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mggssocks · 11 hours ago

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The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: fem!kook!reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: good ole love makin'

a/n: sooo...just a note, I've been trying to post every Sunday for the last few chapters and will continue along with that schedule. Also, I imagine Owen as Ross Lynch when he was brunette. And one last thing... I reached 200 followers the other day and just wanted to take a quick moment to show my gratitude for everything- the likes, reblogs, and comments. I'm glad this series is being enjoyed and loved. More to come.. stay tuned!

You’re seated on your flight back to New York, forehead gently pressed against the cool window. The sky outside is a wash of fading blues and soft clouds, but you barely notice. You’re not watching the scenery- you’re hiding behind it. Quietly crying in business class.You blink quickly, trying to keep your tears from becoming too obvious, even as one slips down your cheek. You dab it away with the corner of your sleeve, pretending to adjust your seatbelt. You’ve never cried like this over a goodbye before- not even the dramatic ones in the past. But this one? This one tore something out of you.

It was the hardest goodbye you’ve ever had to say.

By the time the wheels touch down in New York, you feel slightly more composed. Slightly. The kind of “fine” that’s just good enough to get you through baggage claim. But your face tells the truth- eyes puffy and rimmed red, your cheeks flushed, your nose sore from dabbing away tears for hours. Your driver says nothing, thankfully. Just nods and helps with your bag before dropping you off at your apartment. Once inside, you shut the door behind you and lean your forehead against it for a moment. The quiet of your place feels heavier than usual, like it knows your heart is too full and too empty at the same time.

You strip off your travel clothes and run a warm bath, letting the tub fill slowly while you pour in lavender salts, a few drops of oil, and a bath bomb that releases soft foam. You sink in and let your head fall back, the warmth wrapping around your body like a hug you didn’t know you needed. But even the water can’t wash away the ache in your chest. After your bath, you towel off, slip into your softest lounge clothes, and curl up on the couch. You don’t even bother opening the blinds. The apartment stays dim and cozy as you pull a blanket over your legs, open a fresh bag of snacks, and flip on Love Island- the kind of background noise that doesn’t require thinking.

You’d always judged the show a little, but now, in your raw emotional state, something about it feels… oddly comforting. You start to understand the appeal—- the longing, the messiness, the way people reach for love even when it’s complicated and loud and imperfect. You feel your eyelids grow heavy. The soft sound of accents and flirtations fades into the background as sleep starts to pull you under.

Knock knock.

The sudden sound jerks you awake. You sit up, blinking fast, heart racing slightly from the jolt of it. You weren’t expecting anyone. Not tonight. Not now. You glance at the door. Another knock.

Slower this time. More hesitant. You wipe your face with your sleeve again and stand, your breath catching in your throat as you quietly cross the room, wondering who could possibly be on the other side.

You press your eye to the peephole, squinting. The fisheye lens distorts everything, but there’s no mistaking the two figures on the other side of your door: Noel is practically pressed against it, her face magnified and wide-eyed, while Allegra stands a few feet behind her, effortlessly composed, arms crossed like she’s posing for the cover of a fashion editorial. You crack the door open.

Before you can even say hello, Noel throws herself at you with a dramatic squeal, wrapping her arms tightly around your neck. You stumble back a step from the force of her hug, the breath catching in your throat, but it’s a good kind of surprise.

“You’re back!” she says, squeezing you like she hasn’t seen you in years.

Allegra walks in behind her, cool as ever, letting the door click shut behind her. She doesn’t say much, just offers you a quiet, assessing look as she leans against the wall, arms still folded. She’s the final boss of emotional control, sharp eyes taking in everything without giving much away.

“I am,” you reply softly, finally letting Noel go.

Noel’s still smiling as she pulls back, but her expression shifts when she gets a better look at you. Her brows furrow and she tilts her head, the way someone does when they’re not sure if you’re about to laugh or cry.

“You okay?” she asks gently, one hand rubbing your upper arm in slow circles.

You nod automatically- an instinct, a reflex, a lie you don’t even mean to tell. You try to summon a smile, but it wavers before it can fully form. Allegra’s gaze sharpens a little, and Noel’s hand stills.

And then it hits you. Like a crack in the dam.

Your breath hitches, your chin trembles, and before you can stop yourself, you’re covering your face with your hands and sobbing- raw, quiet at first, then deeper, like something’s been waiting to escape. Noel immediately wraps her arms around you again, holding you tighter than before, rubbing your back and whispering something soft you can’t quite make out.

“Oh, Y/N…” she breathes, her voice a blend of sympathy and heartbreak.

Allegra crosses the room quietly, sitting on the arm of your couch. She doesn’t say anything just yet- but her posture shifts. Arms uncrossed, one hand resting on her thigh, the other hanging loosely. Still chill, but open. Present. The silence in the room is suddenly warm. Held. You’re not alone in this. You let Noel hold you for a little longer before finally exhaling against her shoulder, your body a little lighter for it.

After Allegra brews a pot of tea in your kitchen -her only domestic act of the week, probably- the three of you settle back onto your living room couch, mugs in hand and socks pulled up. The steam curls between you like fog over water, and for once, the room feels soft enough to confess in.

You tell them everything. About Rafe. About your parents. About how you lied to Becca yesterday- and how the guilt of it is still sitting on your chest like a paperweight.

Allegra takes a long sip of her tea and raises an eyebrow. “This Rafe guy better be hot for all that trouble.”

You let out a breath of a laugh, rubbing your fingers along the rim of your mug.

“He is. Unfortunately. He’s also an asshole… but like-” you shrug with a helpless smile, “in the most charmingly infuriating way possible.”

“Charming assholes are still assholes.” Allegra snorts, ever the realist.

Noel gives her a subtle side-eye, the way a tired mom might glance at a brash aunt during a family dinner. She turns back to you, voice softer.

“It was really sweet of him. All those gifts. The ring. And letting you set boundaries without throwing a tantrum? That’s… rare.”

She’s always been the optimist of the two. The one who looks for the stitch in the tear. They don’t press you for more. Instead, they stay for another half hour, chatting about upcoming shoots and weird subway stories before eventually gathering their things. You walk them to the door, hugging Noel tight and giving Allegra a playful side-eye when she calls you a “lovesick poet.”

Once they leave, the apartment falls into quiet again. You pad barefoot back into the kitchen, tossing the used tea bags in the trash and rinsing out the mugs before setting them in the sink. Your fingers trail across the counter. You pause a moment, just breathing. Letting the stillness settle.

Then you return to your dent in the couch, picking up your phone absentmindedly. There’s a missed call. Rafe.

Your heart jumps- not sharply, but enough to remind you it’s still tender. You hadn’t heard it. The phone was on vibrate. Without thinking too hard, you press redial.

He answers almost instantly, like he’s been holding the phone in his hand.

“Y/n,” he breathes. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you say softly, tucking your knees up. “Sorry I missed your call- I had some friends over.”

There’s a pause. You don’t say who. He doesn’t ask. But you can feel the question hovering there, unsaid, like smoke.

“I was just calling to see how your flight went,” he says finally, voice low and careful. It sounds like he’s lying in bed, speaking in that nighttime tone, halfway between sleepy and raw.

Your eyes sting suddenly. Not sadness exactly. But a wave of something, nostalgia, grief, longing, all braided together.

“It was fine,” you whisper, brushing away a tear. “Thanks for asking.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “Do you need anything?” His voice drops even gentler, like he’s checking on a sick child. A part of you aches at the tenderness.

You shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “No… I’m okay. Do you?”

“I’m good,” he says, though there’s something fragile behind the words.

The silence that follows is not awkward. It’s not heavy either. Just full. Like you’re both on the other end of something you don’t know how to name.

“I should let you get some sleep,” he says at last, even though neither of you want to hang up.

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

“Goodnight, Y/n.”

“Goodnight, Rafe.” You hesitate.

And then he says it, so softly you almost miss it: “Love you.”

You don’t know if it’s muscle memory or something he meant to say. But it leaves you breathless all the same.

“I love you too,” you reply without thinking, because it’s true, even if it’s not simple.

—

You walk the red carpet beside Celeste, the sharp hum of camera shutters creating a kind of rhythm beneath the clamor. Bright flashes go off from every direction, bouncing off the velvet ropes and polished shoes. You try to keep your expression neutral, composed, but your fingers are gripping the clutch in your hand like it’s a lifeline. Never in a million years did you imagine you’d be the one being photographed by paparazzi. The second you both step inside the venue, the sound dims behind the thick doors, replaced by a pulsing bass and the muffled chatter of a glamorous crowd. Glittering chandeliers hang overhead, and fashion insiders dressed in layers of perfectly executed effortlessness float from corner to corner.

“You’ll be doing this soon,” Celeste says, glancing over at you with a knowing smile. “Running around, getting people ready for a show. Styling chaos. Controlled panic. And the best adrenaline rush you’ll ever have.”

You nod, managing a smile. It’s genuine. But faint.

She notices. Of course she does. “You okay?” she asks, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back.

You nod again, shaking yourself out of your thoughts. “Yeah, I’m good. Just… feeling a little off today.”

Her eyes study your face, sharp and soft at once. “You sure? You’ve seemed… a little out of it. Since you got back from the OBX- what, two weeks ago?” She lowers her voice slightly, leaning in. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“What? No! God, no,” you whisper-shout, turning to her with wide eyes.

She lifts her hands in mock surrender, though there’s a glint of amusement in her expression. Still, she gives you a sympathetic look. Celeste doesn’t push -not when she knows you’re not ready- but she doesn’t stop noticing either.

“Well, if you ever want to talk about whatever’s causing that far-off stare of yours…” she taps the side of her own head before straightening. “Want to go backstage?”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, we can do that?”

“This is one of the perks, sweetheart,” she grins. “Come on.”

She leads you through a side corridor lined with moody lighting and abstract art, and suddenly, the glamour gives way to organized chaos. Backstage is a world of its own -flooded with fluorescent lights, the smell of hairspray and heat tools thick in the air. Models swerve around racks of clothes in six-inch heels. Stylists bark last-minute changes. There’s a distinct hiss of a steamer somewhere and the rhythmic click of someone power-walking in platform boots.

“This,” Celeste says, gesturing to the controlled whirlwind around you, “is what you’ll be knee-deep in soon.”

You blink, wide-eyed, taking it all in. “It’s like a beautiful war zone.”

She laughs. “Exactly. And you’re going to thrive in it.”

A voice calls out over the clamor. “Celeste, darling!”

You both turn. The woman approaching is unmistakably the designer- she wears a cropped white baby tee with a blue-and-green patterned shawl tossed over it, like a cape. A flowy cobalt skirt brushes the floor as she walks, her oversized glasses perched at the tip of her nose. Her hair’s twisted into a makeshift bun, held together by a pencil, and somehow it works.

She hugs your aunt tightly before turning to you. “And this must be the lovely Y/N I keep hearing about!”

Caught slightly off guard, you offer a shy wave before reaching out your hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m incredibly honored to be here.”

She takes your hand with the grace of someone who knows the importance of first impressions.

“The honor’s all mine. Celeste tells me you’re the future of this industry.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “She’s being generous,” you say, glancing at your aunt.

“She’s being honest,” the designer corrects you with a wink. “And something tells me you’ll be running a show of your own soon enough.”

Celeste nudges you gently. “Told you.”

And for a moment, surrounded by talent and vision and the buzz of creativity, you almost believe it. Almost forget the ache of a boy back home, the tension with your mother, and the lie that still lingers between you and Becca.

Almost.

As you and Celeste settle into your assigned seats near the front row, a soft hum of anticipation buzzes through the room. Guests chat over glasses of champagne, glossy programs flutter in manicured hands, and the runway -clean, stark, and glowing under overhead lights- waits like a blank canvas about to come alive.

You glance down at your phone, unlocking it out of instinct, and see a notification: a text from Rafe.

Rafe: that’s good to hear. hope you enjoy it. love you.

Your stomach flips- not in a bad way, but not in a good one either. That sort of ache that reminds you of what once felt like home. This was his response to you telling him you were attending a fashion show.

Since you left the Outer Banks, the two of you have been… cordial. The texts are consistent. Soft check-ins. How are you’s. What are you up to today’s. The kind of gentle familiarity you might find between two people pretending they’re not standing on the remnants of something once intense.

There are no late-night confessions. No flirtatious remarks. No heavy moments of emotional weight. Just small conversations that carefully tiptoe around the memory of a shared summer.

But the “I love yous”- those still come from him. Regularly. Softly. Like muscle memory.

And you? You’ve stopped saying it first. You’ll echo it when you hang up the phone, maybe. Whisper it back sometimes when it feels right. But never more than that. Never like before. Because you’re trying to keep it friendly.

You’re trying to make it platonic. At least… that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You snap a quick photo of the runway -just the clean minimalist view, nothing filtered, nothing curated- and send it to him without a caption. Something casual. Easy. Just as the house lights begin to dim, you slide your phone into your purse out of respect, folding your hands in your lap. The music starts low and slow, and you take a steadying breath as the first model steps out.

Your eyes remain fixed on the runway. But somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re still thinking about that text. Still thinking about him.

——

After lunch with Celeste and a few others—publishers, models, someone who swore they’d “just flown in from Paris that morning”- you return to your apartment. You’re full, a little dazed from small talk, and even more exhausted from pretending to be okay.

As soon as you unlock the door, Celeste walks in behind you and pauses just past the threshold, surveying the space.

“You haven’t really decorated much, have you?” she muses aloud, toeing off her heels with a soft clunk.

“Not really, no,” you mumble, already flopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. She joins you, folding herself gracefully into the seat beside you, one leg tucked under the other. She leans her head on her hand, elbow perched on the back cushion, watching you quietly.

“I’m not going to push,” she starts, her voice gentle. “But I just want you to know that if -or when- you want to talk, I’m here. No pressure. I just… I’ve known you long enough to know you’re not being yourself. And it’s worrying me.”

You try to swallow it down, but the weight of her words hits something raw in you. Your throat tightens. “I just…” you begin, already blinking past the sting behind your eyes. “I like this life. I really do. The job, the city, the opportunity… I should be happy.” You pause, voice breaking. “But I left so much behind. And it hurts more than I thought it would.”

Celeste nods slowly. “It does hurt,” she agrees quietly, her tone warm and maternal. “Letting go of anything meaningful always does.” Then, she tilts her head, studying you carefully. “Is this about that Rafe character?”

You look at her, startled. “How did you—?”

She chuckles, waving a hand. “Your mom and I aren’t as estranged as you think. She said a name in passing. And you’re not exactly hard to read when something’s weighing on you.”

Your gaze drops to the coffee table, where your sketches and fabric swatches lie in a beautiful mess. You sigh, reaching up to scratch at your temple like you’re trying to get the pressure out of your head.

“It’s a long story,” you say finally, voice low.

“Good,” she smiles, already standing up and heading for the kitchen. “Because I’m putting the kettle on.”

You hear her rummaging through cabinets, the sound of water running, and it brings a small bit of comfort. The kind of comfort that makes you feel, even for a moment, like you’re not entirely alone in this big, beautiful, lonely city.

It feels like déjà vu- just like that first night back in New York, sitting across from Allegra and Noel, pouring your heart out. Only this time, it’s Celeste. And somehow, repeating the story doesn’t make it any easier to tell.

You walk her through everything- your parents, Becca’s party, the summer that blurred into something both painful and beautiful, and finally, Rafe. Every detail, from the high to the heartbreak, spills out between quiet sips of tea.

When you finish, Celeste sits quietly for a moment, her hands wrapped around her mug.

“I’m not trying to invalidate your pain,” she says carefully, “but… I think you did the right thing.”

You nod, slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

The silence that follows is thick. Not awkward- just heavy. You’re about to speak again when she gently lifts a few pages from the coffee table.

“These designs are really good,” she says, flipping through them slowly.

You glance up, grateful for the change in subject. You were dangerously close to crying again.

“You really think so?” you ask, wiping your cheek with your sleeve before she can notice the gloss in your eyes.

Celeste holds up one of your sketches- a slinky gown with layered mesh and delicate embroidery. “These could make it into a runway show someday, you know.”

You shrug, half-embarrassed. “I just… I drew them without thinking. Just something to get my mind off things.”

“Even better,” she says, looking up at you. “That just proves your talent. Some people spend weeks trying to force something that wouldn’t hold a candle to these.��

A soft smile tugs at your lips. You stare into your mug, letting her words settle. Then, she sets the drawings down and glances at you with a more serious expression.

“How would you feel about running the behind-the-scenes of a show one day?” she asks, casually, but you can tell she’s testing the waters.

Your stomach flips. The idea excites you- but it terrifies you more.

“Uhhh… I don’t know,” you admit, your voice slightly tight. “That sounds… intense.”

“It is,” Celeste agrees. “But you don’t have to say yes now. Just think about it. It’s a good stepping stone- plus, it’ll give you more credibility when you’re the one running the show.”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. The idea lingers like the steam rising from your tea- hazy, warm, and a little intimidating. But maybe… maybe possible.

“You don’t want to do that though?” Rafe’s voice cuts through the quiet of your bedroom, low and pointed.

You’re mid-stride, walking around in a towel with under-eye patches stuck to your face, digging through your closet for something to wear. Your phone is propped up on the nightstand, plugged in and pointed at the ceiling. He’s FaceTiming you- his full face in frame as he lays on his bed, while yours is nowhere to be seen.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” you say, tossing a rejected shirt onto the growing pile on your bed. “It’s just… it feels like too much, too fast.”

There’s a pause, long enough for you to wonder if he’s going to let it go. But then, his voice cuts through again- softer this time, careful.

“Isn’t that the whole point of walking away from the OBX?”

