, the movement catching you off guard at first. You hesitantly reciprocated his embrace. “I hope we get to see each other again.” He said.

“In better circumstances, I hope.” You quipped, earning a chuckle from him.

And you would see him again. It was about a month or so later, but fate moved you toward each other. It started with a light tug on your jacket while you were shopping in a department store. You looked down to see a little girl, barely tall enough to reach your waist.

Before you could speak, the girl did. “I can't find my dad. Can you help me?” She definitely was a bit shaken up and nervous to talk to you.

Your eyes softened when they met hers. You crouched down to talk to her on her level. “Of course I can. My name is Y/N. What's yours?” You asked her.

You smiled. “That's a pretty name.” You said, causing her to become bashful. “Hey, I have an idea. I can carry you on my shoulders so you can see over the clothing racks. Is that okay with you?” You offered. It would let her be able to see more of the store. She nodded.

That seemed to calm her nerves a bit. “Na-yeon.” She said softly. Her name didn't immediately trigger your memory since it was a fairly popular name.

She giggled when you picked her up. You grabbed her hands to help keep her stable. You intended to find your way to the cashier so they could make an announcement over the speakers.

You didn't make it that far before she called out to someone. “Na-yeon, what did I say about running-” His words caught in his throat when you turned toward him. It was Gyeong-seok

You smiled as you put the girl back on the ground. She moved to wrap her arms around his legs, and he put his hand on her shoulder. “Fancy seeing you here.” He said with a grin.

She looked back at you. “How do you know my dad?” She asked you.

You locked eyes with him, hesitating on how to explain it. “They're a friend from work.” He offered. You agreed. It was better to lie than try to explain anything further. “What do you say, Na-yeon?” He asked, prompting her to use her manners. The girl let go of her father, saying a word of thanks with a bow.

You smiled. “It was no trouble. She was very brave.” You said, causing her to beam with pride.

While he was talking to his daughter, you pulled out your phone. You started to make a new contact. When he was done talking, you passed your phone to him. He smiled when he realized what you were doing. He put his number in.

“It was nice meeting you, Na-yeon. Don't be strangers, okay?” You said. You said goodbye and made your way to the checkout. As much as you would have loved to stay and chat, you had a pressing matter to attend to.

The girl heard the ring tone. “Is that Y/N?” She asked.

As the two were getting into their car, he received a text message. It was nice seeing you both. Glad to see that Na-yeon is doing well.

He chuckled as he was buckling her seat belt. “Yes, it is.” He confirmed.

“They were nice. When can we see them again?” She asked, very eagerly.

He smiled. “Soon, kiddo.” He said. Before he started driving, he answered you. I'm glad to see you too. Na-yeon is already asking to see you again. Do you want to grab lunch with us sometime?

You smiled at your phone, answering almost immediately. How could I say no?

[justcat-judging]

₊ ⊹𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞 𝐎𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞!⊹ ₊

˚ʚY/N told them her ideal type which was the complete opposite of them. ɞ˚

˚ʚRin Itoshi x Reader, Sae Itoshi x Reader (seperate)ɞ˚

˚ʚpt.2, pt.1, pt.3ɞ˚

---

₊ ⊹ 𝐑𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢 ⊹ ₊

Rin Itoshi wasn’t nosy.

He didn’t care about pointless conversations, especially when they had nothing to do with soccer.

And yet, here he was—standing just out of sight, muscles tense, pretending he wasn’t listening to your conversation.

He had only stopped by the locker room to grab his water bottle, but the second he heard your voice, he froze. He had no reason to stay, no reason to care. But then Isagi asked that question, and suddenly, walking away felt impossible.

“So, what’s your type?”

Rin didn’t know why he was waiting for your answer. It wasn’t like it mattered.

But when you hummed thoughtfully and finally replied, he regretted ever pausing to listen.

“My type?” you mused. “I think I like guys who are warm, funny, and super outgoing. Y’know, someone who can make me laugh.”

Rin’s grip on his bottle tightened.

Outgoing. Warm. Someone who makes you laugh.

That was the exact opposite of him in every possible way.

Isagi snorted. “So basically the complete opposite of Rin?”

Bachira gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Oof. Critical hit. Poor Rin-chan.”

You laughed, not even denying it, and Rin felt something sharp twist in his chest.

It shouldn’t bother him.

It shouldn’t feel like he just lost a match before it even started.

But it did.

Because, for the longest time, Rin had been harboring a quiet, inconvenient crush on you.

You were everything he wasn’t—bright, sociable, easy to like. People naturally gravitated toward you. You had a way of lighting up any room you walked into, while Rin… Rin was the type to stay in the corner, arms crossed, scowling at the world.

He knew he wasn’t the kind of person people liked. And now, hearing you say it so casually, so easily, just confirmed what he already knew.

He forced himself to walk past you, shoulders tense, pretending he didn’t hear a single word. But as he passed, you turned toward him, blinking in mild surprise.

“Rin? You okay?”

“Fine,” he muttered, not looking at you.

You tilted your head, smiling. “You should smile more, y’know. You’re kinda scary like this.”

Like this. Like always.

Rin gritted his teeth. “I don’t care.”

He walked away before he could see your expression.

Before he could let himself hope.

---

Later that night, Rin lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

It was stupid. He was being stupid.

Why did he care so much? It wasn’t like he ever thought he had a chance.

But still… the thought of you being with someone else—someone warm, someone outgoing—made something ugly coil in his stomach.

He hated it.

Because he wanted to be that person.

But he wasn’t.

And maybe he never would be.

---

A few days later…

“You really don’t think Rin’s attractive?”

Bachira’s voice was teasing, sing-songy, and Rin—who had just taken a sip of water—nearly choked.

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not what I said.”

Rin paused, heart pounding.

“Oh?” Bachira wiggled his brows. “So you do think he’s attractive?”

You huffed. “Of course I do. I’m not blind. He’s probably the most good-looking guy here.”

Rin froze.

Wait. What?

Isagi laughed. “Then why isn’t he your type?”

You shrugged. “I dunno. It’s not like I wouldn’t date him. I just… I always imagined myself with someone different, you know?”

Rin didn’t know.

All he knew was that your words sent his heart into a freefall.

It wasn’t a no.

It wasn’t a never.

And maybe—just maybe—he still had a chance.

Before he could fully process it, you turned to him with a smirk.

“By the way, Rin…”

He blinked. “What?”

You grinned. “It was a prank.”

Rin stared. “What.”

You giggled. “The whole ‘outgoing guys are my type’ thing? I made it up.”

Rin’s brain short-circuited.

Bachira burst out laughing. “Damn, Rin-chan, you looked so pissed the other day.”

“I wasn’t pissed,” Rin muttered, scowling.

You leaned closer, eyes shining with amusement. “Were you jealous?”

“No.”

“You totally were.”

“Shut up.”

You giggled, nudging his shoulder. “Relax, dummy. I don’t actually have a type. But if I did…” You paused, tapping your chin. “It’d probably be someone serious, talented, and a little grumpy.”

Rin’s heart stopped.

Wait.

Was that—was that supposed to be him?

You winked before he could respond, walking off with a satisfied smile.

Bachira patted his shoulder. “Congrats, Rin-chan. You might actually have a chance.”

Rin didn’t respond.

He was too busy trying (and failing) to stop himself from hoping.

₊ ⊹ 𝐒𝐚𝐞 𝐈𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢⊹ ₊

Sae Itoshi didn’t consider himself an easily bothered person.

Annoyed? Sure. Impatient? All the time. But bothered? No.

That was, until you decided to test that theory.

The two of you were sitting together at a quiet café, his treat after he made a promise to take you out once he had a break from training. It was rare for him to have time like this, so he enjoyed the peace—until you opened your mouth.

“So,” you started, casually stirring your drink, “I figured out my type.”

Sae raised an eyebrow, sipping his coffee. “You figured it out? What, were you confused before?”

You smirked. “Not confused, just undecided.”

He rolled his eyes. “And?”

You leaned back in your seat, tapping a finger against your chin as if deep in thought. “I think I like guys who are cheerful. Y’know, warm and goofy, someone who makes me laugh all the time. A golden retriever type.”

Sae paused mid-sip.

Slowly, he lowered his cup, staring at you with an unreadable expression. “…Huh.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was so bad at hiding his reactions.

“What?” you asked, feigning innocence.

“Nothing,” he muttered, averting his gaze. He set his cup down, a little harder than necessary. “Just sounds annoying.”

You snorted. “You think everything is annoying.”

“I have good reason to.”

You grinned. “So you’re saying you don’t fit my type?”

Sae exhaled, crossing his arms. “I don’t think anyone has ever described me as warm, goofy, or cheerful.”

“True,” you mused, taking a sip of your drink. “Guess that means I’d never date you.”

Sae went silent.

You expected him to roll his eyes or make some sarcastic remark. But instead, he just stared at you for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line. Then, without a word, he picked up his phone and started scrolling.

You blinked. “Uh… what are you doing?”

“Looking up flights back to Spain,” he deadpanned.

You burst out laughing. “Sae!”

“What?” he said, not looking up. “If I’m not your type, I clearly have no reason to be here.”

You were wheezing at this point. “Oh my God, are you pouting?”

“I don’t pout.”

“You so do,” you teased, leaning forward with a smirk. “What, did you want me to say you’re my type?”

Sae clicked his tongue, locking his phone and slipping it back into his pocket. “I don’t care what you say.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure, sure.”

You took another sip of your drink, watching him struggle to keep his expression neutral.

“…It was a prank, by the way,” you finally admitted, grinning. “I made that up.”

Sae’s eye twitched. “You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

Silence. Then—

“…What’s your actual type?” he muttered, not quite meeting your gaze.

You shrugged. “Not sure. But if I had to choose…” You leaned forward slightly, voice teasing. “I think I like serious, talented guys who pretend not to care but totally do.”

Sae’s grip tightened around his coffee cup.

“…Huh.”

You smiled. “Still booking that flight?”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes—but this time, there was the slightest hint of a smile on his lips.

“Shut up.”

(Guys which duo should I make next?)

[hishumanbellestories]

The argument had started over something small—so small that, in hindsight, it seemed ridiculous. A careless remark, a sharp response, tension that had been simmering beneath the surface until it boiled over. But neither of you had backed down. Alastor, always grinning, had looked anything but amused, and you, too hurt to see past your own anger, had turned your back on him and walked away.

And then, he was gone.

Not physically—Alastor still haunted the hotel like a specter, his presence lingering in the shadows, but he was avoiding you. It was deliberate, and it stung. At first, you told yourself it was fine. If he wanted to be childish, so be it. You could avoid him just as easily.

But the days dragged on, and the ache in your chest grew unbearable. You missed him. His insufferable laughter, the way he always seemed to know just what to say, even when it drove you mad. You missed the glint in his eyes when he teased you, the way he could make the world feel a little less heavy, even in Hell. And the fact that he had vanished from your life without a word—it hurt more than you wanted to admit.

Still, pride kept you from seeking him out.

And then Charlie and Angel came to you.

“He’s not okay,” Charlie said, arms crossed, worry clear in her expression. “I know he acts like nothing ever bothers him, but this—this is different.”

Angel sighed, leaning against the doorway. “Look, babe, I don’t know what happened between you two, but Al’s losin’ it. He’s not himself. And if he’s not okay, something’s seriously wrong.”

Your heart clenched. Alastor, not okay? He was always in control, always composed. But the worry in Charlie’s eyes and the rare seriousness in Angel’s tone told you everything.

“What do you mean?” you asked, hesitant. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know the answer.

Charlie bit her lip. “He’s been… off. More distant than usual. He still talks, he still smiles, but it’s not real. It’s like he’s going through the motions. It’s like he’s trying to pretend he’s fine, but he’s not.”

Angel nodded. “He’s avoidin’ everyone, not just you. But whenever your name comes up? He either changes the subject or disappears entirely.”

The air felt heavy, suffocating. You swallowed hard, your chest tightening.

“I thought he was avoiding me because he was angry,” you admitted quietly.

Charlie shook her head. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

It wasn’t. And deep down, you knew it. Alastor didn’t get angry like this. He played with emotions like a master puppeteer, always in control, always detached. If he was avoiding you, if he was truly unraveling, then something was very, very wrong.

And you needed to find out why.

Alastor wasn’t easy to find when he didn’t want to be found. But you knew him well enough to guess where he might retreat when the weight of his thoughts grew too heavy. And sure enough, you found him standing by the grand radio in one of the hotel’s abandoned rooms, fingers resting lightly on the dials, his head tilted as if listening to something only he could hear.

You hesitated in the doorway, suddenly unsure.

He must have sensed you, because his back stiffened, and for a moment, he didn’t turn. Then, slowly, he glanced over his shoulder, eyes meeting yours.

You had expected the usual mask—the ever-present, mocking grin, the glint of mischief in his gaze. But what you saw instead made your breath hitch.

He looked tired. Not physically, but emotionally. Hollow, haunted. And though his lips curled upward, the smile never reached his eyes.

“Well, well,” he said, voice light, almost forced. “Come to yell at me some more?”

The words stung, but there was no real venom in them. Just exhaustion.

You stepped forward. “Charlie and Angel are worried about you.”

His smile widened. “How touching.”

You frowned. “I am worried about you.”

For the briefest second, something flickered in his expression—something raw, something real. But then it was gone, buried beneath that infuriating grin.

“Oh, my dear,” he laughed, but it was hollow. “There’s no need for that. I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’re not,” you countered, voice softer now. “Alastor, what’s going on?”

Silence stretched between you. He turned away, fingers tightening on the radio dial, as if grounding himself.

“I realized something,” he finally murmured, so quiet you almost didn’t hear. “Something… unfortunate.”

You waited, heart pounding.

“I thought I could be satisfied with what we had,” he continued, voice distant, as though speaking to himself. “A delightful little friendship, a bit of amusement to pass the time. But then—then I lost it. And I realized…” he let out a hollow laugh. “How very foolish of me.”

You stepped closer. “Alastor—”

He turned then, and for the first time, he looked afraid.

“You should leave,” he said, almost desperate. “Go. Before I make things worse.”

Your chest tightened. “Al—”

“PLEASE...”

He never begged. Not Alastor. But this wasn’t the Radio Demon speaking. This was Alastor, the man beneath the mask, raw and vulnerable in a way you had never seen before.

And it shattered you.

Because now you understood.

This wasn’t just about the argument. This wasn’t just about losing a friend.

Alastor had realized something far more terrifying.

He was in love with you.

And he believed, with every fiber of his being, that he did not deserve you.

[spiderb00bs]

- A Night To Remember!

Ella Purnell x Fem reader

"You made a request to your girlfriend, and she always did everything you wanted."

Genre - smut Warnings - sex w strap | MDNI

Now Playing - Red Wine Supernova, by Chappell Roan

n/a - This was a request, but i accidentally deleted it. But if you're seeing this, yk it's u ;)

Your panting was the loudest sound in the room, your girlfriend's kisses descended from your lips to your jaw, nibbling and licking until she reached your neck. Your hands were tightly gripping the fabric of the shirt Ella was wearing, and even though those pajamas had awakened something in you, all you wanted to do was take them off her body.

You knew what was coming when you saw the bulge in your girlfriend's tiny shorts, and you couldn't deny that you loved it. A few days ago, you had asked Ella what she thought about fucking you with the strap, and you could have sworn you saw her eyes light up the moment the idea hit her brain.

So here you were, underneath the woman as she let you explore her body, feeling you run your hands from her back to her breasts.

"Are you ready, darling?" Ella asked, her accent made you shiver every time.

"Aren't you going to take it off?" You said, pulling the hem of your shirt up, making your girlfriend giggle as she allowed you to pull the shirt off her body.

"Are you satisfied now?" Ella said, directing the tip of the strap to your pussy, teasing you.

You groaned, very annoyed at being the only one completely naked there - because your girlfriend was still wearing those fucking short shorts - but also because you were too horny to complain.

"Hey, don't be a bad girl. Remember, I'm the boss today, baby." She said, not even giving you time to protest.

A loud moan left you as Ella pushed herself inside you. The feeling of the strap and your girlfriend kissing your body and stimulating your breasts was wonderful, and you swore you could live like this forever.

"Fuck babe, that feels so good!" You said, grabbing Ella's shoulders. The naughty little smile on her face said she was loving this as much as you were.

"Fuck, oh my god babe, you're so tight, I can barely move!" The giggle that left your girlfriend's lips made your head fall back. How could that woman be so hot?

Seeing your neck on display, Ella took the opportunity to suck on your sensitive spot, increasing the speed of her thrusts, making her go deeper and deeper inside you.

your nails scratched the woman's lightly tanned skin, your nails scratched the woman's lightly tanned skin, giving Ella a twisted pleasure, who moaned with pain.

"Damn babe, why didn't you ask me to do this before?" Ella laughed once more, seeing that you couldn't say a word, just letting your moans come out. "You're enjoying it, aren't you? How I fuck you?" You nodded, it was the only thing you could do while your girlfriend fucked you so good.

Grabbing your thighs, Ella began to move with precision, hitting your g-spot suddenly. Hearing you moan more and more, the woman brought her hand to your clit, massaging it.

"Baby, I'm gonna..." You couldn't even finish your sentence, your words were replaced by screams in less than seconds, while you came hard, wetting Ella's abdomen, her shorts and the sheets.

"Holy shit, baby..." Ella said, bending down and giving your pussy an experimental lick, making you moan with sensitivity. "You're really something, huh?!"

Kissing your forehead, Ella lay down next to you, only to feel the wet sheets, as well as her shorts.

"Okay, Miss Messy, let's clean up."

Laughing, you both got out of bed, - with difficulty - Ella changed the sheets while you were in the tub, and then joined you.

Relaxing her shoulders, she leaned her back against your front, feeling comforted in being so intimately beside you.

"I love you." The brunette said, stroking your hair and kissing your hand, which was holding her comfortably.

"I love you even more." You said, kissing her neck, making her giggle at the tickling.

Now that was a night to remember!

the way I thought of this picture of Ella the EXACT moment I read this request, OMG she looks so hot in this picture 😭😭

How are you guys? I'm working on the bigger requests, so while they're not ready, I thought I'd release some short requests to keep you entertained.

sorry for the absence, it's been really complicated lately. My main blog hasn't seen me in ages 🫣

anyway, stay safe

xoxo, spider.

[magicalqueennightmare]

Meeting Belle

Bucky Barnes x Reader (Nicknamed Belle)

You've been best friends with Sarah since high school so when you go to take her boys to school and there's a man on her couch you don't know, you're a bit concerned

You had promised Sarah you’d take the boys to school. It was sprinkling rain and supposed to be like this most of the week. Luckily you didn’t have to be into work until nine so it worked out beautifully. You walked out of your place to your jeep and slid in. Her place was just around the corner from yours. Hers and Sam’s mom had been a god sent when you were younger. That woman had stepped in for you and your brother when your parents checked out. Your brother was living in Texas now but you were still right here home in Louisiana.  

You pulled up to her place and jumped out of your jeep, slamming the door behind yourself. The doors on that thing wouldn’t close if you didn’t put a little force behind them. The boys loved it but Sarah would shake her head at them when they’d laugh because of you arguing with it  “Aunt Belle likes to act like she’s the beast at times boys”  Belle was a long lasting nickname from Sarah, way back from when the two of you were in high school. When you’d raised an eyebrow at her she’d simply tapped your book “Always reading and you’re so damn pretty. Plus she is your favorite princess” so Belle was called nowadays more than your actual name.

You tried the handle and it was unlocked so you walked in “Cass! Aj! Get a move on fellas!” you walked around into the living room where the boys were and instinctively shoved them both behind you when your eyes landed on a man you’d never seen before laying on the couch. He was gorgeous, yeah but the metal arm and you not knowing him meant your claimed nephews were going behind you.

He slowly stood up, hands held out in front of him “Easy doll. Ask the boys, they know me” you shook your head, keeping a hand on Cass and one on Aj. “SARAH! THERE’S A MAN IN YOUR HOUSE AND IT AINT SAM!” she walked around the corner laughing “Belle, you do have a way with words”

She observed the scene and nodded her head approvingly “Got to say, I love that you my boys enough to stand between them and a super soldier but he’s harmless well not harmless but is to us. This is Sam’s friend Bucky” your eyes flew back to the guy, studying him. His hair was shorter, new arm but yeah that was Bucky Barnes. Holy hell, leave it up to you to stand ten toes down against a one hundred and something year old super soldier who could literally snap you like a twig. 

Sam came in the backdoor, having been summoned by you screaming and grinned “So you met Belle Bucky” “Belle?” Bucky looked towards you with a slight grin. Damn he really was gorgeous. Standing up where you could see him and know he wasn’t a threat to the boys meant you could fully appreciate the broad chest under that blue henley and those damn dogtags dangling along with how bright his blue eyes were when he smiled at you. 