You freeze with your hand hovering over a pair of jeans. He’s not talking about the island. Not really. He’s talking about you and him. About how you pulled away- how you said goodbye. This is his quiet way of saying: Wasn’t that the reason you let me go?

You chew the inside of your cheek. Rafe Cameron holding up a mirror to you… yeah, you didn’t see that one coming. “I mean… yeah. I guess,” you admit, turning away from the closet. “I just didn’t think I’d get thrown into everything so fast. I needed time to… breathe.”

“What did you expect would happen?” he asks gently, but it still strikes a nerve- because he’s not wrong. And you hate that.

You sigh. “I don’t know.” You shrug as if he can see it. “Hey, um… I’m heading out in a sec. Can we talk later?”

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “Love you.”

You don’t say it back. Not this time. You just hang up before the silence gets any heavier. You finish getting ready in a rush, pulling on a gray miniskirt and a black corset top. The outfit is edgier than your usual, but there’s something about Allegra’s effortless cool that’s been rubbing off on you lately. Black platform Mary Janes, gold jewelry, a matching purse. You straighten your hair, swipe on a final coat of lip gloss, and give yourself a once-over in the mirror. You look good. You feel… almost good.

Phone in hand, you head downstairs. Owen’s already waiting in the lobby, leaning casually against the wall near the entrance. He smiles as soon as he sees you, stepping forward into a warm, friendly hug.

“Hey,” he says, pulling back with a quick glance over your outfit. “You look- wow.”

“Thanks,” you grin. “I see we’re still waiting on the girls?”

“Supposedly,” he chuckles, pulling out his phone. A moment later, both of yours buzz with the same group text.

Allegra: Change of plans. We’re bailing. Go without us. Have fun ;)

Noel: You’re welcome <3

You blink down at the screen, then glance up at Owen. He’s already smiling.

“They’re trying to set us up,” you say.

“Oh, absolutely,” he agrees.

A laugh escapes you as you both head toward the door.

“Well,” you say, pushing it open, “let’s give them something to gossip about.”

He laughs and follows you out into the night.

You swipe the last fry through the ketchup, popping it into your mouth just as Owen finishes telling a story that has you nearly choking from laughter.

“So then she looks at me -dead serious- and says, ‘You’re not even a real photographer, are you? You just pretend so you can sleep with models.’” He shakes his head, grinning at the memory. “Meanwhile, I’m literally holding a $5,000 camera and wearing a lanyard that says CREW.”

You snort. “No way.”

“I swear!” he says, still laughing. “And the craziest part is- she still tried to sleep with me.”

Your jaw drops in amused disbelief. “Wait. She thought you were some kind of fraud and still made a move?”

“Yep. Apparently, I’m just that charming.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “And you, a man, turned that down?”

He leans back in the booth, mock-offended. “What can I say? I’m not easy.”

You burst into laughter. “Wow. The bar. It’s in hell. But go ahead, king of standards.”

He gives you a playful salute. “A man of honor.”

You shake your head, still giggling as you reach for your water. And then, in a quiet moment between jokes, it hits you—you’re genuinely having a good time. Like… a real one. The first time since you left the OBX after Becca’s birthday that your laughter doesn’t feel like a mask or a distraction. It’s light, easy. It’s not pretending.

You lean your elbow on the table, resting your cheek in your palm, and glance at Owen. He’s still smiling, stirring the ice in his drink with his straw.

“I forgot how nice this could be,” you admit softly, mostly to yourself.

Owen looks up. “What?”

You sit up straight. “Nothing,” you say quickly, brushing it off with a smile. “Just… this has been nice.”

His smile softens. “Yeah. It really has.”

You look down at your empty plate, fighting the urge to overthink the moment. For now, it’s enough to feel like yourself again- even if only for the night.

“You’re not going to laugh if I ask whether you need me to walk you upstairs, are you?” Owen asks, his voice teasing but sincere.

You laugh, turning slightly toward him on the sidewalk. “Only if you’re not offering just to stoop below your usual standards and try to get with me.”

He lifts his hands in mock surrender, a grin tugging at his lips. “I swear, that wasn’t the intention. Scout’s honor.”

You tilt your head at him, amused. “I won’t laugh at you,” you say gently, “but I will turn down your offer- kindly.”

You step into a hug before he can say anything else, and his arms come around your waist without hesitation. It’s warm. Uncomplicated. And you’re not mad at it. Not at all.

“Goodnight, Owen,” you murmur into his shoulder before pulling away.

He blinks at you, looking slightly dazed. “I -uh- goodnight, Y/n,” he stumbles, running a hand through his hair as you walk away.

You flash a quick, polite smile to the doorman as he opens the building’s glass door for you. Once inside, you step into the elevator, leaning your head back against the wall with a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Your apartment greets you with familiar stillness. You kick off your shoes, toss your purse on the counter, and head into your room, where the city lights bleed softly through the sheer curtains.

You sit on the edge of your bed and finally let yourself smile- an honest, full one that spreads across your face like warmth.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t chaos. But it was something steady. Something light.

You think back over the evening -no pressure, no expectations, just genuine laughter and conversation- and a strange but welcome thought crosses your mind: this is the first time you’ve had a good time with a guy… without sex even being a part of the equation.

You exhale and nod to yourself, letting the realization settle. Maybe things really are starting to shift.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t dread what comes next.

Between work, late-night hangs with Allegra and Noel, and your one-on-one outings with Owen, life had taken on a kind of rhythm again. Not perfect- but steady. Predictable in a way that felt safe. You were finally slipping back into your groove, and for the first time since leaving OBX, things felt… healthy.

You still talked to Rafe from time to time -brief check-ins, the occasional “hope you’re okay” text- but it wasn’t like before. You hadn’t told him about Owen. It didn’t feel like something he needed to know. And, thankfully, he hadn’t pushed. His texts had gotten less frequent, more respectful of your space. Maybe he was finally realizing what you both had been too afraid to admit: that chapter needed to close, or at least stay tucked away for now.

You’re leaned over the bathroom sink, eyeliner in hand, trying to keep your hand steady as music thumps from your portable speaker. Allegra and Noel move around you like you’re all sharing choreography, slipping between makeup bags and hot tools without saying a word. This time, they were actually going out with you -no surprise dates, no matchmaker schemes- just a girls’ night.

The three of you end up at a sleek bar in SoHo- marble countertops, candlelight glow, overpriced martinis in frosted glasses. You’re mid-sip when a guy walks past your table and you and Allegra both clock him. Tall, good hair, sharp jaw.

“Him.” Allegra whispers with a smirk.

“I’d climb him like a tree,” you murmur, setting your glass down.

Noel makes a face. “Ew. He looks like he cries after sex.”

You laugh, nearly choking on your drink. That’s when it happens.

“Is that ALLEGRA?”

You turn simultaneously with the girls, your stomach already twisting at the tone. The voice belongs to a tall brunette with rich-girl posture, all cheekbones and lip gloss. She’s model-pretty, and worse- she knows it. You instinctively straighten your shoulders.

Allegra sets her martini down slowly, her expression souring just for a second before she spins around with a sugary smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Miya!” she sings, stepping in for a hug. You and Noel rise behind her like backup dancers, exchanging a quick look of shared dread.

“How are you?! You look amazing!” Miya exclaims, holding Allegra’s arms like she’s about to auction her off.

“I’m great, how are you? You look… exactly the same,” Allegra replies sweetly.

The passive aggression between them is so thick you could ice a cake with it. You want to laugh, but you don’t. You’re a guest in this catfight.

“Oh, you know,” Miya says, flipping her perfectly waved hair over her shoulder. “Just climbing the ranks, going into my third year of Fashion Week. No big deal.” Her tone is drenched in false humility. “It’s been incredible.”

“That’s amazing,” Allegra says, all smiles. “I love that for you and your nepotism.”

You nearly snort. Oscar-worthy, the both of them- smiling like sorority sisters, clawing like alley cats.

Miya doesn’t miss a beat. “So… what happened to you following me on Insta?” Her voice turns syrupy-sweet. “I was scrolling through my one point two million followers and noticed you weren’t there anymore, and I got sooo confused. I thought we were, like, really good friends.”

You and Noel visibly cringe.

Allegra cocks her head. “You know what? That was probably my agent. She goes through my socials sometimes and deletes accounts with low engagement or… irrelevant reach.” Her smile never wavers. “But I’ll be sure to follow you again. Promise.”

This whole interaction is faker than a reality TV romance.

“That’d be amazing,” Miya beams, her pouty lip back in place. “Because I still follow you- even though I promised myself I’d never follow anyone with less than a million.”

Allegra laughs like Miya just told a great joke. “Well, so good seeing you, girl! You look…” she pauses, eyeing her outfit, “expensive.”

“Always,” Miya chirps.

Allegra turns on her heel, and you and Noel follow like shadows. The second you’re out of earshot, Noel mutters, “Was she real, or a Madame Tussauds wax figure come to life?”

“I don’t think she even knows we exist,” you add.

“She doesn’t,” Allegra confirms, rolling her eyes. “And thank God for that.”

You clink your martinis in quiet solidarity and head toward the other end of the bar.

The three of you sit drunk in a half-empty local pizza joint, the glow of the fluorescent lights bouncing off the red-and-white checkered tablecloths. Aside from a couple slumped over in the corner and a lone delivery guy picking up an order, the place is practically deserted- not surprising since it’s close to midnight.

Laughter bubbles at your table, the kind that only comes when you’re slightly sleep-deprived, full of carbs, and safe with people who get you.

“I hate her,” Allegra declares, rolling her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck. She drops her phone onto the table with a dramatic thud- Miya’s Instagram page still open.

You lean over to glance at the grid of glossy selfies, ad campaigns, and filtered story highlights, before taking another bite of your pizza. “Okay, but what is your deal with her? It’s giving frenemy vibes… minus the ‘friend’ part.”

“She thinks she’s untouchable because her dad’s on the board for what gets approved for final Vogue spreads or something insane like that,” Allegra huffs, crossing her arms. “Top-tier nepotism baby. Trust fund. Insta fame. The face people fawn over?” She gestures at the screen. “Put under the needle. Thrice.”

Noel snorts into her water and glances your way. “That still doesn’t answer Y/N’s question.”

Allegra sighs, like the story itself is exhausting. “Okay, fine. We used to be cool. Like, actually cool. She was one of those trust-fund influencers who vlogged her whole life- Coachella trips, sponsored hauls, tacky celebrity parties with every D-list person you can think of.”

“She’s a stereotype,” Noel mutters.

“Exactly. Meanwhile, I moved here trying to go to acting school, remember? My dad -a producer- was like, ‘You’re either singing, or I’m cutting you off.’ So I picked up a few modeling gigs to survive, ended up getting signed. Booked and Busy.” Allegra leans back in her chair with a shrug. “The second she saw I was doing something real with my life -more than just filming herself in crop tops- she got weird. Jealous. Next thing I know, she’s injecting her face, getting long-ass extensions, and suddenly she’s walking next to me at New York Fashion Week… for her first ever show.”

You and Noel exchange wide-eyed looks as Allegra continues, her voice rising slightly.

“Then she ghosted me. Pretended we were never close. But still acts fake nice every time we run into each other like tonight.” She lets out a sharp laugh. “Not me. That ship sailed. I think the fuck not, bitch.”

You can’t help it- you burst out laughing. There’s something deeply satisfying about Allegra’s unapologetic rage, especially paired with the dramatic flick of her wrist as she pushes the phone away from her. Curious, you pull out your own phone and type in Miya’s name.

Noel leans over. “You stalking now too?”

“Maybe,” you say, tapping through Miya’s photos- picture after picture of her posing outside art deco hotels and on rooftops in Paris. But it isn’t until you scroll to the top of the page that your heart skips.

You pause. Blink. Scroll back up to make sure you read it right.

Followed by RafeCameron_

You freeze.

“Something wrong?” Noel asks, catching your face change.

You force a half-smile and shake your head, but your stomach sinks slightly. You can’t help but wonder:

Did he just start following her… or has he been? And either answer feels worse than the other.

You lie on your bed, cross-legged in yesterday’s clothes, mind racing as you fiddle with your phone. Your fingers tap against the screen, then backtrack. You open Rafe’s contact. Close it. Open it again.

It’s almost 4 a.m. You know you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But your brain won’t stop running laps. Miya.

You saw her name sitting right over that little “followed by RafeCameron_” on Instagram like it meant nothing. Maybe it does mean nothing. Maybe you’re spiraling for no reason. Maybe you’re just tired. Maybe it’s the pizza. Or maybe it’s the fact that no matter how hard you try to move forward, something about Rafe always drags you back into the undertow.

Logically, this isn’t your place. You’re the one who walked away. You’re the one who drew the line. You haven’t even told him about Owen. But this wasn’t about you right now. This was about her. Miya, with the high cheekbones and surgically perfected pout and the passive-aggressive grip on Allegra’s entire last nerve. Miya, who rubbed you the wrong way the moment she opened her mouth. And now she’s in his orbit?

You press the call button before your better judgment can slap the phone out of your hand.

The line rings. Once. Twice. Again. And again. No answer.

You stare at the screen for a while after it stops ringing, like you’re waiting for it to apologize for not fixing your heartache. You eventually set the phone on your nightstand, still face-up, still glowing. Then you pass out without even meaning to, mind whirring until sleep wins.

You wake up to your phone vibrating violently beside you and a loud, steady knocking at your front door. You groan, your limbs heavy and tangled in the blankets, and blink against the morning light cutting through your shades.

Your phone’s ringing. Celeste.

You swipe to answer just as you drag yourself out of bed, last night’s eyeliner smudged beneath your eyes like mascara war paint.

“Hey,” you croak, voice gravelly from sleep and dehydration.

“Open the damn door,” Celeste says flatly. “I’ve been knocking for ten minutes. I think your neighbors are about to call the cops.”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” you mumble, trudging toward the door as you hang up.

You swing it open and Celeste pushes in immediately, not waiting for an invitation. She’s in tailored pants, hair in a claw clip, and her lipstick is already perfectly applied- too put together for someone who’s obviously been up just as early.

In her hand is a rolled-up copy of something thick and glossy.

“Rough night?” she asks, eyeing your smeared makeup and pajama-level effort.

You shrug, barely functioning. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Clearly,” she mutters. Then she holds out what’s in her hand. It’s a pre-release copy of Vogue.

You take it, brow furrowing- but then you see it. Right there on the glossy front page tag, in clean serif font:

“Spotlight: Valentina & Co.’s Meteoric Rise”

Your stomach drops. You fumble with the pages, flipping until you hit it. A full spread. Photos. Interviews. Details. Everything.

Valentina & Co. splashed across one of the most powerful pages in fashion- and you weren’t even sure how it got there.

You look up at Celeste. “How…?”

She shrugs a little, already sipping her iced coffee. “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

Your fingers trace the corner of the page, heart thudding for reasons you can’t quite name. It’s not jealousy, exactly. Not fear. But something about it buzzes under your skin. You blink down at the glossy pages again, a strange unease creeping in. You have no idea why, but this doesn’t feel like just another spread.

It feels like the beginning of something. Something you can’t see yet.

You’re perched beside Allegra in the bustling prep area, watching as her glam team swirls around her like bees. She’s scheduled to walk for Christian Dior’s Fall/Winter collection, and thanks to your increasingly public ties to Valentina & Co., you’d been granted the rare honor of tagging along- though strictly as a spectator.

As a makeup artist smooths highlighter across Allegra’s cheekbone, she glances sideways at you. “So… when are you and Owen finally going to, you know, take things to the next level?”

You sigh, chest tightening. The question immediately calls up Rafe’s face in your mind like muscle memory- his laugh, the way he’d touch your jaw when he wanted your full attention, the softness you’d tried to walk away from. You shake your head gently, trying to dislodge the image.

“I don’t think I’m ready for… another relationship. Or a fling,” you mutter, sinking slightly lower into the chair.

Allegra’s lips twitch. “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on-”

She’s cut off by a voice that grates like nails on glass.

“Oh. My. God. Don’t tell me we’re walking the same show!”

You both turn. Miya floats toward you in a voluminous silk robe with oversized feathered cuffs, her hair in rollers, her mouth already curled in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

You sense Allegra tense beside you but watch her pull out a sugary smile like muscle memory.

“I guess we are,” she replies coolly.

Miya sinks into the chair across from you both, completely uninvited, dropping her phone onto the vanity with all the grace of a mic drop. Her legs cross, her lips pout, and her gaze flickers to Allegra.

“Still waiting for that follow baaack,” she sings.

Allegra’s smile doesn’t budge. “I don’t have Insta on my phone. My manager runs my account.” A bold-faced lie.

Miya hums. “Well, I’d really hate to unfollow you. But following someone with less than a million who doesn’t follow me back? It just, like, messes with the aesthetic, you know?”

“I like, totally get it,” Allegra replies in an exaggerated valley-girl drawl, barely concealing the mimicry. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing.

Miya lets it slide, adjusting her robe like she’s prepping for a photo shoot. “Anyway, crazy that we’re doing the same show. I haven’t walked in the States in forever.”

“Funds must be running loooow,” Allegra sing-songs under her breath, laughing as she flips her hair. Miya laughs too -way too hard- but there’s an edge to it.

“You’re hilarious. But no, I was just visiting my boyfriend.” She stands and brushes imaginary dust off her robe. “I’m off to change. See you out there!”

You and Allegra watch her leave like she’s a walking ad for artificial sugar.

“Fucking bitch thinks she’s Bella Hadid,” Allegra mutters once Miya is out of earshot.

You chuckle, the tension breaking for a moment. Allegra stands, smoothing down her robe.

“I’ve gotta get into my first look. You’ll be watching, yeah?” she winks.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you smile.