“Belle is a nickname the Wilsons tagged me with in highschool” you explained. Sam told Bucky your actual name then said “But she was always reading, didn’t want to give any of those losers in her high school the time of day and was pretty like Belle plus we have like three different halloweens worth of pictures from when we were younger where she dressed as Belle” you stuck your tongue out at him “Easy Samuel. Just cause you’re Captain America now, don’t get cocky. Me and Sarah can steal take you” 

Sarah nodded “I already told him that” Bucky grinned “I like her already” you winked at him “Get to know me Barnes and you’ll love me in no time” and saw a light blush grace his cheeks. Talk about a damn confidence boost to start your day! You just made Bucky fucking Barnes blush! 

You saw Sam shoot Bucky a look and weren’t sure what it was about but you cut your eyes at Sarah and she wiggled her eyebrows. You shook your head “Ok well boys now that aunt Belle made a fool of herself, let's get you to school before I’m late to work”

You turned to walk out and Bucky called your name. You turned around and he waved a hand towards where the boys were running towards your jeep “You didn’t know me, you got between your nephews and danger. Nothing to be embarrassed of” you grinned “I hope you stick around Bucky” 

You headed down the doorsteps and could hear Sam cackle “Dude, you are as red as a tomato!” and heard Sarah scolding him. You couldn’t get the grin off your face the entire way of dropping the boys off and into work. 

You walked into Sarah’s house a few days later, juggling the bags of groceries she’d asked you to pick up. You tried helping her and the boys as much as you could, hell if you were being honest the only real home cooked meals you ate were ones you helped cook in her place. You always just grabbed a little something when left to your own devices.

You kicked the door open with your foot and when you started to walk in the bag nearly ripped but Bucky popped around the corner. Your eyes widened. “Where the hell did you come from?” he smiled “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you” as he scooped up all four bags easily and carried them towards the kitchen. You watched with a raised eyebrow and a grin “I mean, not complaining but I thought you left a few days ago”

He nodded “I did” then looked over his shoulder at you “I came back” you felt your face warm “Where is everyone?” he tilted his head towards the back door “The boys are playing, Sam’s jogging and Sarah was firing up the grill” 

You laughed lightly “Oh yeah, you’re a Brooklyn boy. Have you ever had any good Louisiana cooking?”  he shook his head and you grinned “You’re in for a treat in that case” he watched you with a smile “I’m up for anything doll” you felt your stomach flip “That sounds promising” and saw a blush grace his cheeks. 

You shook your head and grabbed his metal hand, considering it was closest to you. His eyes widened when you didn’t seem bothered and you grinned “What?” he shook his head “You’re something else Belle” you laughed lightly “Oh Bucky, you haven’t seen anything yet. Come on” and pulled him towards the door. “Me, cass and Aj always lure Sam into a water balloon fight. You in?” he laughed “As long as I’m on your team” you nodded “Of freaking course” and he laughed “Then I’m in darlin”

@desimarie12

[hyukalyptus]

covered in me — sub!kai x femdomme!reader

cw. it's kinda implied they're both idols that can't be "public," lots of marking with lipstick, pet names (love, baby, good boy), reader wears a dress, body writing (m. receiving), hair pulling, oral (m. and f. receiving), protected penetration, sex toys, light fem domme vibes, nipple play, chubby reader implied. note. i actually really love this one, guys. and i think you will too! this is for @silvergyus' valentine's day event! enjoy and please let me know what you think <3 wc. 4.3k

“I saw you staring at me all night,” Kai whispers in your ear. Have you ever seen anyone look as sexy as he does right now? The way his chest presses against your back and traps you against the bathroom’s vanity feels better than a warm blanket that’s been pulled straight from the dryer. And you find yourself doing it again: staring at him, this time through the mirror while his hands glide from your shoulders and past your waist, drawing circles over your hips with his fingertips. 

Everything about him was—and still is—irresistible tonight. His charcoal grey suit. The wash of deep peach surrounding his eyes with the cutest rose blush on his cheeks. You were dying to run your fingers through his fluffy black hair that’s messy now that it’s the end of the day. But it was just as mesmerizing when it was perfectly styled at the beginning of the night. 

“I can’t stand ignoring you when you’re a few feet away, especially on Valentine’s Day…” You turn around in his arms, draping yours over his shoulders. “I want to scream to the world how in love I am with you,” you say, punctuating the sentence with a kiss. “How much you love me.” Kiss. Sighing, you lean closer to his neck, letting his cologne drift into your nostrils. “I want everyone to know you’re mine.” Kiss. And at that, his hands are right where they belong, resting against the swell of your ass.

“I am yours, huh?” He chuckles.

“Yep,” you say matter-of-factly, but a pout forms on your lips. “But nobody knows,” you grumble. “I can’t do any of the things I wanna do to you…” 

“Like what?”

“Like,” you start, grazing your hands over his chest. “Run my fingers through your hair.” He hums at the feeling of your nails dragging across his scalp. “Hug you. Kiss you.” Then you do. When you pull away, the sight of your oxblood lipstick smudged against his lips makes your stomach do backflips. “Every eye in the room was on you. And I can tell what they want. They look at you and want you for their own,” you say. His groan sends shivers down your spine. “But you’re not theirs, are you?”

“Nuh-uh,” he says smugly. 

“I’m the only one who gets to touch you. I’m the only one who gets to…” you trail off, thinking of the millions of ways you make him feel good or the millions of ways he makes your toes curl. “You know what I really want?” A devastating smirk on his lips gives you permission to go further. You loosen his tie and pull it through his collar, letting it fall to the floor. With slow fingers, you unbutton his shirt, sliding your hands beneath the fabric, pushing it past his shoulders. The crisp white t-shirt beneath feels like a secret, like uncovering something softer, something just for you— shedding the skin of his public persona to reveal your angel in white. 

“What I really want…” you sigh. “I wanna cover you in hickeys and scratches and bite marks. I want to look at your body and see it covered in me knowing I did that to you because you are mine, and I can do what I want to things that belong to me,” you say. You move closer to him with every breath. “I want people to look at you and know you’re mine, that you’re so mine, they don’t stand a chance with you.” 

Then you catch his lips with yours, moving over them with a fire only he could ignite. He is everything to you right now—the air you breathe, the taste on your tongue, the strength you need while he’s making your knees this weak. But most of all, he’s yours. 

“But since I can’t cover you in hickeys and love bites…” you grin evilly, eyeing his smudged lips. “I suppose my lipstick will have to do.” You end that sentence with the softest kitten lick across his bottom lip. “It looks so pretty on you anyway.” 

Guiding him toward the bed, you push him gently and he lets his body fall to the mattress, resting his hands behind his head, like he’s saying do whatever you want to me. And there’s an overwhelming sense of trust that comes with it. You straddle him, tugging at the hem of his white t-shirt, gently kissing right above the waistband of his pants. Disappointed at the lack of lipstick left behind, you stand, digging through your purse. 

As you stride back to bed, you uncap your lipstick, placing it in one of his hands while the other squeezes the crease above your thigh. Your mouth falls open into a plush oval. He sits up, so close to your chest, and slowly drags the lipstick across your lips, painting them a red darker than your cabernet from earlier. Replacing the cap, he stores it for safekeeping atop the bedside table. 

Tugging his t-shirt again, you press your lips to his lower tummy before you let out a sigh of relief at the sight of the imprint of your perfectly-shaped lips on his skin. Not even giving him the privilege of eye contact, you order him to take off his shirt and he obliges, his chest heaving needing more from you.

Humming against his stomach while you skate your nose across his skin, you ask, “Where else should I leave my mark?” He turns his head to the side, silently asking for neck kisses, unable to form a coherent sentence. You smile and press soft kisses against his skin, leaving behind lipstick marks rivaling a trail of love bites. 

Biting his earlobe between your top teeth and bottom lip, you tug, earning a gasp. You ask, “Are you mine, baby? Hm?” He nods. “Say it.”

“I’m yours—” the way his name falls from your lips sounds so desperate your head reels. “Only yours.”

“Right. Only mine,” you say. “In fact…” you trail off, reaching for your lipstick once again, opening it with a pop. Pressing your hand to his chest to keep him from moving, you twist the lipstick up and write your name in big letters across his chest, claiming him as yours. Glancing down at the writing, his fingertips brush over the letters, smudging it barely.

“Feels good to be yours,” he says. It isn’t playful, it isn’t indulgent, not submissive. It’s deeper. You trace over his collarbone with your thumb. 

“Yeah?”  

His eyes flick up to yours and without hesitation, he replies, “Yeah.”  

Maybe you should tease him for how soft he sounds, for how serious this just got, but you don’t. Instead, you press a kiss right over your name, feeling the way his heart hammers against your lips. It makes the heat rush through your body again. 

Back to the matter at hand, you suppose. You can get to the mushy gushy love confessions afterward when you’re laying on his chest all warm and cozy after an incredible orgasm. Trailing delicate kisses down his chest and tummy, you pause to skate your lips across the waistband of those sexy-as-fuck suit pants—a maddening barrier keeping you from everything you want. Your lipstick print is such a cute accessory to his dainty happy trail you’d so wish he’d let grow out. That’s his choice, you remind yourself. But that doesn’t mean you can’t grumble about it. And there’s no ignoring his hardening cock behind those thin layers of fabric. 

He whispers…something. You’re not quite sure and you’re not so sure he knows what he said either. A jumbled, pathetic whimper somewhere between love, please, fuck, and your name. You look up at him with the slyest smirk and nod. 

After tossing his dress pants to the side, all he’s left in are his boxers along with some red letters and splotches of lipstick. That last stitch of clothing doesn’t last long. While he takes those off, you’re suddenly aware of how many clothes you’re wearing. How could you have forgotten to get naked? And it’s like he read your mind. Standing up, he holds out his hand, gesturing for you to stand. He motions for you to turn around for him, letting his hands sweep all over your curves. His thumbs rub your tense shoulders, but only for a few seconds before finding their way to the zipper on the back of your dress. Tugging it down slowly, he lets it fall to the floor in a pool of fabric at your feet. 

Then you guide him to lay on his back again, straddling his thighs and kissing his pelvis, dragging your fingers everywhere except where he needs it most. Precum beads at his tip, crying for something to be wrapped around it. Anything—a hand, a mouth, a cunt, anything at all. 

Finally grasping his cock with your fingers, you gently tap your face with him, leaving kisses up and down his shaft. “This is mine too, right?” You ask. 

“Of course,” he breathes. Smug and satisfied, you pop the cap off your lipstick again and write mine right at the base of his cock where hair would be if he didn’t shave it yesterday. Swirling around his tip with your thumb, you use your other hand to sloppily freshen up your lipstick. Looking up through your eyelashes, you drag the tip of your tongue from the base of his cock to the tip, finally sinking down on him, leaving a ring of lipstick at the base. Sloppy head movements, licks, sucks, slurps, simply obscene dick sucking leaves the messiest lipsticks marks that fade as you carry on. 

Your rhythm falters, not to tease, no, but because you’re too caught up in it. The weight of him on your tongue, the way his cock twitches with every sloppy drag of your lips, heat pooling between your legs. Your moan vibrates through his body, forcing his hips to jerk involuntarily.

Slow down, you tell yourself. But you can’t even listen to your own stupid advice. Your fingers dig into his muscular thighs, taking him deeper and messier, making you dizzier and dizzier. You don’t think you can go much longer without needing something more from him, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Whines spill from both of your lips, moaning and whimpering from this alone. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice wrecked, hands hovering—like he wants to touch, to yank you by your arms and pin you down to fuck you, but wouldn’t dare interrupt this.

You release him with a pop, making him shudder from the loss. There’s evidence of you all over him—remnants of oxblood all over his pelvis and down his cock, and in the writing on his chest. You pepper his neck and shoulders with love and kisses before sitting up to drag your wet pussy over his cock, teasing him even more, which he didn’t think was possible. He whispers your name, begging…begging to let him inside.

Desperate as ever, he throws his head back, back arching, hands squeezing harshly where your thighs meet your ass. “Please…” he trails off, dragging his hands up and down your thick legs, never getting enough of the feeling of your body. “Need you so bad.”

“Oh?” You tease. He nods. “Just a little longer, baby—” you gasp, feeling the head of his cock brushing your clit as you grind against him. How long are you gonna last like this? You want to drag it out, to tease him, perhaps see how long it takes before tears stream down his face but you don’t think you’d last that long yourself. You drag your teeth across his stomach, playing with the thought of actually biting him this time and leaving a longer term mark. 

You let yourself give in just a tad, biting him as gently as possible and he gasps at the simple thought of a real mark—your teeth imprinted on his skin for days. And you sigh, dropping your forehead to his body, desperate to leave a real one. But you can’t.

“I know, love, I know,” he says, running a thumb across your brow bone. “But look,” he starts, lifting your face by your chin. “Look at me,” he repeats. “This is all you.” And fuck, your thoughts sound like a broken record. The lipstick streaked across his skin claims him just as much as any other mark would. “All yours, remember?” Encouraging you to meet him again, he catches your lips with his, desperately, messily, aggressively kissing you over and over and over. 

And you’ve finally had enough. Reaching into the bedside table drawer, you search for a condom, all without ever leaving his body. It’s almost pavlovian how he reacts to the sight of it. He snatches it out of your fingers to rip it open with his teeth, spitting the corner of it out of his mouth. But he catches the glint in your eye and remembers just how much you love watching him do this. 

While you scoot down his thighs to give him access to himself, he cradles the back of your head, forcing you to watch him roll the condom down his cock. Eyes glazing over, you don’t think you’ve ever been more jealous of a hand. You can’t wait any longer. Reaching between you to guide him inside you, his tip teases your entrance before you clench around almost nothing. 

The first few inches alone are enough to send you over the edge. But when his hands push you lower, your legs tremble as much as your breaths. Sitting down fully, letting him fill you as much as possible, you both let out a simultaneous sigh. To adjust to him, you rock your hips back and forth and he throws his head back, gritting his teeth at the sheer amount of friction, the aching need. 

Your name plastered across his chest heaves up and down. “Fuck…” he whispers, like he can’t control his words. His hips roll and hit a spot inside you making your head reel. You can’t help but chuckle at the intensity of how you’re feeling. Then a second roll turns that chuckle into a moan. You bend to catch his lips with yours again, furiously making out before tugging at his bottom lip with your teeth. And something snaps. 

You sit up quickly, bouncing on his cock as fast as your body will let you. Everything is charged with electricity, buzzes of pleasure running throughout your whole body. He’s gone quiet, but you know you’re making him feel good from the sheer amount of squirming. 

“Should I stop?” You ask. Horror falls over his face.

“N-no, why?” 

“I can’t hear you,” you say. He’s always been a little shy but you love hearing him—his moans, sighs, whimpers, everything is pure magic. He shakes his head, hands gripping your hips to prove you shouldn’t stop. 

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits, face flushed, eyes glazed, barely able to get that sentence out. You slow down just enough to tease, rolling your hips in a way that makes him gasp. 

“Just let me hear you.” Usually, all he needs is a little nudge. Finally, a strangled noise escapes his throat. You smile, pleased, and give him exactly what he needs—more, faster, deeper—until his restraint unravels completely. And when he finally breaks, when he moans loud and unabashed, it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

Dropping your head back, you’re relieved at the break of the silence in the room. Sometimes you think he could make you come just from the noises he makes. Even if you’re doing all the physical work, he’s unknowingly doing the mental work for you. You lose yourself in his noises, in his touches—how he squeezes your tits clumsily, reaching for your hand to kiss your fingers. 

But when you almost double over from the pleasure, you catch yourself with your palms against his chest. At this angle, he ruts his hips up into you and he feels so goddamn good you think you may cry. Your shoulders scrunching at the pleasure of it all, you shudder and he finally gets the hint. 

“You wanna switch, love?” Before you can answer, he’s already helping you flip over to rest comfortably on your back. He stays soft, needy, watching you from above, entranced by the way you move beneath him, tits bouncing, face contouring, skin rippling with his thrusts.

Shoving himself inside you again, your eyes roll back, your body responding to his movements. You’re awestruck by the remnants of your name on his chest and mine on his pelvis but something’s missing now. While he’s still deep inside you, thrusting steadily, you reach for the lipstick and write boy on his right thigh, toy on his left, letting you read it perfectly from where you lay. 

Once you’ve discarded the lipstick to your bedside table, he grabs your wrist—not to stop you, but to hold it. His fingers tremble around yours as he slows his thrusts, his breath shaky as he looks down at the fresh words on his legs.  

“You okay?” you ask, rubbing soothing swipes over his thighs. 

He nods quickly, then pauses, swallowing hard. “I—I don’t know what to do with myself,” he admits, voice small, wrecked. Always looking to you, trusting you in such a  vulnerable state. 

You cup his face. “You don’t have to do anything,” you murmur. “Just feel me.”  

He exhales, like that was all he needed to hear, and then he melts. His forehead drops to your shoulder, arms wrapping around you as he starts moving again, slow, unsteady, like he’s letting himself fall apart one careful thrust at a time.  

You hold him through it, whispering soft praises in his ear, feeling the way his body shivers against yours. And when he finally moans again—needy, helpless, completely lost in you—it’s addicting.

“You’re being such a good boy,” you say. He whimpers again. “You’re my good boy, hm?” He nods, his forehead digging deeper into your neck, so close to losing control. And you debate with yourself for a moment—should you force him to make you come first? Or should you let him come first since he’s being so good? “I can’t hear you.”

“Yes,” he breathes. He’s always made sure you got off first but seeing him like this is too good. You wouldn’t dare stop this now. He’s got fingers for a reason. And a drawer full of toys when necessary. “Tell me.” You hum questioningly. He whines as if saying one more word would be too much for him to handle. But he finally musters up the strength. “Tell me I’m your good boy.” 

“Let me see you first.” He hesitantly sits up, leaving the warmth of your body. You’ll never get tired of this view. Broad shoulders and chest riddled with traces of you, your name still etched across his skin. It’s not the faintest of the four words yet, though. Mine written across his pelvis has withered down to a faint pink blotch. And boy toy is still fresh as blood. His fluffy hair barely sticks to his forehead, cheeks pink and puffy, hands trembling. His perfect pout is deliciously swollen. “Look at you…” you say, running your hands all over him. “You’re my good boy.” He smiles, a sigh of relief leaving his lips. “Oh, you’re such a good boy—my good boy.” 

You reward him with so many sweet praises he doesn’t need to ask permission to come first—he knows. His brows knit together, and the sight alone sends a flutter through you. He’s unraveling, his words tumbling out in a mess of swears and your name, his hips stuttering as he loses control. You keep whispering to him, guiding him through it, your voice steady as he falls apart. A final shuddering thrust, a deep, satisfied sigh, and then—stillness. The warmth of it settles over both of you, leaving nothing but the sound of his heavy breaths and the way he feels inside you. 

Catching himself on his elbows as he falls forward, he peppers your face with kisses, humming sweet satisfied sounds against your skin. Then he kisses your lips as deep as he can, which isn’t much in his post-sex haze, but it’s perfect. 

Everything takes forever while you wait for him to come back to make you come—him carefully tugging his condom off, tying it in a knot, not bothering to walk the ten steps to the bathroom to throw it away before discarding it onto the floor somewhere, looking for your favorite toy in your bedside table before finding his way back on top of you. Everything is agony when you’re this needy. 

But his tongue and lips all over your neck are so nice, goosebumps prickle your skin despite the heat radiating off you. When he tugs at your earlobe with his teeth, you’re really in trouble. He’s barely doing anything and he’s already making you moan. You didn’t think you could get any wetter than when he was literally inside of you minutes ago. But you were wrong. 

“Thank you,” he whispers in your ear, his fingers absent-mindedly playing with your pussy lips. You hum in question. “You heard me. God, you’re perfect.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re perfect too,” you say light-heartedly. “Now make me come.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says playfully, although there’s an undeniable hint of submissiveness to it. 

But he doesn’t start off too quick, no. He trails kisses down your neck, making sure he shows your nipples lots of love, making them slick and wet and cold against the air. It feels utterly dirty how covered in his spit they are—his own filthy version of writing his name on your chest, claiming you as his. And he always, always shows extra love to your tummy. Kisses and nips and squeezes. 

When he reaches your pussy, he spreads your lips, admiring how wet and glistening and delicious it looks. Hell, it felt amazing no less than five minutes ago, you’ll undoubtedly taste just as good, like you always do. He’ll never tire of your taste. And he doesn’t wait. 

Licking a stripe up your pussy, he kisses your clit gently before flicking the pointed tip of his tongue over it. Over and over and over again. Your back arches. This arguably isn’t even the best part and he already has your eyes rolling to the back of your skull. 

Holding your favorite toy in one hand, he teases your entrance for just a second, letting your wetness get it slick and smooth before he breaches you completely. Sure, he could use his fingers, but honestly, he’s skillful with this toy. 

He thrusts it in and out of your wet pussy, perfectly angling it to reach your favorite spot, your hips rolling involuntarily. Meanwhile, he hasn’t let up with his tongue on your clit. And everything feels so, so incredible, like he’s telling your body exactly how to feel and it’s obeying. And he used the exact right words, even if left unspoken. 

Your body sparks like a match, embers smoldering in every nook and cranny. Your bones burn like firewood, slow and steady, but your muscles churn like molten lava, wild and unpredictable. Kai lit your skin ablaze, and now the fire spreads, consuming everything in its path. You don’t fight it. You let it take you and melt you down to nothing but heat, want, and him.