She disappears into the chaos of racks and models, and you sit for a moment, letting the movement of the room carry on around you. Stylists bark orders, steam hisses from irons, and perfumes mingle in the air. It’s beautiful, frantic, and utterly intoxicating.

Your gaze drifts casually to the vanity across from you- where Miya’s phone still lies. It vibrates once, skittering slightly on the surface.

You look.

And then you freeze.

Rafe C.

The name flashes across the screen. Your breath catches in your throat. The blood drains from your face.

You take a shaky step back, mind racing, chest tightening. Of all the possible explanations, the most painful one settles in your gut like a stone. You’re halfway to spiraling when you turn- and bump straight into someone.

“Oh- sorry,” you mumble, blinking away tears as you look up.

Standing before you is Aïsha Bellamy- creative director of the house.

“Y/N Y/L/N? You’re here!” she says brightly, clasping her hands together. “I’ve been meaning to reach out to you.”

You try to collect yourself, forcing your expression into something that vaguely resembles polite interest.

“Oh, uh, hi. Wow, yeah. That’s me.”

“I’d love to have you assist on one of our international shows. Milan or Paris, maybe? That’ll give you time to prep. We could really use your eye.”

You nod before fully processing. Anything to get away. “Yes. Definitely. I’d love to.”

“Great! My assistant will be in touch.” She pats your shoulder and disappears into the crowd.

And you? You beeline for the bathroom. Not because you’re going to cry- Because you already are.

“You’re awful quiet today,” Rafe says, voice soft through your laptop speakers.

You’re lying on your bed, MacBook propped on your lap, head tipped back against the headboard. The room is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the screen- and from him. He’s calling from his kitchen, phone leaned up against a glass, a reheated steak on the plate in front of him. Shirtless, naturally. And looking every bit as good as the food he’s eating.

You twist the silver ring on your finger- one of the many pieces of jewelry he left in your childhood bedroom, the one you swore you’d put away but never did. “Just… long day,” you murmur, eyes drifting from his face to his hands, to the slice of steak he’s cutting with far too much sex appeal for a domestic task.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks, biting a piece off his fork. He chews lazily, like he knows how pretty he looks doing absolutely nothing at all.

You glance at your screen, trying to gauge his expression, trying to figure out how to slip Miya into the conversation without sounding crazy.

“I, um… I went to a show earlier,” you start, keeping your tone light. “A friend of mine walked for Christian Dior.”

Nothing. No flicker in his expression, no shift in his tone. He just hums in vague interest, eyes still on his plate.

You try again, fingers fidgeting with the ring. “Anything exciting or… new in your life?”

He swallows, wipes his mouth on a napkin, and shrugs. “Nothing worth speaking about.”

And there it is- the first hit of disappointment. Not because you expected him to confess, but because some naïve part of you hoped he might.

There’s a silence that settles for a beat too long before you speak again. “I actually got invited to help on a show,” you say casually, like it’s not the biggest news of your week. “Christian Dior. One of their upcoming ones.”

Now he looks up.

His expression shifts immediately- his whole face lights up. “No way. Really?”

You nod, warmth spreading across your chest. His excitement is real. Genuine. And that makes you smile- not because of the opportunity, but because he’s smiling.

“Yeah… it’s either Milan or Paris. I haven’t gotten all the details yet.” You shrug like it’s nothing, but the pink in your cheeks gives you away.

“I’m seriously proud of you, Y/N,” he says, voice quieter, more sincere.

You lower your gaze, chewing the inside of your cheek, unable to suppress your grin. The feelings -the ones you’ve been trying to outrun in crowded rooms and through Owen’s easy smiles- are back, swelling in your chest, sharp and soft all at once.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He squints at the screen. “Wait a second… are you blushing right now?”

You immediately cover your face with your hands, laughing. “Absolutely not.”

He grins. “You totally are. It’s ‘cause I’m shirtless, isn’t it?”

“You wish,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes.

His voice drops a little, suddenly more vulnerable. “I wish I was up there with you right now.”

Your breath catches. The words land like a stone dropped in still water, rippling through your chest.

You stare at your keyboard, picking at a faded Vans sticker near the touchpad. “Me too,” you say, just barely loud enough for the mic to catch it- like you’re admitting it more to yourself than to him.

The silence that follows is thick with everything unsaid. You look at each other for a moment longer than you should, and for a moment it feels like nothing’s changed.

“I should let you get to bed,” he says finally, voice a little softer now. “You’ve got a show to run soon.”

“Yeah…” you nod slowly. “Goodnight, Rafe.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He hesitates. “I Love you.”

You don’t even think- the words come out before you can catch them. “I Love you too.”

You end the call, your screen fading to black.

And you sit there for a moment, the weight of what just happened pressing in like gravity. You’ve been busy, sure- distracted with work, dinners, nights out, Owen. But suddenly, all that noise feels like exactly what it was: a distraction.

Because the truth is…

You miss him.

More than you’ve let yourself admit.

You lean against the cool stone of the balcony doorframe, watching as Noel enthusiastically snaps photos of Allegra, who’s draped effortlessly over the terrace railing like she’s shooting an editorial spread. The glow of the Parisian evening bathes the scene in gold, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the background like a postcard come to life.

Tomorrow is the Christian Dior show -the first one you’ve ever been a part of- and “nervous” doesn’t begin to cover it. It feels like everything’s been leading to this, and yet the only people here to cheer you on are your two newest friends. Becca had family obligations. Marie’s back in school. Celeste wanted to come, but business wouldn’t allow it. Your parents haven’t said much beyond a vague “good luck.” And Rafe… well, he’s moved on.

You sip from your champagne glass, trying not to let the ache of that last thought linger too long. Instead, you laugh quietly as the girls bicker playfully on the balcony.

“Don’t get my bad side,” Allegra says, flipping her hair with practiced flair.

“Bitch, your bad side is still better than my good side,” Noel fires back, adjusting her camera angle without missing a beat.

The jazz you had playing through the speaker cuts off abruptly, replaced by your ringtone. You glance over to the side table and see Rafe’s name lighting up your screen.

Your stomach flips.

It’s six p.m. in Paris, which means it’s only noon in the OBX. You usually only talk late at night, when the weight of the day softens the edges between you. Midday calls aren’t your thing- and definitely not his.

You grab the phone and walk away from the balcony, your fingers brushing the screen as you switch off Bluetooth and press it to your ear.

“Hey, Rafe,” you say, voice low as you slip into a quieter corner near the door.

“Hey, darling.”

The way he says it -warm, careful, intimate- makes your breath catch. You’re used to affection from him, but this? This sounds like something heavier. Something older. Like you’re still his.

“What’s up?” you ask, pacing slowly in the little entryway between the bathroom and closet.

“I know your show’s tomorrow,” he says. “I just wanted to say I’m proud of you.”

That’s all it takes. Your chest tightens instantly. You feel it not just in your heart but somewhere lower too, deeper. His voice hits like a trigger, one you’ve been tiptoeing around for weeks.

You blink fast, trying to hold it together. “I just…” Your voice falters. “I wish you were here.”

The silence that follows is thick, but not cold.

“Mmm,” he hums softly, and somehow that sound says everything he isn’t- like maybe he wishes he was there too. “You’re going to kill it tomorrow,” he adds. “I mean that.”

The tears finally fall. You shut yourself in the bathroom, turning the lock and bracing your hand against the marble counter as you look into the mirror. Your reflection is blurred by glassy eyes. You swipe at them quickly, hoping your mascara isn’t ruined.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

There’s a pause, and you can feel it building- something unspoken taking shape in the quiet.

Then he says it. “Hey… I love you.”

It doesn’t sound casual this time. It doesn’t sound like a placeholder, or an echo, or a routine sign-off. It sounds like a confession. You close your eyes.

“I love you too,” you reply- and this time, you mean it the way he does. Not platonic. Not safe. Just… real.

And as the words hang there between you, soft and fragile, you wonder if they’ll still mean the same thing tomorrow.

Outside, the hotel hallway is buzzing. Assistants rush by with garment bags slung over their shoulders, stylists with clipboards tap frantically on phones, and someone is yelling in French about a missing pair of heels.

By the time you reach the venue -an opulent courtyard wrapped in white florals and shimmering lights- the transformation is already underway. The Christian Dior team has taken a historic Parisian building and turned it into a dreamscape. The long runway, slick with soft light, cuts through the center of the room like a river of silver. Rows of editors, buyers, and celebrities already line the velvet benches, air-kissing and crossing their legs in curated choreography.

But you don’t sit down right away.

Instead, you’re led backstage- your domain tonight. Controlled chaos unfolds all around you: models ducking into dressing areas, hairstylists curling last-minute flyaways, makeup artists applying lip liner with military precision. Fabric whispers. Heels clack. Someone is crying. Someone is screaming about time.

And yet, amid it all, you find a strange calm in the rhythm.

You spot Allegra getting her final touches done- her gown draping off her like it was stitched directly onto her body. She glances over her shoulder and lifts a brow.

“You surviving?” she teases softly.

You smirk, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “Barely.”

A stylist taps your shoulder and asks for help pinning the hem of a jacket that snagged just before lineup. You kneel on the cold concrete floor and fix it carefully, your hands surprisingly steady.

You belong here.

Not because of your name. Not because of anyone else’s reputation. But because you’re learning how to make it work- quietly, efficiently. The designer, Aïsha Bellamy, passes through with her assistant and gives you a quick, approving nod. “Good,” she says simply, already moving on. It’s not effusive, but it’s enough. In this world, calm is currency.

Moments later, the lights dim and the music begins- haunting strings layered with a pulsing electronic beat. The show has begun.

From backstage, you watch Allegra take her first step onto the runway- measured, confident, seamless. Cameras flash in rhythm with her steps, and you find yourself exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

There’s no time to think about anything else- not Rafe, not what he’s doing, or if he somehow managed to stream the show. You’re too busy checking hems, smoothing collars, and nudging models toward the curtain at just the right time.

And when the final looks disappears down the runway, when the applause echoes faintly from the other side of the curtain, the energy backstage subtly shifts. The tension breaks -not with confetti or champagne- but with soft exhales, loosened shoulders, quiet grins. It’s done.

Allegra returns from the runway still glowing, stepping out of her heels the second she crosses backstage. She walks up to you and bumps your shoulder gently.

“No disasters. I’ll take that as a win,” she says, grabbing a bottle of water from a tray.

You smile faintly, too tired to offer anything more. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t explosive. But everything went the way it was supposed to- and that, in this world, is everything.

And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like you’re running from something. You feel like you’re standing still, right where you need to be.

As you make your way through the venue, weaving between guests, you find yourself in conversation after conversation- thanking fashion editors, shaking hands with designers, nodding politely at influencers you’ve only seen on your feed. You’re smiling, you’re gracious, you’re doing everything you’re supposed to do. But beneath it all, your heart’s still thudding from the adrenaline of the show.

You’re halfway through a light chat with a journalist from Elle when something in the corner of your eye makes you freeze.

That buzzcut. That height. That familiar tilt of his head as he scans the crowd.

Your eyebrows knit as you trail off mid-sentence, excusing yourself with a soft “just a moment” and turning sharply, threading through the throng of well-dressed strangers, heels tapping quickly against the stone floor.

“Rafe?” you call out when you’re close enough.

He turns- like he was waiting to hear your voice. His eyes meet yours, and then he smiles, slow and warm, holding a single rose in his hand.

Your breath catches.

“What are you doing here?” you laugh, disbelief curling through your voice as you reach for him.

He doesn’t answer right away- just pulls you into him. And you go willingly, arms winding around his middle, cheek pressed against his chest.

His voice is soft against your ear. “I wanted to support you. I couldn’t do that from the island.”

The hug isn’t polite. It’s full-bodied, long, grounding. His warmth seeps into your skin, and for a moment, everything around you -the lights, the cameras, the Parisian venue buzzing with couture energy- fades into static.

When you finally pull back, your hands stay at his sides, but your eyes roam over his face like you’re trying to convince yourself he’s real. The bridge of his nose. The slant of his mouth. Those damn eyes.

You blink, but the tears come anyway. He notices instantly.

“Hey…” His voice is barely above a whisper as he gently reaches up, brushes a strand of hair away from your face, and tucks the rose behind your ear. “Don’t cry.”

But you do. Quietly. Unstoppably. A single tear, then another. Not because you’re sad—but because he’s here. Because you missed him. Because you didn’t realize how much you needed this moment until it landed right in front of you. He lets you have it. No pressure. Just his eyes on yours, full of something that’s almost too tender to name. And for the first time in a long time, you’re not bracing for the goodbye.

You’re just… here. With him.

“This is Rafe,” you say, voice a little softer than intended, gesturing between him and the girls.

The venue has mostly cleared out now, just a few staff and cleaners buzzing around in the background, the glamour stripped away. It feels quieter, more intimate. You can sense Allegra and Noel already sizing him up before you finish speaking. They exchange a glance -one of those silent, telepathic girl-friend looks- and you swear an entire conversation just passed between them without a word.

Allegra steps forward first, extending her hand. “Allegra. Pleasure to meet you.” Her voice is smooth, a little too polite- but not cold. Surprisingly, this might be the most gracious you’ve seen her be to a man who wasn’t Owen.

Rafe shakes her hand with a polite nod before turning to Noel, who offers hers more hesitantly.

“Noel,” she says, her voice quiet, unsure, but curious. He takes it gently and nods again.

Then his attention returns to you- full, present, and almost boyish. “You doing anything tonight?” he asks, tone casual but familiar. It hits you with a strange wave of déjà vu. This is the Rafe from early summer- the one who flirted with ease and always felt one step ahead of your heartbeat.

You glance at the girls, who are very pointedly pretending not to eavesdrop, failing miserably. Their eyes are glued to the two of you.

“I didn’t exactly have anything planned,” you admit, glancing at them again. “We might do something later.”

Before Rafe can respond, Allegra pulls you aside, looping her arm through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

As soon as you’re a few feet away, she whispers, “So that’s Rafe.” Her eyes flick back to him, then to you again. “I get it now. Honestly, I might fall for it too.”

Noel leans in from your other side. “He’s hot. Like, dangerously hot,” she murmurs. “But he looks at you like he’d burn the world down for you, so… maybe worth it?”

You stifle a laugh, cheeks warming.

Allegra gives you a knowing nudge. “You gonna go? He looks like he came all this way for a reason.”

You hesitate. “I mean… if you guys don’t mind…”

“Girl.” Allegra deadpans. “We’re not your babysitters.”

“Go,” Noel adds with a grin.

When you turn back around, Rafe is still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you like he already knew how this was going to end.

“I know this spot,” he says before you can speak. “Private, low-key. Best steak in Paris. Let me take you to dinner.”

You pause. Just for a second. Then nod. “Okay,” you say, voice soft but sure.

And just like that, you’re walking toward him, heels echoing against the marble, leaving behind the remnants of the show -and the girls- who watch you go with matching smirks.

You’re silently grateful you didn’t let Becca convince you to swap out your private French lessons for Spanish back in tenth grade. The words still come slowly, sure- but you can read a menu without embarrassing yourself. That has to count for something.

After the show, Rafe insisted on taking you somewhere special. He let you stop by your hotel to change, and now you’re wrapped in a black backless midi dress with matching ballet flats, your hair left softly tousled from the night. You’d opted for simple gold earrings, no necklace. You didn’t need anything else.

Now you sit across from him in a dim, elegant restaurant near the Eiffel Tower. He’s still in the tux he wore to the show, the tie gone, the top buttons undone. The two of you are tucked into a quiet corner table by the window, and the glow of the tower outside filters in like something out of a dream.

You rub the goosebumps from your arms -more from the A/C than the view- and lift your wineglass to your lips. The burgundy liquid is velvety, expensive.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” you say with a quiet smile, looking at him over the rim of your glass.

His eyes are lit in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. “I’m glad that I am.” His gaze doesn’t waver. It’s steady, reverent. Like he’s memorizing your face.

There’s a stillness between you -soft piano music drifting in from the far side of the restaurant, silverware clinking gently, murmured conversation filling the rest of the space- but you’re only aware of him.

Then he speaks. “I need to come clean about something.”

Your stomach twists, but you keep your face neutral. Calm. Ready. You nod once, bracing yourself.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he reaches to adjust the knife on his side of the table, moves the candle an inch like it’s suddenly in the way.

“I don’t really know how to say it, so I’m just gonna… say it.”

“Okay,” you say softly, willing your breath to stay steady.

“I, uh… I was seeing someone.”

Your heart doesn’t just sink. It folds into itself. You look away, not trusting your face to hold itself together.

“It wasn’t anything,” he continues quickly. “Just-”

“You moved on,” you finish for him, the words more bitter than you meant.

“No.” His voice comes out louder than expected. Firm. Immediate. He glances around, then lowers his voice. “No. I never moved on.”

You look down at your lap, swallowing against the lump forming in your throat.

“That’s the thing,” he continues, voice low and slow. “Do you remember when Valentina & Co. got that full spread in that… Vogue magazine?”

You nod cautiously. “Yeah…”

His eyes meet yours. “That was me. Sort of. I… I dated this girl. Her dad’s one of the big players behind the scenes in that fashion shit. I convinced her to get it in front of him. To push it. I thought maybe it could help.”

You stare at him, mouth parting slightly. “Wait… you did that?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah.”

“Who was it?” you ask, though you already know.

He hesitates. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

He sighs. “Miya. Something. I don’t even remember her last name.”

You nod slowly, letting it settle. “So… you used her to help me?”

“I mean…” he leans back, running a hand over his face, “yeah. I guess I did.”

Your lips twitch into a smile you weren’t expecting. “You don’t feel bad about that.”