It’s building, a white hot searing scorch until you’re about to erupt. “Kai—” you murmur, suddenly realizing neither of you have spoken for the last ten minutes. Of course, his mouth has been preoccupied and you’ve been simply laying there, enjoying yourself while he makes you feel good. 

He knows you’re close. He can feel it. Just a few more whispers of his name, a handful of breathless swears, your nails dragging across his scalp, likely leaving a hidden mark—and then you’re there.

Your orgasm crashes over you, flames igniting every nerve in your body. Hot waves of pleasure rush all over you as you arch off the mattress, his big hand holding you in place, ensuring you get every ounce of pleasure out of this orgasm as possible. And it’s incredible—his tongue and lips all over your pussy, the way he’s using your toy inside you, his hands on you, his fluffy hair entangled in your fingers. 

You feel him everywhere—in your fingertips, in your toes, in your chest and heart. Everything is overtaken by him and how he’s making you feel. 

When your vision finally clears up, you sigh, looking down at Kai smirking up at you. You shudder as he pulls out the toy, but you don’t feel empty. You never could feel that way around him. He doesn't move right away. Instead, he stays between your thighs, pressing soft kisses to the inside of your legs, too in love with your body to move away. 

Then he finally crawls up your body, brushes your eyebrow with the pad of his thumb, and kisses the tip of your nose. "You okay?" he murmurs. You nod, still catching your breath, and he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. His lips ghost over your temple and cheek, before finally meeting your mouth in a slow, unhurried kiss.  

As he pulls back, his gaze roams over you, softer now, taking a mental picture to memorialize this moment, adding it to the hundreds of scrapbooks in his mind. 

“I love seeing you like that,” you admit with a whisper. Warmth blooms in your chest, different from before—deeper, more consuming. You exhale a quiet laugh, carding your fingers through his hair. “All to myself,” you murmur.

He hums in response, melting at your touch as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck. His arms tighten around you, his body heavy and warm as he holds you close, never wanting to let go. “And who else would I belong to?” he asks, voice muffled against your skin.

You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Absolutely no one.”

[misswynters]

Picking baby names isnt easy...

short drabble

featuring. ekko x pregnant! reader

a/n. im sorry i just cant get enough of it, seriously (idk what this is but here you go everyone!) back from the dead

Soft rain sounds pattered against the windows as you sat in Ekko’s hideout, your feet propped up on a stack of cushions. The dim light cast a warm glow over the room, highlighting the scattered trinkets and gadgets Ekko had been working on. You were wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies, feeling cozy despite the growing weight of your belly.

Ekko paced back and forth across the room, muttering to himself as he tinkered with two small devices. He recently told you he was working on there cute anklets for the twins that would alert him if they were ever in danger. He already made one for you, at the back of it there was a small watch that could turn back time. But he emphasized that it should only be used if you were in a situation you knew you couldn't make it out alive. Luckily you never needed to use it. ANYWAYS. His movements were restless, like he couldn’t sit still. You watched him with a small smile, finding his energy endearing.

“Ekko,” you called softly, and he glanced up, his hands still fiddling with the wires.

“Yeah, Firefly?” he replied, tilting his head at you.

“Come sit with me,” you said, patting the space next to you.

His face softened immediately. “In a minute,” he said, though you could see him hesitating.

“Ekko,” you said again, a bit more pointedly. “I’m pregnant, and I want cuddles. Now.”

That did it. He set the baby anklets down with a laugh and crossed the room to you. “You always know how to get your way, huh?” he teased, plopping down beside you.

You leaned into him with a grin. “It’s a talent of mine.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. His other hand instinctively went to your belly, where the twins gave a small kick in response. Ekko’s eyes lit up, his grin spreading across his face.

“The little ones active today,” he murmured, rubbing slow circles over your stomach.

You hummed in agreement, resting your head on his shoulder. “Probably because their dad never sits still.”

“Hey!” he protested, though his laugh gave him away. “I’m totally calm and chill.”

“Sure you are,” you teased, giving him a playful nudge.

For a moment, the two of you just sat there, listening to the rain and enjoying the quiet. Then, out of nowhere, you felt a small pang in your back. A sharp pain that made you wince.

Ekko noticed immediately, his eyes wide with concern. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it the twins?”

You shook your head, trying to wave him off. “It’s just a little back pain. Comes with the territory.”

But Ekko wasn’t having it. “Alright, that’s it,” he declared, gently guiding you to lean forward a bit. “You’re getting a massage.”

You laughed, trying to protest. “Ekko, you don’t have to—”

“Shhh,” he cut you off, already starting to work his hands over your shoulders and back. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and you felt yourself relax almost immediately.

“Better?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Much better,” you admitted, melting under his care.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Good. Gotta take care of my Firefly.” You couldn’t help but smile at the nickname, your heart swelling with affection. Ekko always had a way of making you feel like the most important person in the world.

“Y’know,” he said after a moment, his hands still kneading your shoulders, “I’ve been thinking about what we should name the them.”

“Oh?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “What ideas do you have?”

He grinned, clearly excited. “Okay, hear me out: what if we name them something cool, like Blaze and Nova?”

You laughed, the sound filling the room. “Ekko, those sound like superhero names.”

“Exactly!” he said, his grin widening. “Our twins are going to be heroes. Just like their mom.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “And their dad,” you added.

You sat there for a bit pondering about names to give the twins since you were going to be due soon. Never even given the though of giving them a name yet. "What about Noa and April?" you added looking at him, with cute clear eyes. Trying your hardest to find the twins some good names. Who knew it would be tough.

"Eh, Personally I don't like it. Anyways," Ekko’s expression softened at that, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. You couldn't believe he quickly switched the subject. “We’re gonna be a good team, Firefly. You, me, and the little ones.”

You leaned into his touch, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “I know,” you said softly.

Suddenly, Ekko shifted, kneeling down in front of you so he was eye-level with your belly. “Alright, babies,” he said, his tone has a hint of mockery with serious undertone. “You better behave in there and stop giving your mom back pain, or we’re gonna have a few words when you get out.”

You burst out laughing, covering your face with your hands. “Ekko, you’re hilarious!”

He grinned up at you, his eyes sparkling. “Yeah of course i am.”

“I love you,” you admitted, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair.

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment before pressing a soft kiss to your belly. “And I love you, too. All three of you.”

The sweetness of the moment made your heart ache in the best way. Ekko was everything you could’ve hoped for: supportive, loving, and just the right amount of goofy.

As he climbed back onto the couch beside you, he wrapped you in his arms, holding you close like he never wanted to let go. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I’m really lucky to have you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ekko tightened his hold on you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Nah, Firefly. I’m the lucky one.”

And as the rain continued to fall outside, the two of you stayed curled up together, safe and warm in each other’s arms, dreaming of the bright future ahead.

this is absolutely lazy of a drabble… 0-o

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banner. @anitalenia

[s4svnn]

first big argument of oub couple pls!!!

Shower (teaser)

Your stubbornness is part of what brought you together—it’s a fire that keeps things passionate and exciting. But at times, it can also be exhausting, especially when neither of you is willing to admit fault because of your pride. Arguments can escalate quickly, with both of you refusing to back down each determined to prove a point, so when things heat up maybe the best way to cool off is together…in the shower.

Pairing: F1 racer Jungkook x reader

Genre: fluff, angst, smut (18+)

Warnings/content tags: couples argument, egos, stubbornness, slapping, unprotected sex, rough sex, degradation kink, hair pulling, boob play, fingering, mirror sex, back shots, orgasm denial, sub + dom dynamic, spanking

The door slammed shut behind us with a force that rattled the walls, the echo reverberating through the tense silence. My heart pounded against my ribs, my breaths coming in uneven gasps still heated from the argument that had started long before we even reached his house.

The air between us was thick with unspoken words, the weight of frustration pressing down on my chest. The dim glow from the entryway lights cast jagged shadows across Jungkook’s sharp features, emphasizing the tight clench of his jaw and the flicker of something dark in his eyes. His fists were curled at his sides, his posture rigid, as his entire body radiated barely restrained frustration.

"He likes you. I can tell."

I spun around so fast my hair whipped over my shoulder, my blood boiling at the audacity of his words. My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms as I glared at him.

"No, he doesn’t! We’re just friends!"

Jungkook exhaled sharply, the sound more of a scoff than a sigh, his lips twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smirk but wasn’t entirely devoid of amusement either. His head tilted slightly, the way it always did when he didn’t believe a single word coming out of my mouth, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as if he was holding back the urge to laugh at my denial.

"You really believe that?" he asked, his voice slow and skeptical, every syllable laced with quiet challenge.

I folded my arms across my chest, planting my feet firmly against the floor as I met his gaze with unwavering defiance, refusing to let him intimidate me. "Yes, because it’s the truth," I said, my voice steadier now.

Jungkook took a step forward, closing the distance between us just slightly, but enough for the air to shift, enough for the space between us to feel too small, too charged. The weight of his presence was suffocating, the intensity in his gaze making my pulse pound harder, though I refused to let him see the effect he had on me.

"People don’t look at their friends like that, Aylah," he murmured, his voice dropping lower, almost like a warning. "He looks at you like he wants to eat you alive."

A sharp, incredulous laugh burst from my lips, my head shaking as I fought the urge to scream at how ridiculous this entire conversation was. "I told you, he doesn’t like me!" I repeated, my voice rising in frustration. "And even if he did, I don’t like him!"

That should have been the end of it. That should have been enough. But of course, with Jungkook it never was, he just had to get the last word.

Before I could take a step back and create even an inch of space between us, he moved faster, quicker than I could react. His arms came up in an instant, trapping me between them, his hands pressing against the couch behind me as my back met the soft fabric. My breath caught in my throat, my pulse spiking as my body suddenly became hyperaware of the heat radiating from him.

"You sure about that?" he murmured, his voice quieter now, softer, but somehow even more dangerous than before. His eyes flickered over my face, searching, watching, waiting for something—an answer, a reaction, a crack in my defense. "I see the way you smile at him."

I scoffed, forcing myself to hold his gaze even though my heart was hammering so loudly I was sure he could hear it. "What, so I can’t smile at people now?" I shot back, my voice sharp, desperate to shift the focus away from the way his words made my stomach twist.

Jungkook exhaled, the sound rough, like he was trying to push down something simmering just beneath the surface. "That’s not what I’m saying," he muttered, his jaw clenching. "It’s just… I don’t trust that guy."

"Wow," I said, my voice dripping with disbelief. "So you don’t trust him, but you trusted Jade?"

His entire body went still. His grip on the couch tightened, his knuckles turning white as he processed my words, as they settled into the space between us like a ticking time bomb.

"What did you just say?" His voice was colder now—but I didn’t care.

I held my ground, refusing to flinch under the weight of his stare. "You trusted a bitch like Jade," I said, voice steady, unwavering, my eyes locked onto his. "But you draw the line at my harmless secretary?"

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence, suffocating and heavy.

Then, Jungkook let out a dark, humorless laugh, one that sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn’t amused. It wasn’t light. It was empty, hollow, laced with something almost cruel.

"Like you’re any better," he muttered, his voice laced with venom. His gaze flickered with something dangerous. "You were friends with the guy that tried to kill me."

The words barely registered before my hand moved on its own. The slap echoed through the room, the sharp crack of skin against skin cutting through the heavy silence like a gunshot. Jungkook’s head snapped to the side from the force, his cheek instantly reddening where my palm had struck. My chest heaved, shock rushing through me, overtaking the anger in an instant.

My lips parted, my voice barely above a whisper. "S-Shit, Jungkook, I didn’t mean to—"

Slowly, he turns his head back to face me, his gaze dark and unreadable. The tension in the air thickened as the sound of my pulse hammered in my ears.

Before I could fully register what was happening, his fingers tightened around my wrist, his grip firm and unrelenting as he pulled me forward. A startled gasp slipped past my lips, my feet barely keeping up as he led me up the stairs with a determination that left no room for hesitation. 

A strange mix of nervousness and excitement twisted in my stomach, making it impossible to tell whether I wanted to pull away or let myself be dragged deeper into whatever this was turning into. The hallway blurred around us, my focus narrowing to the burn of his fingers against my skin and the charged energy radiating off him in waves.

The moment we reached his room, he didn’t stop. With a swift motion, he shoved open the bathroom door and pulled me inside, the sharp sound of the lock clicking into place sending a shiver down my spine. Finally, his grip loosened, my wrist slipping from his grasp. I barely had time to catch my breath, to make sense of the storm raging inside me, before my eyes widened at his next move.

Jungkook reached for the hem of his shirt, and in one fluid motion, he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. My breath hitched as the dim bathroom light cast shadows across his toned chest, the slow rise and fall of his breathing making the tension between us all the more unbearable. He took a deliberate step forward, his gaze locked onto mine, dark and unreadable.

"You wanna fight?" he murmured, his voice low.

I swallowed hard, but he didn’t give me time to answer.

He took another step forward, and suddenly there was nowhere left to go, my back meeting the cool tile wall as his presence surrounded me once more. His eyes flickered over my face, watching, waiting.

"Then let’s fight."

[sillygoose067]

Miss(ter) Possessive

"Yeah, I'll be nice up until I'm not. And oh-so generous, tonight I forgot."- Miss Possessive by Tate Mcrae

Synopsis: A night out takes a heated turn as Dick Grayson watches admirer after admirer flirt with you—until he steps in, effortlessly staking his claim with a quiet, undeniable possessiveness.

The dimly lit jazz lounge was alive with soft music and quiet conversations, the scent of aged whiskey and espresso lingering in the air. The kind of place that whispered sophistication, where people came to talk business, seduce strangers, or escape into the low hum of a saxophone.

You leaned over the polished wooden bar, scanning the cocktail menu with a slight frown. “Do I go for a Negroni, or is that too bitter?” you mused out loud.

“Depends on your mood,” Dick said from beside you, his voice light, but his gaze was sharp, scanning the room with the easy alertness he carried everywhere. He was in his civilian clothes—dark jeans, a fitted navy button-down with the sleeves rolled up, his hair slightly tousled from the ride over. He looked good. Unfairly good. And as much as he wanted to focus on your drink decision, his attention was already hooked elsewhere.

Because someone else had noticed you.

She was a sleek woman with dark red lipstick and a silky black dress, leaning on the other side of the bar just far enough to be casual, but close enough that Dick could see the way her eyes kept flickering toward you. At first, he thought she was just admiring you—who wouldn’t? But then she made her move.

“You should try the French 75,” the woman interjected smoothly, stepping in just a little closer, her voice carrying over the music. “Crisp, bubbly, perfect balance. It suits you.”

You blinked, looking over at her with a polite smile. “Oh, that’s a good idea! Thanks,” you said, completely missing the way her eyes traced over you with an interest that went beyond friendly.

Dick, on the other hand, saw everything.

The way she angled her body toward you, tucking her hair behind her ear just so. The way she held eye contact just a little too long. The slow, deliberate sip of her own drink, like she was giving you an invitation.

You, completely oblivious, just nodded thoughtfully at the menu. “I think I’ll try it. What about you, Gray?”

His grip on his glass tightened slightly, but he kept his expression smooth. “I’m good with my usual.”

The woman barely spared him a glance, which would have been fine—except she was very interested in you. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

You nodded. “Yeah, first time! My boyfriend suggested this place.”

Dick felt a flicker of satisfaction at the word boyfriend, but the woman didn’t even flinch. She just smiled. “Good taste,” she remarked, then, her gaze drifting back to you, “Though, I’d say you could have found this place on your own.”

You let out a small laugh, not thinking much of it. “I mean, maybe! I do love exploring new places.”

Oh, come on.

Dick took a slow sip of his drink, watching as the woman subtly edged closer, her fingers lightly trailing over the rim of her glass. He’d seen this game before. The slow build-up. The careful compliments. The not-so-accidental brush of a hand.

And you? Totally missing it.

“You know,” she continued, her voice softer, “you have the kind of presence that turns heads. You must get that a lot.”

You laughed, the kind of genuine, amused laugh that made Dick’s stomach tighten. “I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

No. No, she was not.

Dick exhaled slowly, setting his drink down with just enough weight for the sound to thunk against the wood. The woman finally glanced at him, as if only now remembering he was still there.

He met her gaze with an easy, confident smile. “She does get that a lot, actually. But, lucky for me, she’s already taken.”

Something in his tone had changed—still polite, still charming, but unmistakably firm. A statement, not an invitation for debate.

The woman’s lips parted slightly, but she recovered quickly. “Well,” she mused, swirling her drink, “good for you.”

“Yeah,” Dick agreed, casually sliding his arm around your waist, his fingers pressing into your hip in a way that sent a clear message. “It is good for me.”

There was a beat of silence, tension thick beneath the soft hum of the music. The woman held his gaze for just a second longer before offering a slow, knowing smile. “Enjoy your night,” she said smoothly, stepping back into the crowd.

You turned to Dick, blinking. “She was nice.”

His jaw tensed slightly. He leaned down, his lips brushing close to your ear. “She was flirting with you.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “What? No, she was just—”

“She wasn’t just anything,” Dick murmured, his voice low. “She was very interested.”

Your brows furrowed. “You think so?”

Dick just shook his head, a mix of fondness and frustration in his expression. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

Before you could respond, someone else entered the equation.

This time, it was a man—tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp cheekbones and an easy smirk. He leaned against the bar beside you, flashing you an effortless grin.

“Couldn’t help but notice you from across the room,” he said, his voice smooth as he rested his elbow on the counter.

Dick took a slow breath through his nose, already bracing himself.

You, meanwhile, turned to the newcomer with a friendly smile. “Oh? Well, it’s a great place.”

“Even better now,” the man said, giving you a look that made something in Dick snap.

That was it.

Dick shifted, moving so smoothly it looked effortless, positioning himself between you and the guy, his presence suddenly impossible to ignore. He didn’t glare, didn’t tense—no, his confidence was something subtler. He exuded control, the kind that made it clear he wasn’t threatened, but he was done playing polite.

The man’s smirk faltered slightly as he registered the shift in dynamic.

“Hey,” Dick said easily, his arm still wrapped firmly around your waist, his fingers subtly squeezing your hip. “Appreciate the compliment, but she’s with me.”

The guy glanced between you two, as if weighing his odds, before letting out a short laugh. “Didn’t see a ring.”

Dick’s smile was slow, controlled. “Didn’t need one.”

The weight behind those words was final.

The man held his gaze for a beat longer before exhaling through his nose, giving a half-shrug. “Didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“Good,” Dick said, his smile never wavering. “Now you know.”

The man nodded once before slipping back into the crowd.

You turned to Dick, still a little stunned. “Was he flirting too?”

Dick let out a small laugh, resting his forehead against yours for a moment before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “Baby, if I ever leave you alone in a bar, you might end up with three marriage proposals before I get back.”

You snorted. “That’s ridiculous.”

Dick tilted his head, smirking. “Is it?”

His grip on you tightened slightly, possessive in a way that made your stomach flutter.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice low, a promise wrapped in a claim.

You smiled, your fingers tracing lightly over his wrist. “Always.”

[odileeclipse]

A Wager of Fate PT 6

The world still hadn't settled. Your breath came uneven as you stared at the Silver Tree, your hand twitching at your side as if the bark had burned you. The magic had been so loud. Surely someone would come running. Surely, Elder Faerie would know. A shudder ran through you as you turned sharply to where Shadow Milk had stood, expecting nothing but silence. He was still there. Not fully. Not like before. His form wavered, half-dissolved into the shadows clinging to the base of the tree, but his presence curled thick in the air, tangible in a way it hadn’t been before. His eyes were sharp, amused, knowing, met yours, and a slow, satisfied hum left his throat. "Something wrong?" he mused, tilting his head. His voice was quieter now, softer, like a secret meant for only you to hear. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost." You stumbled back a step, your pulse hammering against your ribs. "Someone must have heard that," you blurted out, barely aware of your own voice. "It-It was too loud. They'll come looking-Elder Faerie will-" Shadow Milk clicked his tongue, and the sound sent a strange chill down your spine. "Tsk, tsk. You wound me. What kind of master of deception would I be if I couldn’t hide something as small as this?" His form flickered; one moment more solid, the next melting into the tree's darkness. "No one will know," he assured, voice curling warm and sweet against your ears, silk laced with something darker. "Unless, of course… you tell them." Your breath hitched. A trick. This had to be some kind of trick. But the tree… The tree had changed for you. You swallowed, throat dry. "You can hide it?" you asked, the words barely more than a whisper. Shadow Milk’s grin stretched slow and sharp, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Oh, my guardian," he purred, amusement dripping from every syllable. "I already have." The wind stirred, rustling the silver leaves in a hush of a thousand whispered secrets. And just like that, the world went still once more.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, your breath uneven as you stared at him, at the shadowy form that should not still be there. He wasn’t fully solid, still half-draped in darkness, but he was there nonetheless. “I sealed you back,” you said slowly, searching his face. “So why can I still see you?” Shadow Milk tilted his head, his grin widening just enough to unsettle. “Mm, now that is a question.” He flexed his fingers, watching as the darkness coiled around them like wisps of smoke. “I wonder do you think it’s because I have done something?” He let the words hang in the air before leaning in slightly. “Or because you have?” Your breath caught. “What do you mean?” His eyes gleamed, their eerie glow cutting through the dimness around the tree. “You let me out,” he murmured, voice like silk wrapped around thorns. “Even if just for a moment. And now?” He gestured around himself, at the way the shadows still clung to the tree’s base. “The seal has changed.” Your stomach tightened. “Changed how?” His grin softened, but his gaze remained unreadable. “It listens to you now.” The words settled over you like a weight. You swallowed, feeling the pulse of something beneath your skin, something different. You glanced at the tree, at the silver leaves that swayed in a wind you could no longer feel. “Will anyone know?” The question left your lips before you could stop it. “It was…it was so loud-” A chuckle, rich and knowing. “Worried?” Shadow Milk mused. “That someone will come running? That dear Elder Faerie will sense what you’ve done?” He leaned forward, his form flickering at the edges. “Relax. No one will know unless you wish them to.” You exhaled shakily. “But-” He lifted a hand, and though he did not touch you, the air around you shifted. It was cool, light, and weightless. “It’s already hidden,” he said, his voice almost gentle. “The tree remembers you. And so do I.” The implication curled around you like a whisper of fate. You weren’t sure whether to feel relief or fear of something far more dangerous.