A grin pulls at his mouth. “No. Not really.”

The two of you laugh -quiet and conspiratorial- until the tension dissolves, leaving something warmer in its place.

After a beat, your voice drops, uncertain. “You didn’t… sleep with her, did you?”

He gives you a look. “God, no.”

You nod again, your breath releasing without realizing you’d been holding it.

The waiter places your food in front of you, and for a while, the conversation falls into an easy rhythm. You eat. You laugh about his god-awful French and how he refuses to even try with the pronunciation. He teases you for being a language snob. You tell him he’s lucky he’s pretty.

It’s not just dinner. It’s a return. A rebalancing.

You don’t say it, but you feel it: you’re not sure where this goes next. But for now -just for tonight- you’re glad he’s here. And you’re glad it still feels like this.

The car pulls up to the curb, the soft glow of the hotel’s golden lights reflecting off its polished windows. The driver gets out to open the door, and you and Rafe step out together, the quiet hum of the city night wrapping around you like silk. You’re both staying at the same hotel, something neither of you planned but secretly feel grateful for.

Inside, the marble floors gleam beneath the lobby chandelier. Rafe glances at you, his hand brushing yours for a second too long as you both slow your steps.

“Want me to walk you to your room?” he asks, voice casual but eyes unreadable.

You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sure.”

The two of you cross the vast lobby and step into the elevator, the hush of the space suddenly intimate. A woman slips in behind you—a tall blonde, maybe late twenties, in heels and a fitted dress that says she’s not here alone. She turns to Rafe, completely ignoring you.

“What floor?” she asks, smiling with a little too much interest.

Something twists low in your stomach. Maybe it’s irrational. Maybe it’s not. But you feel it all the same.

“Six,” you say, stepping a little closer and sliding your fingers through Rafe’s. Your tone is light, but the message is not.

You don’t look at him, but you can feel the smirk forming on his face. You don’t have to see it- you can feel the smug heat of it in the air between you. When the elevator dings and the doors open, Rafe’s hand is still wrapped around yours as you step out into the hallway.

The door to your room is only a few steps away, but the moment stretches like static.

“So…” he says, once you’re standing in front of it. “Was that jealousy back there?”

You roll your eyes, key card in hand. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He leans a shoulder against the wall, grinning. “You grabbed my hand like you were staking a claim.”

You shrug, but your smirk is involuntary. “Maybe I was.”

Rafe lifts an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this too much. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you still like me.”

You tap the key card, the lock flashing green with a soft click.

You glance back at him, your voice quieter now. “Do you want to come in?”

His teasing expression shifts- still amused, but softer now. “Yeah. I do.”

You push the door open and let him follow you inside.

The suite is spacious, luxurious, and -thankfully- no longer a disaster. You kick off your shoes, the plush carpet soft under your feet as you step inside. The chaos you left behind that morning has vanished. The remnants of your half-eaten room service breakfast are gone, the bed is freshly made, trash bins emptied, and the crisp scent of something clean and citrusy lingers in the air.

You breathe in, grateful. When you’d rushed out earlier, it had looked like a hurricane passed through- clothes on chairs, towels on the floor, makeup scattered on the counter.

Now, everything feels quiet. Still. Intimate.

You walk over and sit at the edge of the bed, then let yourself fall backward with a soft thud, arms stretched above your head. Rafe is still near the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching you. It’s the first time in a while -maybe ever- that you’ve seen him without that usual air of cocky confidence. He looks… unsure. Out of place, even.

“You can sit, you know,” you say, casting him a lazy smile.

He huffs a soft laugh, like your comfort eases something in him, and walks toward you. Slowly, he drops down beside you, then leans back until you’re both lying side by side, staring up at the ceiling. Your faces are nearly aligned, breath mingling in the space between.

Silence stretches for a beat. Then he speaks, his voice impossibly neutral.

“You never moved on?”

Your chest tightens. The question is simple, but it lands like a weight.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. You turn toward him, propping yourself up on one elbow, hair cascading down the side of your face and brushing the bed.

“Never.”

Owen was sweet. He did everything right. But he wasn’t Rafe. He never could’ve been.

Rafe’s eyes flick toward you, catching you in the corner of his vision. “Never?” he repeats, a hint of disbelief -or hope- threaded through the word.

“Never,” you whisper, the truth sitting heavy in the space between you.

Your eyes stay locked, and something deep in your chest pushes you forward. You don’t kiss him. You don’t need to. Instead, you gently lay your head beside his, your nose brushing his cheekbone, your forehead pressing lightly against his temple. The warmth of him seeps into your skin, familiar and achingly missed.

He exhales slowly, like the words have been waiting years to escape.

“I’ll never not love you,” he murmurs.

Your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll never not love you too,” you breathe, the confession soft, reverent.

Another beat of silence, filled only with the hum of the city outside the window and the quiet thunder of your heart. Then you slowly sit up, crossing the room toward the en-suite bathroom.

You twist the handle in the shower, steam starting to rise almost instantly, curling in the air like ghosts.

When you step back out, he’s still lying on the bed, watching you.

You walk over, standing between his knees. No words. Just the water running in the background, the dim light casting a soft glow on your skin. You reach out a hand to him, no pressure, no performance. Just an invitation. He looks up at you, and then down at your hand. And when he takes it, it’s not just about the shower. It’s about everything that came before- and maybe, everything still ahead. You stand across from each other in the steamy glow of the bathroom, the sound of rushing water filling the space between you. Neither of you speaks as you undress, slow and unhurried, but there’s a nervous energy threading through the silence- your heartbeat is wild in your chest, and from the way Rafe stares down at the floor, jaw tense, you know he feels it too. He’s not smirking. Not teasing. Just quiet. Focused.

You step into the shower first, the blast of heat cascading over your skin and soaking your hair instantly. You tilt your face into the stream for a moment, eyes closed, grounding yourself in the warmth. Then you turn around- and he’s there. Rafe steps in behind you, and without a word, you wrap your arms around his torso, pressing your cheek to his chest. His arms encircle you in return, slow and sure, and he kisses the crown of your head like it’s second nature.

You both just stand there for a while, bodies swaying gently from side to side, water pouring over you like rainfall. Your eyes are closed, but your heart is wide open- his touch, his breath, the solid rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek… it’s all too much and somehow not enough.

Eventually, you both shift- he reaches for the body wash, you grab the loofah, and the moment turns practical but no less intimate. You wash each other’s backs, slow strokes and soft touches in between shy glances and barely-there smiles. There’s something sacred about it. No performance. Just care.

After rinsing off, you each step out, wrapping towels around yourselves. You press one to your face, still damp and flushed, while Rafe wanders the room like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. His towel hangs low on his hips, water dripping from the ends of his short hair as he stops in front of the dresser. He runs a finger over the surface, pausing at the decorative tray filled with little glass bottles, candles, and hotel trinkets. He’s quiet- like something’s heavy on his mind.

You walk up behind him, slipping your arms beneath his, hands curling gently over his shoulders. You press a kiss between his shoulder blades, then to the curve of his neck, your lips brushing warm skin still damp from the shower.

He watches you through the mirror for a beat, then turns his head, eyes locking with yours.

Without a word, he takes your hands and guides them down, turning around to face you fully. Then he lifts you effortlessly, and your legs wrap around his waist like instinct, like muscle memory. His eyes search yours- like he’s trying to find the exact words but knows he doesn’t need them. So you close the space between you, lips meeting his in a slow, deliberate kiss.

He carries you to the bed, laying you down with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He hovers over you, brushing damp hair from your face, and you reach between your bodies to untuck the towel from your frame, letting it fall away.

You break the kiss just enough to speak, eyes locked with his.

“I want to make love,” you whisper, voice trembling but steady with intent.

His eyes open, wide and searching. You expect a smile, maybe another kiss, but instead, he stills. For a second, you’re afraid he didn’t hear you right- until you notice the tears brimming in his eyes, threatening to spill over.

Your brows draw together in concern. “Rafe…”

But before you can finish, he nods, that familiar furrow in his brow deepening as he leans in and presses his mouth to yours again- this time with more purpose, more emotion.

You kiss him back like it’s the only way to stay grounded, your hands sliding to the sides of his face, holding him as if he might disappear- like if you let go, this might all vanish, a dream you’ve conjured from missing him for far too long.

Rafe pulls you with him, guiding you both up toward the head of the bed, his towel slipping off and forgotten somewhere along the way. His lips leave yours only briefly, traveling down to the delicate skin of your neck, then just beneath your ear. Every kiss he places feels deliberate, reverent, like he’s rediscovering you inch by inch.

He gently urges your legs apart, settling his weight between them with ease. You feel the heat of him against you, the soft drag of his tip gliding up and down your entrance- not teasing, just savoring. His eyes stay locked on yours, lips brushing over your jawline like a promise. You keep one hand cradling his cheek, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone slowly, eyes blinking against the overwhelming rush of emotion as he finally pushes in. The stretch is familiar, but the feeling? The feeling is entirely different.

This isn’t like the times before. Not your bedroom. Not his. Not Becca’s laundry room. Not the backseat of his car.

This time feels sacred.

Your mouth parts on a soft gasp, brows drawing together in pleasure- but your eyes never leave his. He begins to move, hips rolling in slow, tender thrusts, like he’s syncing his body to yours. One of his hands fists the pillow beside your head, the other gripping the edge of the sheet as if anchoring himself to this moment.

The bed creaks softly beneath you, your bodies finding a rhythm that’s more than physical- moans and breathless gasps filling the space like whispers of things you’re too afraid to say out loud. Your legs stay wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. Then he slides an arm beneath you, lifting you slightly so your chest presses to his, skin flush against skin. His head drops to the crook of your neck, breath hot and ragged.

“Rafe,” you cry out, arms locking tightly around him, holding him with everything you have left.

“I know, baby. Let go,” he murmurs, voice low and strained—like he’s barely holding it together himself.

That’s all it takes.

Your body arches against his as release takes over, your head falling back as a raw cry slips from your lips. Your eyes roll back, your chest trembling, and it feels like your soul is being drawn from your body- too much, too beautiful, too intense.

Rafe isn’t far behind. He lowers you both to the bed, staying inside just long enough to feel your shudders slow before gently pulling out. He finishes on your stomach with a soft grunt, then reaches for one of the discarded towels, careful and quiet as he wipes you clean. There’s no rush. No awkwardness. Just silence and something that feels a lot like love.

Eventually, the sheets are pulled up over your bodies, and you both settle beneath them, limbs tangled. The window offers a postcard view of Paris- city lights twinkling across the skyline, the Eiffel Tower glowing in the distance like a dream you forgot you once had. Rafe’s arm is wrapped tightly around you, the hand of the arm you rest on woven through your fingers. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles, chest rising and falling slow and steady beneath your cheek.

You don’t know what this means. Not for tomorrow. Not for when you both go back to the States. There are still questions lingering in the air, consequences waiting on the other side of sunrise.

But right now, none of that matters.

Right now, he’s here. You’re here. And nothing else in the world comes close to mattering as much as this moment.

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nemumiruku · 2 days ago

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Hihi I absolutely adore all your work, was wondering if there’s any shot you would write something for the executioner either full on vile or super fluffy I just want anything with it 🥺

Ladies, wyd if this man pull up and ask to draw you nude.

tw: nude painting, dubious-consent, obsessive behaviour,...

The Executor’s a peculiar man, in a way that’s almost scary. He rarely speaks, and when he does, it’s never about himself.

For as long as you had been staying at the Shrouded Hold, along with other hospitable Night Farers, all that you could see through him was, he had a burning passion for art and a never-ending adoration for the Erdtree.

Sometimes, it made you wonder if he was a Crucible Knight in his past life, or before he arrived here. Judging from the designs of his armour, the way he fought, and mumbled about the holy tree as if he’s bound to it his whole life.

You had no troubles with him. You understood well enough that men who bear that kind of artistry are zealots of their own solitude. Still, you can’t help but wonder if he remembers how to care for anything else at all. The others speak of people lost to madness, meals shared in distant lands, homes destroyed and rebuilt in memory alone. While he lingered apart in the garden’s withered shadows, too busy with his canvas.

Nevertheless, he’s anything but evil. He might be stoic to you, cold even, but it's difficult to ignore that he had a kind heart. The kind of beating heart shared by two people in one body, that never failed to give you the help you needed on tough expeditions.

As a newly introduced face to the party, you sure were thankful for him. It’s just that he’s a bit...eerie in some moments. Like that one time when you accidentally went through his old cabinet and found yellowed scraps of parchment covered in careful sketches.

Hands reaching outward, legs mid-step, eyes drawn with surprising gentleness. They weren’t grotesque, just oddly intimate, as though he’d studied every line and curve to remember them exactly. You couldn’t help but wonder if, for all his solemn devotion to the Erdtree, he still held some quiet respect for the humans who once filled these lands with life.

Until the paintings began to take on a familiarity you couldn’t ignore. At first, they were harmless enough, just studies of hands in repose, faces grimacing in quiet thought. But then you found one drawn in hurried, heavy strokes of a woman sleeping soundly on her bed.

Her hair tumbled across the pillow, her expression soft with unguarded peace. She bore your features in ways you couldn’t quite explain. The shape of the nose, the curve of the cheek, something unmistakably yours captured in hurried charcoal.

You stopped being curious when you reached the last one.

Even with only a quick glance, you understood what it showed. It was the same woman, drawn with careful, almost reverent precision. She was completely naked, her body captured in smooth, gentle lines that revealed every curve without shame.

She lay entangled with an unfinished man, all broad armored shape and half-formed detail that suggested a faceless knight. The artist hadn’t given him features at all, pouring all the attention instead into her. The scene left your mouth dry as you slipped the parchment back into the pile, the silence of the room getting louder and more suffocating.

The next day, he approached you with a grave calm that made the words even stranger.

He asked if you would help him improve his understanding of human anatomy. There was no hesitation in his voice, no hint of unease, as if it were a scholar’s polite request rather than anything unsettling. He stood there in his worn armor with steady eyes covered by the golden helm, waiting for an answer.

You could almost pretend it was innocent, but the memory of those sketches burned in your mind. The careful lines capturing someone asleep in vulnerable peace. The naked figure twined around a half-drawn knight. Even now, he seemed completely unaware of how close those images had felt. Or perhaps he knew exactly what he was asking, and simply didn’t care.

But perhaps it only made sense. He had been wandering these lands with a mind frayed by amnesia, lost to traumas or griefs. Maybe studying the human form would help him recover something of himself, or someone he once held dear in the world before it all fell.

You didn’t think badly of him for asking. There was no suspicion in you, just a gentle uncertainty. When you finally nodded, it was shy and a little hesitant, but sincere. He accepted your answer without a word of thanks, only a quiet, serious nod, as though you’d offered something truly valuable without even realizing it.

He settled you onto a plain wooden chair, the old thing creaking under your weight while he laid out his charcoals and brushes with careful precision. His movements were quiet, methodical, and almost ritualistic. You sat still, trying your best to follow every instruction he gave.

When he asked you to tilt your head, you turned slowly, feeling the cool air on your neck. When he gestured for your arm, you lifted it obediently, fingers splayed so he could trace their lines with his gaze. You shifted your legs at his word, folding and stretching them so he could watch how the joints moved beneath your clothes.

He barely spoke except to direct as you watched him work, the way his eyes narrowed in concentration, how the charcoal moved across parchment with quick, sure strokes. It felt strangely intimate, though you told yourself it was just study and art. You wanted to help, after all. Maybe this was how he'd find whatever he was searching for in the dark corners of his lost memory.

Until he paused, charcoal poised above the parchment, and fixed you with that steady, unblinking face.

“Would you…set aside these coverings? I need to see you as you are." his finger pointed to your top in a quiet, deep voice. His intentions were as deep as the seas surrounding you.

“Umm...” your voice came out small, a little shaky, as your fingers fidgeted in your lap, twisting together. Heat rose to your cheeks while you tried not to look away from him.

He didn’t seem embarrassed at all, just watched you with that calm, focused expression. He clearly didn’t mean it in any lewd way. He just wanted to study the shape of the feminine body, that was all…right?

You thought about the coming expedition, the way the Nights had grown crueler lately, filled with things that howled and struck from the dark. You knew you couldn’t handle it alone without slowing everyone else down or becoming a burden they’d have to protect.

It's difficult to say, but you sort of needed his help.

The thought made your chest tighten with guilt. You’d feel terrible if you let other people down. If agreeing to this strange request was the price of his protection, of making sure you could stand your ground without dragging the others into danger, then maybe it wasn’t so hard to say yes.

“Okay,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers trembled as you reached for the hem of your top, slowly peeling it over your head. The cool air prickled against your bare skin, and you instinctively wrapped an arm over your chest, shielding yourself as best you could. Your eyes dropped to the floor, too shy to meet his gaze behind the helm.

He didn’t say anything but simply watched, patient and still, as if he understood you needed a moment. But there was a weight to his silence, too, an unspoken expectation that you would let him see, so he could study every line and curve without barrier.

You swallowed hard and, after a long pause, let your arm fall to your side. The chill of the room swept over you fully, sending a shiver down your bare skin. You tried to steady your breathing, feeling painfully aware of how exposed you were under his unwavering attention.

He set to work immediately, charcoal scratching briskly over parchment. His eyes moved with practiced precision, flicking between the page and your body, noting every shape and angle.

Every so often his gaze settled on your breasts, studying the way the cold had tightened your nipples into hard peaks. Yet, his expression remained serious, analytical, as if committing the sight to memory for the sake of perfect detail. And you sat there as still as you could with burning cheeks, hoping it really was just art to him.

The chill in the room seemed to deepen with every passing moment, settling into your bones and making you shiver so visibly your teeth nearly chattered. You pressed your lips together and prayed silently that he’d be finished soon, that he’d give the signal you could cover yourself again.

For a brief moment, hope flickered as his charcoal paused mid-stroke. But then he spoke, measuredly, asking if you could remove your bottoms as well. The words landed in your ears like a crack of thunder, making your heart lurch painfully.

You sat frozen, eyes darting away, swallowing against the dryness in your throat. Minutes crawled by as you weighed the request, fingers knotting into the fabric of your chair. Every instinct told you to refuse, to clutch your clothes tighter around you. But another part of you remembered why you were doing this.

In the end, you found yourself standing slowly, fingers fumbling at the waistband. You kept your gaze glued to the floor, cheeks blazing with heat as you finally slipped the garment down, trying with everything in you not to think about the raw humility of it, or how exposed you now felt under his waiting eyes.

"I thank you." he lowered his head with gratitude before going back to his canvas.

But his calm was no comfort to you. You sat there tense, skin prickling with the cold and the weight of his gaze. Every time his eyes lifted from the parchment to study you, you felt your arms instinctively drift to cover yourself, pressing over your chest or curling around your hips in a futile shield.

But each time, with a small breath, you forced yourself to drop them again, knowing he was watching every line and curve, every subtle shape of your body laid bare in the dim light.

Surely he’s not interested in you. That’s what you kept repeating in your head, trying to steady your breath while the cold wrapped around your bare skin.

You were nothing remarkable, after all. Just another wandering soul seeking refuge in the Shrouded Hold, too weak to survive the Nights alone, too dependent on others for protection.

“Might you part your legs a little?” he asked, voice deep but firm, carrying the solemn weight of command more than request.

“I—I beg your pardon?” you’d heard him clearly enough, but you forced the words out anyway, clinging to the small refuge of pretending you hadn’t.

“I would see the shape of your inner thighs, if you would permit it,” he said quietly, already flicking the tip of his charcoal.

The shameless request made you hesitate, fingers curling against the chair with breath catching in your throat. Smoldering heat prickled at your face while you stared at the floor, thinking of all the reasons you shouldn’t, all the ways this felt too much.

But in the end, you shifted slowly, knees drawing apart just enough for him to see.

You told yourself it was harmless. He was a loner, a silent wanderer with no interest in gossip or company. Amnesic, even—half a stranger to himself. Surely he wouldn’t speak of this to anyone else, wouldn’t even hold the memory for long once his sketch was done.

That hope was the only thing that let you keep your legs parted while his eyes, steady and unflinching, took in every line to set it faithfully on the waiting parchment.

Again, he set to work without delay, charcoal moving in swift, practiced strokes across the parchment. His gestures moved with that same unwavering focus, though you couldn’t help but notice the subtle way his tongue darted over his lips now and then, wetting them with deliberate care. It was rather lewd.

You tried to hold your posture as best you could, muscles trembling with the effort, but eventually you had to shift, your legs drawing together for a moment or your back hunching from the strain. He noticed at once, setting aside the charcoal with a muted clack.

Without a word, he moved closer, armored fingers surprisingly careful as he adjusted you. He guided your shoulder back, lifted your chin with a touch that was almost gentle, then pressed at your knee until it parted once more.

Some of it felt harmless enough, like a sculptor arranging his clay. But there were moments that made your heart pound painfully, when he eased you into positions that laid you open in ways you’d never shown anyone.

Your thigh slung over the arm of the chair. Your back arched just so, breasts pushed forward. Legs spread wider than felt decent. Every time your breath hitched, every time you squirmed with shame, he only hummed in acknowledgment, studying the new angles like a scholar of flesh and form.

It wasn’t malicious, you told yourself desperately. It’s just art. Just him trying to learn for the better. But in those silent moments, you wished you could simply vanish rather than feel his cool, patient gaze on every vulnerable inch of you.

It took him some time to finally set down the charcoal for good. The scraping of it over parchment seemed to stretch on and on, filling the silent room with a steady, almost meditative rhythm.

You couldn’t tell if he was being deliberate, drawing out the moment on purpose, or if it truly demanded that much care to capture every angle and line of human anatomy.

“I am done. Thank you for the enlightenment. You may dress yourself now,” he said while bowing his head with a grave respect that felt strangely ceremonial. The Executor began gathering his charcoals and brushes, slotting them back into their worn case with careful precision.

You didn’t answer, throat too tight with relief and lingering embarrassment. Instead, you let out a shaky breath and lifted a trembling hand to wipe at the sweat you imagined on your brow. Without another glance in his direction, you bent to scoop up your clothes, fumbling them on with frantic fingers.

You kept your eyes down, swallowing hard as you fastened the last button. You didn’t want to see the parchment, didn’t want to see if he was still watching. All you wanted was to cover yourself and be done with it.

When you finally managed to get your clothes back on, fumbling with ties and buttons in clumsy haste, you let out a shaky sigh of relief. The chill that had clung to your bare skin slowly faded beneath the weight of cloth, but your cheeks still burned with embarrassment.

Just as you were about to turn away, another voice drifted through the quiet room. It was softer than the Executor’s, warm and almost playful in contrast to the solemn hush.

“Extraordinary...” came the single, drawn-out word, rich with hidden admiration.

Your head immediately snapped up from the familiar voice. Just to see Wylder standing there beside the Executor, arms loosely folded, his head tilted as he studied the parchment with a small, astonished hum.

But the Executor was already gathering his supplies with deliberate care, art box tucked under one arm, as if he hadn’t even noticed the other man arrive, or simply didn’t care to react.

The flush spreading from your cheeks to the tips of your ears, your face went hot in an instant. You’d never felt so exposed. Not even during the sketching itself. Because Wylder, of all people, was the last one you wanted seeing that parchment.

He wasn’t cold or indifferent like the Executor because if anything, you had always felt at ease with Wylder.

There was something almost brotherly in the way he took good care of you, always knowing when to speak and when to let the silence comfort you. It was the kind of bond that made you feel safe in a place that had little safety to offer.

Which only made this so much worse.

You could barely stand to meet his eyes now, terrified of what he might be thinking. That you’d stripped yourself so willingly, that you’d sat there exposed without protest, shifting your legs at another man’s command. That you’d had no shame, no modesty.

You tried to avert your gaze, blinking quickly as your vision blurred with the sting of tears you refused to let fall.

“Excuse me…” You turned quickly, nearly stumbling over your own feet in your haste to leave. You prayed he would be kind enough to see past the worst of it. That he’d remember who you really were and choose to look at the brighter side.

Still, you felt his gaze on your back as you left—steady, heavy in its silence. It made your heart beat harder against your ribs, part of you wanting to believe it was understanding rather than judgment.

Once you were gone from view, Wylder let out a slow breath and shifted his attention to the Executor, who was busy gathering his supplies with his usual, unflinching focus.

Wylder then rested a gentle hand on the knight’s broad, worn pauldron, catching him off guard enough that he paused.

“Tell me.” Wylder said softly, with a warm and even tone. It also sounded rather serious if the artist himself squinted hard enough.

“Would you be willing to make another copy of this?"

#elden ring #elden ring nightreign #imagine #x reader #wylder #executor #tw dubcon

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pinkofatom · 8 hours ago

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Pony of the Tower

CW: corruption, brainwashing, mind control, bondage, pony play, horse play, edging, denial,

Hi hi~ today I have a continuation of this and this

If you liked this story, please consider leaving a tip on my ko-fi

Enjoy 🩷

Clarissa shivered beneath the coarse blanket, the scent of hay and old leather thick in her nose. The stables were clean enough, but it still stung to be penned in like a beast. One minute she’d been riding at Sir Edric’s side, sword drawn and heart blazing with purpose —band the next, dragged away by the Wizard’s robed minions like some wayward mare.

The rescue had failed. Princess Saphira remained in the tower, and Edric — Clarissa didn’t know. They had been separated before she could see what became of him. The shame of it tightened like a rope around her ribs.

But shame wasn’t the only thing pressing down on her.

The Wizard hadn’t harmed her. No shackles. No dark dungeon. She’d been fed — warm broth, soft bread, sweet water that lingered oddly on the tongue. Given a place to sleep, even if it was just a straw-padded stall behind a wooden gate. Nothing had happened. Nothing she could name.

And yet.

Clarissa couldn’t shake the feeling that something was being done to her.

It was in the way her limbs felt heavier than they should. That strange tugging on her hips. Or how a tail brushed along her butt, that didn't exist. Neither the strange, lulling quiet of the stable, where no horses neighed, no servants stirred — nor her lack of defiance helped. She hadn’t tried to escape. At all.

That alone should have sounded alarms inside her. Clarissa wasn’t meek, no matter how sweet she may appear, no matter how soft or shapely. Her looks hid a true fighter. A lion’s heart. Her knight’s sword sister and trusted ally.

So why couldn't she act?

The sound of steps on packed dirt stirred her out of her thoughts. She stiffened, hands curling into fists. Her heart thudded in her ears.

A torch flared. A voice, light as spring, fluttered in the air. “Stand.”

Clarissa dragged her torso up. A maid, in the most revealing uniform she had ever seen, walked in the middle of her vision. Clarissa’s breath hitched as she took the servant in. Her eyes lingered, unsure where to settle — the impossibly slim waist, the soft skin, or those lush, spilling breasts. She hadn't known that people could look like this. Her insides tightened, hot and tense.

Her attention flicked back to the girl’s face —and then back down again, following that creamy, milky cleavage. Heat flooded Clarissa’s cheeks. There was something about that servant girl. Something so enticing. A smell that lingered, like roses and perfume.

Standing, Clarissa swayed like a drunk. Something felt familiar about this maid. She just couldn’t place it. Not through that hot fog that settled in her head. A cloud of dizzy arousal.

"Strip," the servant girl purred, "and put this on." The maid handed her an outfit that made her own appear positively prudish.

Clarissa balked. But as her hands slid to unhook the buckles on her belt, she found herself unable to argue. She shrugged off her gambeson first. Then her blouse and pants, letting them pool around her feet.

Clarissa should have been ashamed, showing her naked body before this pretty stranger. And yet, the maid's half lidded stare filled Clarissa's body with a prickling warmth that pooled low in her belly. It was strange, and exciting. A thrill that raced beneath her skin.

Clarissa fumbled with the garments that the servant girl held up, struggling to fit it on her body. The area for the chest was too wide, fabric bit hard into her waist, and then there was the bottom half.

The tight fabric of the undergarments rubbed against Clarissa's lips with every shift of her hips, making her gasp and squeeze her legs together. Tight leather clinched her legs into a long runner's stance, fitting the hoofed boots perfectly. The laces pulled taut, squeezing around her ankles with every step she took, giving her the appearance of a horse or mare.

"What — What's going on?"

"Hush." The servant girl patted Clarissa's thigh, like she was some beast of burden. The contact sent sparks shooting through Clarissa’s body. The heat built inside of her, and she clenched her legs tightly.

Then the maid pushed something into her butthole. Clarissa stiffened, letting out a hiss as something cool, firm, and foreign slid past the ring of muscles and sank deeper. It didn't hurt. In fact, the sensation was pleasant — strange but exciting.

But the maid didn't leave her wondering what this strange device did for long. The plug sprang to life inside her ass, humming, throbbing, and filling her back hole with pulsing vibrations. Clarissa let out a gasping, shuddering cry as this pleasure rippled through her, tightening around the foreign object in her butthole. Her toes curled inside the leather shoes.

"Are you a good pony?" The servant girl asked with a knowing smile and tapped Clarissa's butt.

Clarissa nodded without hesitation, driven by a primal need that she couldn't explain. The motion made her bubbling and growing ass jiggle. Cheeks brushed against a tail she couldn’t see. That tight plug sent shivers racing up and down the back of her legs, making her muscles twitch.

Her ass was so full!

"Yes!" she cried, knees weakening. The sensations washed through her like waves on the shore, crashing into one another. She clung desperately onto the gate to steady herself, panting for breath.

Clarissa noticed that her breasts pressed against the corset that was once too big. She stared down as her chest swelled, nipples hardening.

Her mouth fell open, breathless as the soft orbs strained the fabric, and grew in her bodice until the material was biting in. She blushed as she realized the corset and the outfit fit her now.

"Are you ready for some training?"

That wording. It sounded like Edric's. Who was this maid? The gears in Clarissa's head struggled to turn. She couldn't put her finger on it, and that bothered her more than she was willing to admit.

"Oh, yes. The pony is ready for some training," she moaned, pushing back against that wonderful, throbbing, pulsing toy buried deep inside her.

The servant girl chuckled, her hands settling on Clarissa's hips, squeezing. Clarissa felt her core ache, tightening in on itself. A hunger roared within, stoked hotter and hotter by those confident touches. She bit down a whimper.

"You still need a harness, silly little thing," the maid teased, patting her hip. The simple gesture left Clarissa burning up inside, and a needy moan rose from her throat, earning an amused chuckle from the maid. Expertly the servants fingers fastened a bridle harness around Clarissa's waist. It was snug. She felt the material bite in, accentuating her figure and pressing in against the throbbing, vibrating plug, only amplifying her arousal further. The maid continued, strapping the leather and steel bit and reins around Clarissa's mouth, plunging a metallic sphere past her lips as a muzzle.

The cold steel settled on her tongue. Saliva pooled quickly. The sensation of being bridled sent a rush of heat through her. A sense of surrender to something else — like the plug inside of her.

Clarissa trembled as the maid pulled the reins tight, her body shuddering. The movement sent vibrations up into her core, and she let out a choked, garbled gasp.

"There. Perfect." The servant girl slapped Clarissa's thigh playfully, chuckling. "We can start."

Clarissa moved, her hooves clacked on the dirt floor. The constant vibrations from that throbbing plug made her ass sway in a way that felt almost instinctual. Each step drove the plug in deeper, rubbing against her walls and making her whimper. The pressure built steadily until she was on the brink of something huge. Something primal that made her entire body tingle with need.

The maid clicked her tongue, and Clarissa froze, the pressure within her vanishing suddenly as that vibrating, pulsing sensation in her ass faded. She whimpered through her gag, a sound of frustration that echoed through the empty stables.

"Good ponies don't cum, they ride a permanent edge," the servant girl informed her as she stepped up to Clarissa's front and gripped the reins. She tugged, guiding her in an odd dance around the room. The movements made her hips roll and sent shocks of pleasure up through Clarissa's legs, her butt clenching tight around that maddening, teasing toy that sent bursts of heat into her core whenever the vibrations sprang back to life for a tantalizing moment before stilling.

Again and again.

Time lost all meaning to Clarissa. Was she trotting for minutes, hours or days? She couldn't grasp it. Instead the perfect patterns of motion carved into her mind. 'Arch the foot like this' and 'roll the hip now's as well as 'wait until the clack and release with a neigh' settled into her mind. These thoughts properly erased the idea of cumming. How could she waste this beautiful, edging thrill for the banal end? It was an intoxicating feeling. The constant tease. The ebbing pressure. How her pussy ached. Her clit throbbed. The vibrations from her butthole coursed into her, driving deeper, stronger as sweat gleamed across Clarissa’s chest.

"Very good. You are a natural," the maid praised Clarissa. The words set her heart soaring, pride swelling in her breast as she trotted onward, the muscles in her legs burning, her hips moving smoothly, and that throbbing plug humming against her inner walls.

The maid tugged the reins once more. Clarissa obeyed without hesitation. Her hips arched and shifted. Dazed she left the stables, where a carriage waited for them. It looked rather fancy with two long beams on either side, polished dark wood, gleaming metal trim, and plush leather seating. Clarissa stared blankly at the vehicle for several heartbeats. Then moaned in bliss. It was so wonderful. She could just float away on a sea of pleasurable sensation, and never return.

Her hooves clip clopped on packed dirt, moving closer to that beautiful, wonderful, amazing carriage. She was guided to one of the large poles, standing patiently in place while her reins were attached. Then the maid walked behind her, patting Clarissa’s thigh.

"Our princess needs to travel today. It's lucky that you are so easily trained," the maid murmured, voice soft as a whisper on the wind. She leaned in. "We will give her quite a ride."

That was fine by Clarissa. In her fogged up mind it all made complete, perfect sense. And that need within her, that desire to please and to serve, was growing. She needed this. Wanted it badly enough that she felt like her heart might break into a million pieces if it didn't happen soon.

She was a steed and needed to be used. Clarissa wanted this even if it drove her over her limit. Her tongue slid against the cold, steel bar inside her mouth, her hips rolling, her pussy aching with unquenched thirst.

Then the maid hopped onto the carriage. The servant gave the reign a firm tug, and with a nicker, Clarissa strained forward. The large, thick, toy inside of Clarissa's ass pulsed and hummed as she struggled for a second —and then, she took a step, the heavy weight swaying with the motion. A second step, a third. Soon, Clarissa's body fell back into that rhythm from before as her ass swayed and rolled.

They reached the Wizard's Tower proper where Princess Saphira waited. Her eyes lit up with an eager fire as soon as she caught sight of Clarissa, and the princess giggled merrily, her hand coming to cover her mouth. "Why, you look simply perfect," she breathed. She turned her eyes toward the maid and clapped excitedly.

Clarissa didn't hear the rest of what was said, too distracted by her task to pay any mind to idle prattle. Sweat rolled from Clarissa’s temples and trickled down between the lush curves of her chest. Her breath quickened, and the world narrowed to those reins. That tug on her teeth and head.

Her heart raced. She felt light, and her muscles burned, her ass tightening rhythmically around that pulsing, throbbing tail in her butthole.

Clarissa didn't know where they would travel. But then, ponies didn't think about such things.

They simply enjoyed the endless ride on the edge.