You hovered just above the ground, your wings beating in slow, steady motions as you stared at the Silver Tree, heart pounding. Everything looked the same. The leaves still shimmered, the bark still glowed faintly in the moonlight, but you could feel it, something was different. Your fingers curled against your palms as you swallowed the tightness in your throat. “Will anyone know?” you asked, voice quieter than before. “Will Elder Faerie feel that the seal has changed?” A low hum answered you, curling through the air like a lazy breeze. “Mmm… an excellent question,” Shadow Milk mused, his voice slipping through the space between you like silk. “But is it the answer you fear? Or what you’ll do with it?” Your wings twitched. “Just tell me.” “He might sense something,” Shadow Milk admitted, “but not right away. The seal remains, only… shifted. Whispered to, not broken.” That didn’t make you feel any better. Your arms crossed, fingers gripping at the fabric over your skin. “And… does it still respond to him?” A pause. Not long, but long enough to make your stomach twist. “Technically,” he answered, drawn out and slow, “yes.” Your breath hitched. “Though,” he added smoothly, “perhaps not as obediently as before.” Your wings faltered, feet touching the earth as your thoughts raced. If Elder Faerie reached out to the seal…if he tested it, would he notice? Would he know it had been you? You felt Shadow Milk’s presence even though you couldn’t see him, felt the weight of his attention, the warmth of amusement curled in his voice when he finally spoke again. “Relax, little Faerie.” His words dripped with ease, like he had all the time in the world. “If you don't want them to know… then they won’t.” That should have reassured you. But somehow, it didn’t.

Your wings gave an uneasy flutter as you gripped your arms tighter, still feeling the lingering tremor in the air. The tree stood still, but it felt different now..like it was watching, listening. It could just be paranoia. You exhaled sharply, trying to steady yourself. “And… what about you?” you asked, your voice quieter, more careful. “Can anyone else see you?” Silence stretched for a beat. Then, Shadow Milk let out a breathy laugh, light and playful. “Oh, wouldn’t that be fun?” he mused. “Imagine the chaos.” Your brows furrowed as you shot him a glare, displeased with his antics. He hummed, amusement laced in the sound. “No one else can see me. Just you.” Your wings twitched. “Why?” “Because,” he said simply, voice dripping with theatrical ease, “you let me out, dear little Faerie. You called, I answered. It’s only polite that I remain yours to see, don’t you think?” You stiffened. “That’s-” “A great honor? Why, I agree!” he interrupted, his tone all too pleased with itself. “Just think your very own shadow, a secret only you can witness. Doesn’t that make you feel special?” You shot a wary glance toward the tree. “It makes me feel like I just made a mistake.” Another laugh, this time warm, teasing. “Oh, don’t say that. You’ll hurt my feelings.” Your wings fluttered at the shift in the air lighter, playful, but still unsettling in its own way. He wasn’t lying. Not exactly. But he was twisting things, leading you somewhere you weren’t sure you wanted to go. You forced yourself to take a breath. “This doesn’t change anything.” Shadow Milk hummed again, soft and knowing. “Of course not.” And yet, the way his voice curled at the edges told you he didn’t believe that at all.

Days passed, and the weight of your secret settled uneasily on your shoulders. The seal remained intact or at least, it appeared so. The tree stood just as it always had, its silver leaves whispering in the wind, its presence unwavering. And yet, something had changed. You felt it every time you passed by. Every time you heard him. Shadow Milk was careful. He never spoke when others were around, never let his presence linger in the air too long, but you knew he was watching, listening. You could feel him at the edges of your awareness always just out of sight, yet never truly gone.

It wasn’t just your imagination. Elder Faerie had noticed something. It was subtle at first a slight furrow of his brow when he passed the tree, the way his fingers brushed its bark a second longer than usual, as if feeling for something unseen. Then came the questions. "Have you noticed anything strange?" he had asked one evening, his voice calm but edged with something heavier, something expectant. You had swallowed down the panic, kept your wings steady, your voice even. "No. Nothing." He hadn’t pressed, but his gaze lingered too long, searching. You wondered if he could hear the whispers beneath the wind, if he could sense the way the seal had been… altered. Not broken, not shattered, but no longer wholly his. The next day, he returned to the tree. You had watched from a distance, heart pounding in your chest as he reached out, pressing his palm against its surface. The silver leaves rustled soft, trembling. You felt Shadow Milk then, felt the hush of his presence coil around you like an unseen tether, waiting, watching. But nothing happened. After a moment, Elder Faerie sighed, his expression unreadable. He pulled back. And then, without a word, he left. That had been three days ago. Since then, Shadow Milk had been insufferably smug. "See?" he had purred the night after, voice curling around you like silk. "Nothing to worry about. Elder Faerie suspects, but he doesn’t know." His words meant to be reassuring only seemed to rile you up. Now, standing beneath the tree once more, your wings fluttered with unease. This was your reality now existing on the edge of two worlds, carrying a secret that felt heavier by the day. You exhaled sharply, rubbing your arms, eyes narrowing at the unseen presence lingering nearby. “How much longer can this last?” you muttered, not expecting an answer. But of course, he gave one anyway. Shadow Milk’s laughter curled through the air, low and delighted. “Now, that depends, little Faerie,” he mused. “How long do you want it to last?” 

Your wings flicked sharply as you turned away from the tree, raking a hand through your hair. "I wasn't even supposed to be here," you muttered, exasperation bleeding into your voice. Shadow Milk chuckled, the sound rich with amusement. "And yet, here you are," he mused, his tone lilting, like this was all a wonderful game. You shot a glare into the empty space beside you, knowing he was there, watching, even if no one else could see. "Do you think that’s helpful?" you snapped, keeping your voice hushed despite the irritation bubbling up. Another chuckle, unbothered, unfazed. "Not particularly," he admitted, "but it's certainly entertaining." You groaned, wings ruffling in frustration. "I wasn’t supposed to be near the tree, and now I know Elder Faerie suspects something?" You pinched the bridge of your nose, breathing out sharply. "Just because he doesn’t know it was me doesn’t mean he won’t find out." "Mmm, true," Shadow Milk hummed. "But he won’t, so long as you’re careful." You paused, narrowing your eyes. "I have to be careful? That’s rich coming from you." A laugh light, playful, maddening. "Why, dear Faerie, I’ve been the picture of discretion!" he teased. "No whispers in the wind, no eerie apparitions lurking in the dark only you can see me, only you can hear me. I'd say that’s quite impressive restraint on my part." You crossed your arms, unconvinced. "That doesn't make me any less paranoid." Shadow Milk sighed, the sound exaggerated, mockingly pitying. "Ah, what a shame. You should be thankful, you know. It could have been so much worse." Your wings twitched again, uneasy. "I am thankful," you admitted begrudgingly, "but that doesn't mean I trust this will last forever." You shot another wary glance at the tree. "What if Elder Faerie realizes something is wrong?" A pause. A beat too long. Then soft, almost soothing…almost. Shadow Milk murmured, "Then we make sure he doesn’t." The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. 

Your arms curled around yourself, a habit you hadn’t realized you’d picked up. It wasn’t cold, but there was something unsettling in the stillness, something that made your shoulders tighten. “You look troubled,” Shadow Milk’s voice ghosted by your ears, soft as a whisper yet thick with amusement. “Could it be… me?” You didn’t flinch, but your fingers dug into your arms. You should’ve been used to his antics by now. Should’ve been used to the way he spoke. Coaxing, teasing, always dancing along the edges of something unsaid. You exhaled slowly. “I just don’t like this.” A hum, thoughtful. “You wound me. And here I thought you were getting comfortable.” You were. That was the worst part. Your wings fluttered uneasily as you glanced toward the tree. “This isn’t stable.” “Oh?” His tone lifted in interest. “Do tell.” You hesitated before speaking, choosing your words carefully. “Even if no one can sense you, it doesn’t change that you sort of…exist outside the seal now.” Your fingers twitched. “If something happens, I can’t, I won’t let this get out of control.” It only dawned on you recently, you have some control over the seal. You are the reason he exists as a figure instead of just a voice. You are the reason he can do anything. Perhaps he knew this before you did. He plays a waiting game for his own entertainment. “You’ll what?” His voice softened, but not with mockery, there was something else beneath it, something you couldn’t quite place. “You’ll seal me away again? Lock me back in my little cage?” Your breath caught. The answer should’ve been easy. You should’ve said yes. But the words tangled in your throat. Shadow Milk hummed again, softer this time. “That’s what I thought.” You hated this. The way he knew. The way he sounded like he knew. Your wings gave a restless twitch, and without thinking, you shifted, moving closer towards his shadows, seeking something. He didn’t move away. He never did.

“…White Lily Cookie,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. “She can help reinforce the seal. Make it look like before.” There was a beat of quiet before he spoke again, his voice unreadable. “And you trust her to?” You frowned. “Of course.” A quiet hum. “Even if she asks why?” You hesitated. He laughed, soft and velvety. “Oh, little Faerie,” he murmured, voice curling around you like smoke. “What a tangled web you’re weaving.” Your wings drooped slightly, the weight of everything settling onto your shoulders. You felt tired. And maybe he could tell, because instead of another taunt, his presence steadied beside you, close but not suffocating. You almost wished you’d let him out, instead of what seemed to you an illusion of his body. You weren’t sure why, but you didn’t move away.