#pinkofatom #pink short shorts #corruption kink #brainwashing #mind control #mind control story #corruption story #edge kink #denial kink #bd/sm kink

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eito-rewind · 23 hours ago

Note

For Eito, everything became a bit of a blur at that point.

He remembers hearing what sounded like the others joining in, Kako and Darumi shouting, the sounds of their Class Weapons ringing through the narrow corridors. Takumi screaming out, distorted. He must have put the helmet back on, at some point. That... oddly, was some relief. If his luck came through and he somehow lived through this, he didn't necessarily deal with that particular can of worms. Or at least, didn't want them to get involved.

He was dimly aware of the voices around him, scratching and ringing like blades on concrete. He thinks he might've heard Kako, through tears and obvious fear, attempting to take control of the situation; he's fairly certain he heard Shouma throw up... maybe twenty, thirty feet away? Before returning to help with the first aid. Darumi, oddly, was mostly-silent during the ordeal, and while every touch burned like acid, he was fairly certain it was her hands that gently yet tightly wound the bandages and tourniquets on his battered body, trying to keep him from losing any more blood.

He felt someone touch his eyelid, causing him to flinch a little, and earning a shocked gasp from the group.

"Holy... what the FUCK..."

'What the fuck' indeed, Darumi.

She didn't know the worst part about it.

He felt his body being moved. Ah... This was surely going to be difficult for them. He wasn't exactly the lightest person around.

At some point amidst their jostling and bickering, he felt things fog up, and he slipped out of consciousness.

...

From there, it was a lot of drifting in and out. Small moments of awareness, feeling the cool evening air, smelling the petrichor, hearing the wind or words he couldn't quite make out, before slipping into blackness again.

At one point, he thinks he hears more voices, distant, but then closer. Maybe... Tsubasa? And Ima? Relief, panic... It was strange, he could hear them, yet can hardly actually make out the words anymore. He's sure he's dying.

Everything - everything - fades to nothing, at some point. No stimuli, no pain, no thoughts.

---

When Eito awoke again, he almost expected to be greeted by the void where his sense of vision had once been. Instead, he awoke to the familiar ceiling and stark monochrome of his room. It was almost painful, even with the soft lights dimmed and the warm glow of the evening sun streaming in through his window.

He... was alive. They'd... somehow made it back in time.

A familiar stench assaulted his senses - something sulfurous, something like blood, a bit of sakura. Darumi.

Eito turned his head, slowly, fighting back the fatigue and headache, to face his desk area. Sure enough, Darumi was sitting there, facing the two terrariums he had set up for his snails and for Jorm. He supposed she was grinning - although, the split and cracked shojo-noh mask he saw for her face always sported the same deranged smile, a perversion of such a flexible sculpture forcibly molded to one feeling. She was being uncharacteristically quiet but no less manic, babbling something at Jorm while playing with him on the desk.

Had they been taking shifts? How long was he out?

He shifted, slowly sitting up. Every bone and muscle creaked after finally seeing use after... however long he was unconscious. Darumi's attention snapped over with an excited squeal.

"EITOOO! You're not dead!" She practically shouted, "That's great, 'cause you're about to owe us a whole lot of exposition! Be right back!"

And with that, she sped out the door, leaving Eito to collect his thoughts.

What was he going to tell them?

[[END]]

Within the shadows stood a being weilding a kitchen knife in a gloved hand. When they took a step forward, the light revealed they were wearing some sort of full body suit.

It's a leap suit.

"I finally found you... all alone..." the person spoke, their voice muffled and changed.

"Finally... I can finally kill you!!!"

They lunged.

@within-only-shadows

Eito watched the intruder as they approached. Each step forward stoking the anxiety and fear that he'd been swallowing since they stepped foot into this place. Had they been followed? Had this person been waiting?

Or... had they already known...?

They were wearing a leap suit.

The dim light gleamed off of the knife.

Their words barely registered as Eito kept his focus locked on their weapon and their movements. They gained speed, lunging forward with their blade, their movements crazed and unfocused. Whoever this was, they weren't looking to deliver a quick death. They were looking for one to enjoy.

The only escape was forward.

The hallway was narrow, but it was a risk Eito had to take. He charged forward towards his attacker, keeping his profile as low as possible to minimize the injury he was sure to take. He dove down to the right, slipping past them as he felt the knife graze into his shoulder, tearing at his Class Armor and drawing blood from flesh. Scrambling to his feet, he gripped his injury to try to stifle the bleeding as he started running down the hallway as fast as his legs would take him.

He noticed the stairwell too late in the dimmed light.

He loses his footing and falls. He covers his head, attempting to protect it from injury, as he hits the steps and slams against the landing below. The wound on his shoulder opens a bit, smearing blood against the wall where he landed, his whole body aching.

Eito-!

"... m'fine..." he mutters, regaining his footing. His vision was swimming.

He had to hide.

He stumbles into the nearest room. From the smell of it, some kind of old food storage. The smell of rotting meat and mold fills his nose, overwhelming his highly-sensitive sense of smell and almost making him vomit on the spot.

Footsteps down the stairs.

Eito choked back the bile, and worked his way in amongst some crates. He held steadied his breathing as best he could, staying still. And keeping quiet.

#[first encounter]

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eats-the-stars · 10 months ago

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everybody who went to a private catholic school name the craziest personal belief an instructor lectured the class on.

i'll go first: mentally disabled people are free of original sin, just like animals, so they get a free pass to heaven

#bonus points if the lecture was not-so-subtly referencing you specifically #ye i was the only super obviously autistic kid in my class since we did not have special ed classes or accommodations of any kind #and yes this teacher did seem to believe that i fell into the category of 'mentally disabled people who are like animals'#oddly enough this kind of made me her favorite student #she was really big on infantilizing ppl who were a certain level of mentally disabled #and yeah i guess dehumanizing too #except like how people says 'all doggos are good boys'#and even if a dog bites someone you can't like claim that dogs know the difference between good or evil #so it's not like...a fucking sin or something #so yeah she did openly express this stuff in class #i can't remember her explanation for mentally disabled ppl being free of original sin #but it was like tied in with the whole 'tree of knowledge' thing #and how not having that knowledge/sin is what makes us like innocent and dumb #got compared to a dog and also a lamb. not directly. like she did not call me out by name #but the entire class was super uncomfy because it was really obvious she was indirectly talking about me #at the time i was also like 'huh that explains some of her behavior around me'#and also thought it was hilarious that i got a free pass to heaven in her mind #also thought it was funny that she thought i was mentally disabled #because at this point i just thought i was a deeply weird person being mistaken for a mentally disabled person #but uh nope. i was like. really autistic. like lots of classic negative shit too like biting other kids and self-harmful stims and stuff

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7hursday · 4 months ago

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gojo likes watching porn.

not in that weird, pervy way— actually, let’s retract that statement. he doesn’t watch it to fuck his fist to the girls getting dicked down by some scrawny guy.

he uses it as a reference.

oddly enough, he gets aroused by the thought of doing it to you. he memorizes the way the girl’s legs were pushed up to her chest, the pillow placed below her lower back, the angle the guy was hitting it from… he just can’t wait to try it out with you.

gojo follows his usual routine— stuffing two fingers up your wet cunt and swirling them around in that torturous circular movement that had you squirming in seconds, squelching noises almost becoming louder than your own moans before shoving his dick into your needy hole.

his hands wrap around the back of your knees, spreading your legs just enough for him to slot himself in between them. the small tuft of hair at the base of his cock brushes against your swollen and sensitive bundle of nerves with every move of his hips, each thrust carefully thought out to maximize your pleasure. the tip of his cock constantly pushes against your g-spot, brushing against your cervix and causing you to gush all over him.

gojo’s never heard you moan this loud before— and neither has he felt you squeeze around him so good.

#jjk smut #7hursday #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #jjk x reader smut #jjk gojo

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syluses · 3 months ago

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separation anxiety

⤷ caleb experiences a rut after a long time, and it just so happens that you’re in his path.

cw. 18+ smut, hybrid! caleb, knotting, dubcon if you squint, breeding, obsessive/possessive behavior, perv caleb, fem human! reader, ruts, size difference, also a lil breeding, 3.5k words because i physically struggle to write smut without a preamble, reader is ovulating and it triggers his rut this time for whatever reason

an. saw this trope going around & wanted to try it <33 he’s got that DAWG in him 💪 also i cant decide if hybrid caleb gives german shepherd vibes or samoyed vibes…. that moments post lives rent free in my mind tho idk (>_<)

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, & 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅! (๑´ `๑)♡

Caleb would say he hates you for the time you’re gone, but it’d be a big fat lie. His love for you, big and bursting in his chest, deepens in the quiet windows where you’re present at work or running errands throughout Linkon before returning home to him.

There’s a permanence of you in his mind and being. He wants it no other way.

His devotion for you doesn’t necessarily drown him- no, you’re always there with a lifering waiting- but it certainly sweeps him up and threatens to.

He gets a bit ahead of himself sometimes, he’s aware of that; energetic, bulging at the seams with vigor; whether it’s an integral part of his personality or just a consequence of his breed, the pound he came from never quite knew. Your Gran never figured that out, either, and for as sweet and trying as she was, she soon realized she couldn’t foster him for long.

Because he was a big boy, hungry for attention and wired to please, well-meaning but oft over involved with personal space— and he brought a loaded package that your Gran just couldn’t sign her name off on, not after a few months, anyway. She tried her best before nudging him into your care, because she sure as hell wasn’t about to give him up to that squalid pound or the streets again- and besides, the mutt liked her granddaughter; all those visits she paid throughout the summer obviously endeared Caleb to her, and quickly.

You admit, it’s a mite difficult to juggle between long days at work, little tasks that drag you from point to point throughout Linkon, and your own personal life on top of caring for a hybrid stowed away in your shoebox apartment— but your grandmother was all but sapped of her energy then, turning to you for aid although she seldom ever did, and you’d always lend a hand where you could.

The mutt- Caleb, is his name (and you call it fondly even as he’s pawing at your thighs for attention or drooling on your collar)- has grown on you considerably in the past half year, anyway.

You won’t let him down or leave him at the curb. He’s yours. The red collar you bought him says as much, printed with your number on a silver plate, and he wears it not because you make him but because he’s proud of it.

He’s a good boy, he is. He always has been and for that you’re thankful.

Except, this week he’s… different.

As of a few days ago, it’s like he’s been testing the waters- and your patience- on just how far he can go before you tell him off or say bad dog. He must find them warm because he’s just been diving deeper as the week progresses.

You don’t know what to do. He’s oddly aggressive. It’s not rare at all for him to follow you all around your apartment, but he’s foregone the very last shred of respect for your personal space and nips when you try to push him away. Not hard enough to actually hurt- the yip you make is more surprised than anything when he pulls you back in and licks at the small red patch- but you look wounded at it.

Because Caleb doesn’t bite— he just doesn’t.

He wraps you up in seemingly endless embraces and breathes your smell in until he’s dizzy, laughing into your neck like a giddy child. He does this every time you try to leave for work and he’s made you late for it.

Maybe it’s just because you’re ovulating and a little hormonal, but it makes you quite sour and the mood stays even when you return in the afternoon. He’s never liked when you’re gone, sure, but he’s always been there to see you off at the door with a pout as you scratch behind his ear- more or less tame about it.

Your patience really frays at the odd uptick in his possessiveness, though. It’s hurtful.

You’ve always treated him less like a pet- a hybrid- and more like a friend, and you feel quite indignant for it when he growls and tells you that he hates the smell of other men on you, hearing none of your excuses that it’s ‘just coworkers’, glaring at you like some brainless extension of him. You feel less like a person and more like an object, a streetlamp in which he emerges from the shadows for just to piss on to show it belongs to him.

He’s touchy. Snippy. Glued to your side at all times. It’s concerning and frustrating and confusing all at once.

By the fifth day mark, on Friday night, you’re tuckered out by it and don’t question where he is when you return home early from a shift and he’s, uncharacteristically, not there to greet you.

A red collar however, laid on the floor, its tag glittering under dim hallways lights, strikes you as both curious and unsettling.

He never takes that off. No- says it’s his way of showing you and the whole world that he belongs to you, and— have you been too impatient with him lately? Brusque? Maybe you’re a little hormonal but it’s no cause to get short with him, even when he’s acting up, and what if he no longer wants you as his owner—

A gasp.

You find him in your bedroom, humping your pillow, yowling as he comes undone- unawares- and the walls spin as you nearly faint.

You drop your purse. “Caleb!” You shriek, and a visible shiver rolls down his spine as he turns around.

“Bad dog!”

✦

You sleep on it.

Well, you wash your sheet and your pillowcases- and then you sleep on it.

Maybe you overreacted. If anything, you should be grateful for what you walked in on because otherwise, he wouldn’t have known how to tell you he’s been going through a bit of a hot phase- the first of his you’ve experienced- and doesn’t know how to control himself.

You blush just thinking about it, shame knocking in your chest as your heart beats heavy. You feel awful for walking in on him for a number of reasons. One of them being he came all over your bed- and his tummy- and you had to clean both up through furious tears as you peeled your covers off the mattress and pointed him off in the direction of the bathroom, telling him to run the faucet and quick.

A pass of guilt, the fear of you being angry with him, made its round across his kicked expression but he held off on arguing.

For the first documented time in the whole week, Caleb appeared mellow- not agitated, restless, or tense- and rather crestfallen, and you noted it only vaguely as you irately turned on the washer.

Now, it’s in the forefront of your brain.

Well, if he’s been going through some kind of rut lately, it only makes sense he’d be all kinds of pent up, and that his release (albeit in an inconvenient way and place) would provide some relief.

It’s closer to noon when you finally exit your bedroom and meet him at the sofa- the same one you’d all but banished him to last night. He prefers to spend his nights with you, either curled up at your side or splaying his full weight over your back- a breed-relative habit, you’re sure. You’ve heard of some other kinds who enjoy a room to themselves or do just fine with the couch, on their lonesome— But not Caleb.

He looks tired but perks up when he hears you patter down the hall, violet eyes lighting when you timidly take a seat.

With a bit of hesitation, he inches closer until you sheepishly wave a hand and he barrels into your arms.

“Ah- Caleb-“

Before you can even apologize for your jumping the gun last night, he beats you to the punch. “M’ sorry. You don’t hate me for it, do you?” He sighs into your collar and you shiver, “I wish you could understand what it feels like- I wouldn’t have done it if it was somethin’ I could control, I hope you realize that.”

You swallow, digesting his words as you belatedly place a hand on his head to pet. He positively melts. “Y-Yeah,” you mumble back. “It’s okay. I actually wanted to say sorry too. I- I didn’t understand what was going on…”

A deep groan looses from his throat, his chest swelling with content as you itch that spot behind the furry ears say upright on his head. They give a few twitches as he leans against you and wraps his muscular arms around your middle, resting his chin by your shoulder.

“It’s my fault, though, not yours. I didn’t know how to tell you- I was worried you’d just end up scared’a me, or…”

His pause instills interest in you. Your fingers smooth back his brown locks, mussed from fitful sleep, and he sighs. “Or what?” You press softly.

You pull him back just enough to get a look at him, his cheekbones almost shiny with a dusting of pink. His thick brows furrow together.

“Or that you’d leave,” he whispers.

Your eyes widen. You lasso your arms around his neck and pull him to you, your head slotting above his shoulder as his fingers quickly move to support the position, one hand perched at your thigh and the other braced at your side.

“Nonsense,” you grumble at his ear, a bit angry at the suggestion. “I’d never leave you.”

Something hard, then, prods at your middle- too fleshy to be something in either of your pockets- and you stiffen at the realization as it comes a beat too late.

Caleb’s voice is breathy at your ear, low, his tail thumping on the cushion. “Yeah?” He murmurs, a pang of heat stirring in your belly at the sound. Suddenly aware, you gently go to push at his broad chest but he stops you with an imploring look- although the desire, brewing in dilated pupils, isn’t lost on you- and musters a pout.

It looks out of place, the wholesome gaze marred by hunger as it reshapes his puppyish look.

“Even when I am no better than a bad dog?”

Your brow quirks, “I didn’t mean it,” you whisper, wide-eyed as his eyes bore into yours. Every micro expression you make is being catalogued and noted with utmost care, his pink tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips as they grow dry.

“It’s okay if you did,” he murmurs back. “I’m just glad I have you around to remind me of my place…” Long, slim fingers reach up and you watch, unseeingly, as they stroke your cheek, his other hand creeping dangerously close to the waistband of your sleep shorts.

He chuckles, but the humor wanes quickly.

“Otherwise, I’d always be misbehaving. Do you even know what you do to me?” His voice is meaningful, torrid, as he draws in and the tip of his nose brushes with yours. You can’t find it in you to move as your thighs- the ones he slithers a singleminded hand in between- begin to roil with unexpected warmth.

You plant a hand to his chest, shying away, “C-Caleb-“

“Don’t worry,” he says sweetly, “M’ not gonna hurt you. I just….” He lets out a sigh, long and perhaps just a bit exaggerated- but it has the intended effect on you. You purse your lips and feel a trace of guilt twist in your heart.

“You drive me crazy. Y-Your smell- I don’t know why this is happening, either. Honestly? I haven’t had a rut in a couple years. But this…”

Caleb lets out a soft noise of pleasure, lending his full weight to you when he breathes you in and shakes.

When he speaks next, his words come out raspy and so low you hardly register them as his breaths grow labored- they’re all you can hear as the living room space shrinks down to just him and the knuckles that dare to dip into your panties.

“This is just too unfair. You won’t leave me hangin’, pretty,… w-will you?” Breathy. With an undeniable streak of need. You can’t miss the lust that usurps the softer parts of him and makes him look less puppyish and cheerful and more wolfish, calculating.

And, well, when he puts it like that, how could you?

✦

He doesn’t fuck you on the couch. He takes you to your bed and fucks you there like a lover would.

He fucks you deep and fast- to his credit, he doesn’t hurt you, staying true to his word, but the possibility of bruises becomes a nearer thing when he folds your legs back and his grasp becomes constricting, plunging in and out of your cunt with rapt focus. Indigo eyes glow with something feral, like you’ve given him no choice but to claim his ownership over you through sloppy kisses and clinking teeth as he pounds into you, driven him into a corner- but his touch turns worshipful when he presses his forehead to yours and moans.

“Ah- y-you feel so good, so tight,” he compliments, words almost slurred. His pupils expand and he looks no different than a drunken, babbling man, his cheeks a rosy red.

His murmurs are wet against your lips as they graze and mush with his, Caleb’s face so close to yours that his lashes tickle your brow as he gawks at you, so entranced by whatever it is he’s seeing to look away.

A fluffy tail sways unevenly behind him and touches your leg on occasion, almost like it’s trying to curl around you, prickling and eager. Every part of him gravitates to you. You’re the ground beneath his feet. Fertile land.

“And you’re all mine, okay? Nobody else’s. I want you to wear my scent- to carry me with you no matter where you go. You have to promise me you will- mmph- That sound good-?

“C-Caleb—“

You groan when he stuffs himself deeper inside and you swear you feel his length throb inside your walls, stretching. The veins running along his shaft carve out a new pathway in you, one special and just for him, as his balls- heavy and fat, with a hell of a lot to give- slap against your ass. Slick oozes out from the squelching seam of you, coating his thick cock but you still struggle to accomodate his size despite the lubrication.

He’s made to make you feel as if you’re losing your mind. You snatch your jaw with your own hand to keep the flurry of high-pitched sounds from spilling out lest they embarrass you, but he shoos it away and cuffs your wrists with a hand splayed over them.

“Nah- I wanna hear you, baby. You can’t keep holdin’ out on me like this... I’m giving you my all right now, so it should be pretty obvious that you can do the same, yeah?”

A mewl punches out from your lungs half a second later and he seems quite contented at that. He sighs, closing his eyes, saying,

“I’ve been good all along. Can’t you play the part, too? I just want you to see how much I really love you,” his confession is by no means considered casual what with the passion in which its conveyed, but you can’t help but feel it’s a little sudden, said a little too quickly, and you wonder if he means what he says or if the rut is responsible for all these novel, amorous feelings in him.

I mean, he’s probably too wrapped up in the moment to even contemplate his own admissions as they all spew out—

“Caleb, too big—“ you gasp, cutting him off, and he lets out a strangled kind of noise when your walls clamp around him.

Holyfuck holyfuck holyfuck do it again, he wants to say, suffocate me, but nothing comes out and he realizes after a long second that his vision has whited completely. He can’t see anything; he’s in a fuzzy, dazzling world with the blinders on and all he can smell and feel is you- your scent, sugar sweet and about as inviting as a barstool pulled out, envelopes him and he can’t breathe. Can’t speak.

He fucks into you with reckless abandon, huffs you in like it’s his final breaths, and then lets it all go without care for anything else. Far as he’s concerned, everything he knows is defined by you. This is a give and take relationship: he actually gives a damn about your opinion of him and takes all you have to offer.

He’s in love, puppyish and clumsy but fuck you lead the way and lead him on.

“Shh, I know,” he rasps out, steaming up your neck like a fogged window pane as he insinuates himself there. Your whole body feels like a furnace, burning up for him as he opens you up and tucks himself inside.

“I know it’s big, but you gotta be ready for-“ he clips his sentence short, thinking better of it.

He wants to warn you of his impending knot- the one that’ll no doubt leave you yelping and writhing away from him- you certainly deserve as much of a foreword to it, but part of him is just so terrified you’ll reject him or deny him the priviledge of shoving it inside you and fuck he can’t have that.

Caleb’s nothing if not loyal. He’s also nothing if not selfish. That’s always been a wriggling bug he’s tried to stomp out but it remains in the baser part of him, only amplified by the intense rut that came right out of the blue.

He wants you singing his name and bonded to him (or as much of a bond the two of you can form), and so that’s what he’ll get.

He’ll apologize later, and you will forgive him. So all’s fine.

“Y-You can take it,” is the simpler thing he settles on, and you let it pass, because between the fat cockhead splitting you apart deliciously and the sweet, somewhat perturbing nothings he gushes at your ear, you’re deaf to most of everything.

But when you come- unexpected and sharp, overwhelming your senses as your hips ruck up and he has to pin you down in place and ride it out with you as you cream around him- the scream you let out rings in your ears and so does his ferocious grunt. It’s loud and you’re so numb as seconds pass that feel like eons; pointed teeth teasing at the squishy chunk of your shoulder, invoking a buried sense of alarm.

And then he’s biting down hard- not just nipping- the pleasure thankfully driving off the pain as he ploughs inside, muffling a string of curses as he picks up his pace. Caleb gets sloppier and sloppier and then he’s burning white-hot inside you and moaning like a pornstar, pelvis juddering as he comes.

“Mmh- f-fuck- Good girl!” he rewards with half a brain, fucked out into perfect oblivion, and for a second you wonder why his voice sounds more meant for comfort than praise- until you expect him to pull out but he doesn’t, something big and round forming at the base of his cock that has his eyes fluttering back as it pops in. He goes boneless on top of you as every limb of yours stiffens and coils around his broad back.

You scream his name. He shivers.

It feels enough to shatter your mind- the pain searing you, but the ghost of pleasure that creeps up along your nervous system makes you go like jelly beneath him, helpless to whatever he’s got planned for you.

“C-Caleb, you-!”

“Yeah, a bad dog, a bad dog,” he stammers, whimpering at your earlobe, “I know, baby, I know. Just- don’t shut me out, okay? I- It’ll be over soon, just- ah- loosen up around it, okay? It’ll feel so much better that way. Just… hold on to me.”

“I-It hurts-!”

“Ngh, shhh…” He trembles out, shifting to sample a broken mewl from your lips, cupping your jaw with all the love in the world and staring at you as if you told the sun to rise this morning. “Be a good girl and take it, mm? Your pussy’s squeezing me so tight, I think she wants it too, but she has to relax a little first, yeah? Mm… I could give you a whole litter of pups. Give your Gran a bunch of cute lil granbabies to drive her crazy.”

You choke on your own spit, the brunet letting out a near delirious chuckle at the idea and your reaction to it before his brow gives a wince, your walls instinctively trying to push his swollen knot out.

“Wha- Caleb, is that even-?”

“I don’t know,” he kisses your forehead tenderly, his tail giving a heavy, excited thump behind him on the bed as you grab the sheets for dear life and they wrinkle, pinched like your conflicted expression.

“But I’ve been dyin’ to try it out for myself.”

5K notes · View notes

tojicide · 5 months ago

Text

JEALOU$Y. ☆ CALEB.

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦. at the end of the day, you and caleb are just childhood friends—nothing more, nothing less. so, when you mention going on a date, it’s totally logical that he wouldn’t care, right? if only that were the truth.

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠. fem!reader, current!caleb, zayne mention, jealousy, pet names, praise, oral ( fem. receiving ), cowgirl, unprotected p in v, creampie. 𝑤𝑐. 5.4k.

𝑛𝘰𝑤 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔. jealou$y — the neighbourhood.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

Doomsday has finally dawned upon Linkon City, though Caleb seems to be the only person truly affected by this catastrophe.

It was all his fault in the grand scheme of things. He hadn’t been clear enough, hadn’t shown the full extent of his feelings for you. But above all, he should have never offered Zayne those measly words of advice.

He should have known that the doctor had ulterior motives. Why else would he have called Caleb up one week ago to ask about you of all people?

It was a mean ploy, truly. Anyone and everyone knows about Caleb’s inability to shut up about you, his sole weakness was being exploited right in front of his eyes and he was none the wiser. The questions seemed harmless then. Posed as genuine curiosity, Caleb would have never been able to decipher the hidden intent behind each word that Zayne spoke into the receiver.

What are her days off? What does she do in her free time? You said that the restaurant around the corner from Akso Hospital was her favorite, yes?

In retrospect, he should have absolutely seen this coming. But then again, nothing could have ever prepared Caleb to hear those four life-altering words slipping from your lips.

“I have a date.”

A record scratches in his brain, forcing him to halt his steps for an abnormally long time before he slowly turns to face you. “You… what?”

Hearing the words repeated in that saccharine tone of yours only added salt to the wound, oddly enough. It physically pained him to ask for more information about your date, though he managed to hide his disdain with that boyish grin of his and a bit of lighthearted teasing.

But inside? That little green monster was stirring, and there was very little he could do to quell it.

Begrudgingly, he managed to get the key details before forcing himself to stow away in his bedroom and… think. Next Thursday. 6 PM. Maltosio Restaurant. With Zayne.

The next week passed by in an agonizingly slow fashion. It was as though each X that marked a passing day was a physical blow to his already aching heart, and those adorable images of the kittens on his calendar (the calendar that you picked out) did very little to help him.

Subtlety was never his strong suit, but then again, desperate times call for desperate measures. And believe Caleb when he says that he is very much desperate.

“Soo…” he’d drawl, leaning over the back of the couch to peer down at you. “I heard there’s a screening of that movie you’ve been wanting to see at the drive-in next Thursday. Wanna come with?”

You perked up like a ball of excitement, and for a moment, Caleb allowed himself to get his hopes up, but your frown quickly dissipated them. “Next Thursday? Oh, no, I can’t make it! I’m going out with Zayne, remember?”

Of course he remembered. That was exactly why he hadn’t let up—not even once—in his attempts to distract you just enough to make you forget all about your dinner plans. He could take you out for a nice dinner too. Say, that’s actually a good idea…

The next day, Caleb tried that one.

“Oh, pip-squeak,” he sang, his airy voice ringing through your apartment as he walked down the hallway. “I got us reservations at the restaurant in Skyhaven that you’ve been itchin’ to check out.”

You perked up, just like you did before. “Really?”

He nodded with a triumphant grin, internally patting himself on the back for his own good idea. “Mm-hmm. Next Thursday. Got us those window seats you wanted too—the ones that overlook the city.”

And once again, your gaze softened, and an all-too-adorable pout tugged at the corners of your mouth. “Oh, Caleb, I’m sorry. I’m busy that day.”

You really are too sweet for your own good. He can’t even blame Zayne for taking an interest in you, he’d be downright shocked if any man with two seeing eyes had the audacity to not think that you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Caleb sure does. He always has. He always will.

It wasn’t long before the day of reckoning was upon him. Thursday evening. Sunlight cut through the blinds in the living room, casting golden hues across the vast space. Much to his dismay, the trashy reality television you’d left on the screen did very little to soothe his worries.

He fidgeted with the dog chains you’d gifted him, his thumb brushing along the gift that you had so kindly given him. It was a testament to your bond. A bond that something as trivial as a single evening apart couldn’t tamper with… right?

“Caleb!” Your antsy voice cut through the air, forcing his wandering mind to snap back to reality.

He was up and down the hallway before you could even say another word, pressing a flat hand to your door to nudge it open. It was then that he saw you, all dolled up in your robe with your favorite dresses laid out on your bed.

Your hands grasp onto two of the hangers, holding them up side-by-side to help him get a better look at them. Though, his eyes were noticeably distracted, contorted in an unfamiliar lovesick expression as they pierced into yours. “Quick! Which do you think is cuter?”

Caleb blinks—once, twice, three times—until he forces himself to finally look down at the dress options in your grasp. He’d seen you wear them plenty of times before, and the thought of someone else seeing you in such beautiful fabric nearly made his stomach lurch.

He raises his forearm, leaning against the doorframe as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, c’mon, that’s an impossible choice. You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.”

It was a typical response, one that you were expecting, though his lack of advice made you hmph as you lost yourself in your thoughts. “Well… I hear polka dots symbolize happiness and stripes symbolize slipping between realms. Pretty interesting stuff, huh?”

“Very interesting,” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging up at the mere sound of your voice. “Is that why you buy so many things in those patterns?”

You quirk an eyebrow, confusion etching into your expression. “Huh? What else do I buy that’s…” It quickly dawns on you, and you can feel heat creep up your neck and reach your face. “You’re a jerk.”

Caleb can’t help but laugh, taking a few steps into the room so that he can properly look at each and every one of the dress options laid out on your bed. “What’s the matter? If I remember correctly, someone was beggin’ me to do her laundry. Somethin’ about the laundry machine being sooo far and your feet hurting sooo bad.”

Huffing and far too flustered for your own good, you shake your head. “Well… well I didn’t realize you were so observant.”

He clicks his tongue, absentmindedly pinching your side as he leans down to rest his chin in the dip of your shoulder. “Tsk. You know I’m always observant when it comes to you. Even if it’s remembering something as trivial as the patterns of your cute little undies.”

You swat him away. “You’re so annoying!”

To that, he can only chuckle, giving your sides a brief squeeze before taking a few steps back. “Alriiight, alright, I’ll leave you alone.” Before exiting the room entirely, he hangs onto the doorframe, giving you a soft smile. “I’m serious though. You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.” His lips curve into a smirk. “But if you want my input—you know I’ve always been a sucker for seeing you in florals.”

And with that, he whisks away, silently hoping and praying that this date will fall through on its own. Plopping back down on the couch, his eyes are practically glued to his watch. 5:48 PM. It wouldn’t be long before Zayne would be knocking at the front door—punctual as ever. Oh, it made him sick.

How could he have done this? To you, to himself? Caleb should be ashamed. He should be the one sitting across from you later tonight, holding your hand and listening to you ramble about whatever your heart desires. It should be him. It would have been him if he wasn’t so damn afraid.

But the sound of approaching heels clicking along the hardwood floor quickly snapped him out of his pity party, prompting him to look over his shoulder. And there you were once again, now adorned in a floral sundress that had made him lose his mind more times than he’d like to admit.

Under his breath, he can’t help but mutter, “Yeah, you’re gonna kill me…”

It was his favorite dress of yours, too. You really were trying to kill him. A white dress that was littered with blue flowers, the fabric fit you perfectly, loose and fitted in all of the right places.

Zayne didn’t deserve to see you like this. Plain and simple.

Standing from the couch, he lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “There she is,” he says, taking your hand to spin you around a single time. His smile only widens as he sees yours. “You look gorgeous, just like I knew you would.”

You roll your eyes with a bashful smile, one that he has to physically fight the urge to kiss away. “Oh, you flatter me,” you say through a laugh.

He shakes his head, bringing a hand up to gently smooth down a pesky hair on the top of your head. “Can’t be flattery if I mean every word of it.”

A breeze wafted through the open window, blowing the fabric of your dress ever so slightly. The scent of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers infiltrates the living room, though the scent of your perfume and something that was uniquely you had his full attention.

“Y’know, you can be pretty nice when you want to be,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

Chuckling, he simply nods, his large hands settling on your middle. “Yeah. When I want to be.”

You brush past him, padding over to the back door. Pushing it open, you step out onto the warm concrete patio, breathing in the fresh air that the backyard had to offer you. Spring in Linkon was always a delight, though the warmth that Caleb radiates behind you serves to be the most comforting thing about the entire scene.

His hand comes to rest on the curve of your shoulder, his fingers nimbly pulling at one of the straps of your dress. With his heart rate shooting through the roof, he forces himself to take a moment. He needs to get this right. This may be the last chance he’ll be able to do this.

“I… look, there’s something that I—”

But suddenly, the sound of rapping knuckles at the front door cuts through the tense silence. Both of your attention is drawn to the closed door, and having left the back door open, you both have a clear view of it.

You turn around to face Caleb, offering him a sheepish smile. “That’s probably Zayne.”

He only nods, forcing his hand to fall back to his side. “Yeah, probably.”

This was it. He was losing you. It stung to know that this was no one’s fault apart from his own. His inability to be honest about his feelings, his lack of forwardness with you… what was he expecting? That you’d never date? That he could keep you happy forever without offering you anything more?

It was a stupid fantasy, one that had earned him this spot. But when he saw you turn to leave, your eyes still locked on his, a surge of panic shot up his spine. His eyes flit around—the grass, the flowerbeds, the hose… that was currently filling up the pool…

“Be mad at me later,” he suddenly says.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Wha— ah!”

Before you could even begin to process what was happening, you were suddenly pushed back into the chamber full of chlorine infested water. Caleb watches with a wry expression as you shoot up from beneath the water, splashing aimlessly as you swim towards the edge.

“What the fuck was that?” you bark, perching one elbow up onto the concrete as you reach the other one out to him. “What the hell are you looking at? Help me out!”

Caleb can’t even protest, not with the incredibly irrational stunt he’d just pulled. “I’m sorry, pip-squeak, I just…” And so, he reaches down, his hand clasping around yours… until you pull him forward with all of your strength and send him tumbling into the pool too.

And when he comes up for air, you splash him the moment he opens his eyes. Serves him right. The chlorine will sting his eyes almost as much as your mascara is stinging yours right now.

With that, you pull yourself out of the pool, a trail of water marking your path as you wring out the fabric of your dress. After that, you disappear inside of the house, leaving Caleb to rub his eyes in utter defeat.

He gives you both a long stretch of alone time before he retreats back into the house like a kicked puppy, his head hanging low as he runs a hand through his wet strands of hair. You’ve evidently told Zayne that today wasn’t going to work anymore, judging by his lack of presence, and that thought alone makes Caleb more happy than he should be.

Sucking in a short breath, he knocks twice at your shut bedroom door. “Honey? It… it’s me.”