Even with his comfort, your wings shuddered as you exhaled, exhaustion settling deep in your dough. This weight, this constant tension it was too much. “… What do I do?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, quiet, almost desperate. A pleased hum curled through the air. “Oh, how I love hearing that.” Shadow Milk’s voice was silk-smooth, weaving through the space around you. “Seeking guidance from me? My, my, how far we’ve come.” You swallowed. “I mean it.”

“I know you do.” He was savoring this, you could tell. Then, in a voice dripping with amusement: “Well… you could let me out.” You tensed. “Think about it,” he continued, almost lazily. “No more creeping through shadows, no more stolen moments. You wouldn’t have to worry about being caught, because I’d be gone.” A chuckle. “With you, of course.” Your stomach twisted. “Run away?” “Mm, such an ugly way to put it. I prefer ‘seizing freedom.’” His tone dipped into something almost coaxing. “You don’t belong here, little Faerie. You’ve always felt that, haven’t you?” Your breath hitched. “No more expectations. No more burdens. Just you, and me, and the whole world ahead of us.” His voice curled around you, enticing, dangerous. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” Your arms tightened around yourself. “That’s not—” “Not what?” he interrupted, playful, but firm. “Not tempting?” You hated that you couldn’t answer. That the thought, however fleeting, had rooted itself in your mind. That he knew. Shadow Milk laughed, delighted. “Oh, darling. We’re going to have so much fun.”

Your wings drooped as you gripped your arms, forcing yourself to steady the tremble in your breath. “I’d be betraying my kingdom.” Shadow Milk let out a thoughtful hum, the sound curling around you like a phantom touch. “Mmm, I suppose that’s one way to look at it.” You scoffed. “It’s the only way to look at it.”  “Is it?” he countered, tone as light as ever. “They abandoned you first, dear little Faerie. Cast you aside like a withering petal the moment she arrived.” Your fingers clenched. “That’s not true.” Shadow Milk only chuckled. “Oh, but you hesitate.” He sighed, feigning sympathy. “You don’t want it to be true. When was the last time they truly looked at you? When was the last time Elder Faerie listened?” Your heart clenched, but you forced the thoughts away, shaking your head. “Even if that were the case… you don’t just want freedom. You want to release the others.” You lifted your gaze, firm despite the unease in your chest. “And you don’t care what happens after that.” Shadow Milk was quiet for a moment. Then, he let out a low, breathy laugh. “Oh, you wound me.” “I mean it,” you pressed, voice steadier now. “If I let you out, and the others follow… everything that happens will be my fault.” Your throat tightened. “All the destruction, all the pain. It’ll be because of me.” There was no immediate response this time. The air hung heavy between you, the weight of your words settling in. Then, Shadow Milk spoke, his voice softer, almost considering. “Well,” he mused, “you do have a point.” A pause. “But if the world is so fragile, so easily upturned by one choice—was it ever truly whole to begin with?” Your breath caught. “Besides,” he continued, his tone slipping back into something smoother, silkier. “You say fault… but perhaps you mean credit. Imagine it your hands, shaping history itself.” Another chuckle, rich with amusement. “Now that is a legacy.” You took a step back, your wings rustling uneasily. “That’s not-” Shadow Milk hummed again, cutting you off. “Oh, but it could be.” And the worst part? A small, treacherous part of you wanted to hear more.

Your wings curled close to your back, feathers ruffled with unease. “I’m afraid of you.” Shadow Milk went still. Not in a physical sense he was never quite there to begin with but the shift in the air was unmistakable. The lightness in his tone, the playful mirth it all dulled, smoothed over like glass. “Oh?” You swallowed hard, but you didn’t back down. “Not just you,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “I’m afraid of what you are. The power you hold… the destruction you could cause.” Your fingers tightened against your arms. “You laugh and tease like it’s all a game, but I know what you’re capable of. I know what would happen if you” “If I what?” His voice was soft, but there was an edge to it now, something sharp beneath the silk. “If I were free?” Your throat tightened. “Yes.” Shadow Milk let out a breathy chuckle, but this one lacked its usual amusement. “Even then you released me just for a second, even now you’re granting me some freedom.” “I don’t want to fear you,” you said quickly, desperately, stepping forward before you could stop yourself. “I want to believe there’s something more to you—something that isn’t just—just ruin.” Your gaze met the space where you felt him, searching for something unseen. “You could be better.” Silence. Then, he laughed. A real, full-bodied laugh, rich and echoing, like the crack of a shattered mirror. It sent a chill down your spine. “Oh, you are precious,” he mused, something unreadable coiling beneath his words. “Sweet little Faerie, tell me who filled your head with such notions? Do you think I’m some wounded beast, waiting for a gentle hand to soothe me? That I just need the right words, the right kindness, and I’ll change?” You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure how. His voice dipped lower, his mirth cooling into something colder. “I am not some lost, tragic thing for you to fix.” Your wings twitched at the weight behind his words. “You fear me?” he continued, the warmth in his tone now entirely gone. “Good. You should. But don’t mistake your fear for pity.” Your breath came shallow now, your pulse quickened. “I just thought…” You hesitated. “Maybe you don’t have to be what they say you are.” Shadow Milk was quiet for a long moment. Then, his voice softened but not kindly. It was controlled. Measured. “And what do they say I am, little Faerie?” You exhaled slowly. “A monster.” The silence that followed was heavier than before, pressing against your chest. Then, Shadow Milk chuckled—low, quiet. “A monster…” he repeated, as if tasting the word. Then, something in his tone curled, dark and knowing. “What does that make you, then?”

Your gaze flickered to the tree, searching its ancient surface for something reassurance, an answer, anything to anchor you. But all it gave was silence. The weight in your chest pressed heavier. Your voice came softer now, laced with something raw. “What… what do you mean by that?” Shadow Milk made a thoughtful sound, a hum curling around you like a whisper of smoke. “Oh, come now, little Faerie. Do you really not see it?” You forced yourself to breathe, to steady your wings despite the unshakable tension in your frame. “I haven’t done anything.” The air around you shifted, the presence of him somehow both closer and still so infuriatingly untouchable. “Haven’t you?” he mused. “You let me out. You spoke to me. You listened.” Your fingers curled into fists. “That doesn’t make me-” “A monster?” he finished for you, the words slow, deliberate. “No, perhaps not. But tell me, dear little Faerie… what would they say?” Your breath caught. “You were not meant to step into my shade,” Shadow Milk continued, voice light, lilting, almost mocking. “Yet here you are, tangled in it. Willingly. Repeatedly.” You swallowed, hard. “That’s not fair, and you know it…you came to me first I was doing my job, my duty. I even cast it all aside for a moment just for you.” The truth rushed out not allowing you to think. What was this all for he’s not someone to be taken lightly. “I wonder…” He let the words stretch, savoring them like a lingering note in a melody. “Would they fear you, too?” Your wings flinched at that, something sharp twisting in your chest. You wanted to refute it. You needed to. But Elder Faerie had already been suspicious. White Lily had already questioned the way you lingered near the tree, the way you hesitated when speaking of the seal. And what if they did find out? Shadow Milk must have sensed your hesitation because his voice turned almost sweet. “Oh, don’t look so troubled,” he crooned. “If you don’t want them to know… they won’t.” You tore your gaze away from the tree, heart hammering as you stared into the space you felt him most. “…What do you want from me?” His laughter was soft this time, teasing, almost fond. “What a silly question,” he mused. “Isn’t it obvious?” Your pulse thrummed against your ribs as he leaned closer, his voice sinking into something honeyed and coaxing. “I want you, little Faerie.” Your breath hitched. “And you…” His words curled around you like a wisp of shadow, a secret waiting to be kept. “You want me too, don’t you?” Your breath came faster now, your hands gripping your arms. “That’s not, I’ve been here because…” You couldn’t come up with a good reason. It’s not your duty to babysit him, you were here because you felt seen and heard. “Oh, don’t look so haunted,” Shadow Milk interrupted, his voice suddenly light again, his presence shifting as if to lift the mood entirely. “Things don’t have to be so sour between us.” You blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. “What?” He chuckled, airy and amused. “You act like I’ve cursed you, like some great tragedy is unfolding before your eyes.” His tone took on an exaggerated dramatic flair. “Oh, woe is you! A shadow follows, whispering in your ear, coaxing you into the abyss!” Then he scoffed, lighthearted. “Come now, that’s a bit much, don’t you think?” Your lips pressed together, unimpressed. “You are trying to lure me into the abyss.” “Yes, but I’m being charming about it,” he countered smoothly. “And let’s not forget you’ve come back to me, time and time again.” His voice lilted, teasing. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you like my company.” Your wings twitched, warmth creeping up your neck. He laughed at your lack of response. “See? It’s not all doom and gloom, little Faerie. We can have our fun.” You scowled, trying to ignore the way his voice curled around you like silk, how easily he could shift the air between you, turning the tension into something almost playful. But deep down, you knew underneath his teasing, beneath the way he danced around his words he meant every one of them.

A laugh bubbled up from your throat unexpected, breathy, almost wild. It slipped out before you could stop it, unsteady and thin, but a laugh nonetheless. Shadow Milk hummed in delight. “Oh? Did I say something funny?” You shook your head, still laughing, the sound edged with something fragile. “It’s just… absurd.” You gestured vaguely at the air, at him, at everything. “No matter what I do no matter what I say it feels like there’s no choice at all.” Shadow Milk chuckled. “Ah, now that is interesting,” he mused. “You do have a choice, little Faerie. You always have.” his voice dipped, knowing, amused “isn’t it easier to pretend you don’t?” Your fingers curled against your arms, wings twitching. Because he was right. If you convinced yourself there was no choice, no real control over the pull you felt toward him, then you couldn’t be blamed, could you? It wouldn’t make you a bad person. Wouldn’t make you wanting of him any less wrong. “You’re twisting my words,” you muttered, your laughter dying down into something hollow. Shadow Milk made a playful sound. “Am I?” “Yes.” “Hm.” You could almost feel his grin. “Or maybe I’m just saying what you don’t want to admit.” You stiffened, your breath catching. He laughed softly, satisfied. “No need to look so flustered, little Faerie. We both know the truth, don’t we?” Your throat tightened. “I-” “Oh, but don’t worry,” he interrupted smoothly. “I won’t make you say it. Not yet.” The teasing lilt in his voice sent heat crawling up your neck. He was playing with you. Letting you scramble for justifications, for ways to convince yourself that your path was still your own. Because deep down, you knew. You were already straying.

A/N Please enjoy the fruits of my labor <3