“Go away,” you retort without missing a single beat.

Caleb pokes his tongue into his cheek as he leans forward, resting his forehead on the cool surface of your bedroom door. “C’mon. Just… talk to me.”

It doesn’t take long before the door is swung open, revealing an incredibly angry version of you with a freshly cleaned face. He opens his mouth to speak, to apologize, to try and rectify the situation in any way he can, but you beat him to it. Quickly.

“How dare you?” you spit, jabbing your index finger into his chest. “What was that, Caleb? Are we ten years old again? Your method of communication is… is pushing me into the damn pool?”

He sighs, catching your hand to unfold your closed fingers. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I—”

“No!” you cut him off, sticking your other index finger into his chest. “It’s your turn to listen. You’ve been my best friend for as long as I can remember, you’re all I’ve ever known, all I’ve ever wanted. Do you know how it feels to have everything you want dangled in front of you for so many years, and… and just torn away? Time and time again?”

Caleb is rendered speechless, his brows furrowed in both confusion and a sense of odd relief as you unleash all of the thoughts that you’ve kept hidden for so long. He doesn’t bother catching your other hand, instead, he allows you to repeatedly jab at his chest. It hurts, but he can handle it. Just like he can handle the words you’re saying.

“So, you know what? I decided that enough was enough!” you continue, your index finger pressing wildly into the hard planes of his chest. “I wasn’t going to wait around, I wasn’t going to pretend, I was going to move on! And… and I was going to!”

He tilts his head, his amethyst eyes growing fuzzy as he looks down at you. “Was going to?”

You huff, eyes narrowing as you jab your finger into his chest for a final time before turning away from him. “Well, I’m not exactly going on a date anymore, am I?”

Caleb nods, though you can’t see it. He leans against the doorframe, his gaze tracing your silhouette through the soaked fabric of your dress. Sighing, he straightens off the wall, but before he can turn away, you spin around to face him.

“And you know what else?” you huff. “You know the solution to this problem just as well as I do.”

He nods his head with a single jerk of his chin, beckoning you to continue. “Yeah? What’s that?”

You step closer, and for the final time, you stab your finger into his pec. “You need to grow a pair.”

Inhaling deeply, all he can do is smile. It infuriates you and he knows it, but he just can’t help himself. He takes both of your wrists and tugs you forward until your chest presses against his own, one of his hands coming up to cup your cheek.

You’re slowly simmering down, the heat of your outburst dissipating as your skin cooled. With your eyebrows still furrowed, all you can do is look up at him, daring him to speak. To do anything.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip.

Swallowing thickly, you nod. “A little.”

He slowly nods his head, his fingers curving along your jaw before he cups your chin in between his thumb and forefinger. “Is there anything I can do to help with that?”

You can feel his breath fan along your lips, cool and minty and just about everything you could have ever fantasized about on your own. You part your lips to reply, but this time, Caleb is the one who beats you to it.

“We’re making puddles all over the floor, you know.”

Glancing down, you see the truth in his words. The pool water dripped from your respective clothing and gathered around the two of you, making a wry smile find your lips.

“Oh,” you breathe, “I didn’t even notice.”

“I like to think I’m pretty observant when it comes to you,” he murmurs, smoothing his free hand along your side until it grasps onto the fabric of your dress. “Need some help with this?”

You look up, meeting his gaze once more. “With… with what?”

“Well,” he drawls, his fingertips brushing along your outer thigh as he slowly drags the fabric upward. His movements are hesitant and cautious, his eyes flickering between each of yours. “You’re wet. I’m wet. Maybe we can… help each other dry off.”

Your eyelids falter as they flit between his, your gaze instinctively falling to the plush curve of his bottom lip. “Okay,” you murmur.

A smile tugs at his mouth. “Okay. Arms up.”

Slowly, you lift your arms above your head. His hands work together to slowly push the fabric of your dress up and over your head, letting it slip onto the floor with a wet plop.

His breath is nearly torn from his lungs the moment he sees your bare skin, so beautiful and soft and made to be his. Hesitantly, his fingertips trace the curve of your hips with a sense of reverence.

“Do you need help too?” you ask, your voice breathy from the restrained sense of need that has come over you.

Pausing his exploration of your bare skin, Caleb finds himself nodding, almost immediately lifting his arms over his head. “Please.”

And now, you take the opportunity to do the same. Slowly, you peel his shirt up and over his head, tossing it aimlessly into the laundry hamper near the door. Your gaze traces over the defining lines of his abdomen, your touch doing the same as it trails southward.

His lower stomach tenses up as your fingers brush against the hem of his jeans. He can’t help the way his eyes flutter shut, the way a touch so simple can nearly bring him to his knees. Breathing shakily, he leans down to rest his forehead on yours.

“Careful,” he breathes in warning, his voice taking on a raspy tone.

You almost startle at the unfamiliarity of his voice, though you push your hesitation aside as your thumb brushes over the button of his pants. “But… these are wet too.”

A huff of air leaves his mouth, the sound something between a low laugh and a groan. He forces his eyes open, his stare meeting your own. “Trying to get me naked before our first kiss? I have to say, you’re full of surprises.”

Faltering, your hands fall away from his pants. “You’re right, I… I’m—”

Caleb can’t help but chuckle, taking a hold of your hands to bring them right back to where they were before. This time, he guides your fingers through the motion of unbuttoning his pants. “Kidding,” he whispers against your lips. “Besides… we’re good at multitasking, yeah?”

You’re nodding before you can truly process his words. “Yeah.”

His lips crash onto yours with a groan that omits from deep within, the button of his jeans finally popping open from your ministry. The zipper went next, tugged down along with the fabric entirety until he was left in only his boxers.

His hands roam your curves greedily, eating up every inch of skin that he has deprived himself of for far too long. Your waist, your hips, your thighs—he needs to feel you in any way possible.

And you return his eagerness so well, wrapping your arms around his neck as you draw him in even closer. His hands worked quickly, hoisting you up until your legs wrapped around his waist as he walked the both of you over to your bed.

Laying you down on the mattress, he takes the initiative to deepen the kiss, his tongue swiping along your bottom lip to gain access that you readily give him. He can’t help but moan into your mouth, the sweet taste of your tongue tangling with his own forcing his brain to short circuit in a way he’s never experienced before.

You kissed him like there was no tomorrow, and he was loving every second of it. Your hands fisted into his hair while your lips moved in tandem with his, a soft whimper leaving your mouth as his hands gave your hips a firm squeeze.

His lips trail down your jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your neck and the curve of your shoulder as he uses his grip on your hips to pull you flush against him. A gasp leaves you at the feeling of his erection pressing against your clothes sex, the friction so delicious that it makes butterflies erupt in your stomach.

Caleb is so far gone, kissing his way along your arms, your neck, your sternum, all up until he reaches the valley of your breasts. He wastes very little time there, licking a trail to your nipple before sucking the peak into his mouth. His other hand palms at your other breast, kneading the soft flesh in his palm.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes against your skin, his hips rocking forward as he switches sides, latching onto your neglected breast and giving it a hard suck. “So beautiful.”

His descent continues as he mouths at the soft skin of your belly, your hips, your inner thighs. His eyes depart from yours as they settle onto the fabric covering your cunt, and a grin stretches across his face. Polka dots.

You scoff, softly shoving his shoulder. “Don’t even say it.”

Chuckling, he leans in to press a kiss on the damp patch of fabric. “Wasn’t gonna say anything, baby.”

His fingers hook beneath the waistband of your panties, tugging them down your legs and tossing them aimlessly. His lips press feverish kisses to your ankles, your calves, your inner thighs, and eventually, the mound of your pussy.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispers into your heat, hiking your legs up and over his shoulders and he pulls your sex closer to his mouth. “So damn worth it.”

A cry leaves you as his tongue delves in deep between your legs, his eyes slipping shut as he lets out an unabashed whimper into your sex. His grip on your thighs only tightens, keeping your legs spread apart as they threaten to press in on his head.

He wouldn’t have that. He couldn’t. He needed to have you in the way that he’s dreamt of for so long, in the way that he’s thought of time and time again as he fucked his own fist to the thought of you. It was filthy, it was lewd, but it was honest.

You tasted better than he could have ever imagined, his tongue eagerly lapping at your inner walls before his lips sealed around your puffy clit, sucking hard enough to make your back bow off the plush mattress.

The stimulation is leaving you feeling overwhelmed, your hands pushing into his hair as your trembling thighs test the strength of his grip. You whine, eyes slipping shut as your head tilts back against the pillows.

“It— it’s too much—”

“Be good,” he finds himself saying, pulling you right back to his mouth as he continues to feast on your pussy like a man starved. “You can take it, baby.” Caleb cracks open his eyes, sucking harshly onto your clit before releasing it with a wet pop. “Go on, pretty girl. Say it.”

You whine, though you hardly have the brain power to say anything else apart from what he’s asked of you. “I… I can take it,” you breathe.

He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your sensitive pearl before nipping at it. “There you go.”

It doesn’t take much longer for your legs to begin to tremble once more, your body writhing in his grasp as he sets you any way but loose. Your hips buck up, a final resort for reprieve as he works you over the edge.

Caleb redoubled his efforts, spreading your thighs even wider. Soon, the warmth pooling in your lower stomach was far too much to bear, far more intense than anything you had ever experienced before.

“I’m… I’m coming,” you gasp out, hands gripping tightly onto his dark locks of hair.

And when you do, his flattened tongue laps at your honeyed release. He works you through your high, his movements eventually slowing down as the twitching of your hips gradually calms.

He pulls off of you with a wet pop, pressing soft kisses to your swollen clit. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, pressing another peck on your mound before he moves back up your body once more to slot his lips against yours.

You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it only spurs you on further. Your hands grasp onto his shoulders, and in one swift motion, you flip him onto his back. Caleb looks up at you with a starry-eyed expression, but when you straddle his hips and sit in his lap, he has no words of protest. None at all.

“You really are full of surprises,” he says, running his hands along the warm skin of your thighs.

Tugging him free from his boxers, he helps you remove them from his body, leaving you both entirely bare together. He sits up, his back pressing against the headboard as he tugs you closer to him.

“I need you,” he whispers, pressing a longing kiss on your stomach as you shift to straddle him once more. “Please, baby.”

You gaze down at him, your fingers brushing through his hair. “Please what?”

He leans into your touch, his hands settling onto your waist as he pulls you lower, the head of his cock pressing against your pussy. “Make yourself feel good. Please.”

Caleb’s own cheeks were flushed with a rosy hue, both from the embarrassment that his own lack of experience brought upon him and the reality of finally having the love of his life in such an intimate way. His amethyst eyes search your face, as if searching for a permission that he didn’t know how to ask for.

Dipping your head, you press a soft kiss on his lips. Simultaneously, you swivel your hips until the tip of his length catches your entrance. You slowly lower yourself, feeling the way his cock stretches you out, filling you up in a way that only he can.

He smiles at you, cupping your cheek with his hand. Brushing a thumb over your bottom lip, he kisses you gently. “You feel so good,” he whimpers into your mouth, his other hand resting on your hip as you roll your hips in a way that has his breath hitching in his throat. “So fucking perfect.”

Your movements are timid at first, consisting of a slow and meticulous rocking of your hips. His cock stuffed you full, his tip kissing the deepest points of your inner walls with ease, earning a muffled whimper from your mouth that his lips swallowed up eagerly.

Caleb’s hands grasped tightly onto your hips, helping you set a pace that had the both of you losing your mind. He leans backward, his head tilting against the headboard as it slams against the wall with each intense grind of your hips.

“Good girl, give it to me how you like it,” he breathes, eyes cracking open to watch the way you look down at him as you work yourself on his length. “Use me however you need me, baby, there you go.”

Your fingers thread into his hair, pulling him in for a longing kiss. “I… you— you feel so…” you stammer, leaning forward to rest your head on his shoulder as you lose yourself on his cock.

He nods his head in agreement, turning his head to press a kiss on your damp cheek as he gently pets your hair. “I know, I know.”

You lose yourself all together, your legs shaking as you tighten your hold on him. “Caleb!” you moan.

His hips help you the rest of the way, his grip on your hips keeping you firmly planted as he meets your movements with thrusts of his own. “I know it, baby, I’ve got you,” he pants through a smile, guiding you through a few more fleshed out grinds on his lap. “Atta girl, use those hips.”

His arms wrap around you entirely, crushing you against the hard planes of his chest as you slowly ride the both of you through your shared orgasm. In that moment, in your house, in this space that belonged to you and Caleb alone—the two of you became one.

Heavy breathing and hammering heartbeats is all that consumes the two of you for a long while, skin to skin with far too much bliss brewing in your chests for either of you to handle alone.

Huffing softly, Caleb runs a hand up your side. “You okay in there?” he asks, turning his head to pepper soft kisses along your cheek. “C’mon, I need some proof of life.”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. “Shut up, give me a second.”

He merely smiles, wrapping his arms around your middle once more as he tucks your head beneath his chin. Thirty seconds after finishing and you’re already mean. “There’s my girl.”

Caleb’s hands smooth over the soft planes of your back, giving your hips a soft squeeze as he revels in the feeling of your heartbeat drumming against his own. He can’t help himself from pressing a few kisses on the top of your head, his arms opting to wrap even tighter around you.

“I love—” he cuts himself off, eyes widening dazedly. Would that be too much? A confession of his undying love not long after ruining your date and making love with you for the first time? After a stretch of awkward silence, he kisses your head once more. “I love… cuddling with you. You’re so soft.”

You smile, nuzzling even closer to his chest, your nose brushing against skin. “Mm, I love you too, Caleb.”

His eyes widened, though he knows that communicating his confusion is futile. You knew him so well, too well.

“You do?” he whispers, turning his head just enough to look down at you.

In response to that, you nod. “Mm-hmm. I’ll love you even more if you tell me that you didn’t cancel those dinner reservations.”

Caleb smiles, running a hand over your hair. As if he’d given up his last ditch effort to take you out. “You know I didn’t.”

𝑛𝘰𝘵𝑒. rip zayne i still love you king!!! also i actually don’t really know how to write for caleb… so… i hope this didn’t suck! this is the only fic that managed to break my intense writer’s block that i’ve had for the past two months. reblog/comment if you enjoyed, i appreciate you reading so much <3

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artficlly · 3 months ago

Text

lessons in lovemaking [part two]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, blindfolding, grinding, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, clothed ejaculation, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, kissing, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey depressed, mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.6k

A/N: hey guys, i'm literally so nervous posting this... it's been sitting in my drafts for like a month now and i finally worked up the courage to post after spending a couple hours editing :( i'm literally scheduling this to post at like 3am my time so i'm not awake when it goes live i'm so anxious bahaha. the start of this part is a bit slow, pls hold on because theres some light smut and angst at the end. i have plans for further parts that'll look more into the other avengers finding out and the development between bucky and readers relationship and their shared healing. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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It was only on rare occasions that the full team of Avengers (and co.) were in the same room. A momentous historical moment, in fact, normally reserved for two particular occasions:

The world was ending (in some gloriously diabolical way that usually involved aliens, interdimensional warlords, or some ancient, forgotten god with a vendetta) or

Tony Stark was throwing another one of his famously exclusive penthouse parties (which, despite being ‘exclusive,’ still managed to include half of New York—most of whom showed up just to gawk at the Avengers like a travelling circus act sent to entertain them personally.)

Today, it seemed, was neither of those occasions. Thor and the rest of the Asgardians—Bruce Banner included, oddly enough—were busy rebuilding after the destruction of Asgard. Wanda and Vision were off playing happy family elsewhere, and Clint was busy with his own quickly expanding family. The others, agents, specialists, the people whose names you never bothered to remember, were preoccupied with their own missions. Which left you here, filed neatly into the elusive extra category. Not quite an Avenger. Too valuable to be let loose, too unpredictable to be fully trusted.

You leant back in your chair, only half-listening to the conversation beside you. The skin around your thumbnail was raw. You picked at it absentmindedly, peeling back the edge where it had already started to flake, a sting flaring along the nail. You were thinking—too much, maybe—so you let them talk, let yourself disappear as they debated which bar had the strongest drinks and the least pathetic men.

The three of you were early. By some miracle, morning training had ended ahead of schedule. Natasha had wiped the floor with you, to the point where it probably would’ve been more productive to stay on the mat rather than waste your energy hauling yourself back up.

“What do you think?” It took you a second to realise Yelena was talking to you, elbows propped on the table, chin resting in her hand. She was watching you expectantly, sharp eyes narrowed.

You didn’t look up. “I’m not coming.”

She sighed dramatically. “You never hang out with us.” She leant back in her chair with an exaggerated huff, muttering under her breath, “So mysterious and cool. You think you’re better than us?”

Natasha watched on amused, the redhead poised as always. “She doesn’t want to drink in front of us in case she spills her secrets.”

You scoffed. “What secrets?”

“I don’t know.” Natasha leant forward, watching you a little too closely now, like she was gauging your reaction. “How about how that mission went with Barnes?”

Ever since the gala mission, the two had been trying to get you alone, a few drinks in, hoping for something—a slip, an offhanded remark, anything that would confirm whatever hunches they had. You knew what they were fishing for. They weren’t subtle.

You just weren’t playing.

Neither you nor Bucky had said a word about it.

That, apparently, was suspicious.

“She is right, you know. Neither of you will say a word about it. I’m beginning to think something happened—” Yelena cut over her sister with a grin.

“Nothing happened,” you interrupted smoothly, finally lifting your eyes from the wreckage of your thumbnail. “You keep asking, but you’re not going to uncover some dirty secret. Sorry to disappoint."

“Then why the silence? No one would care if you fucked him, you could just plead innocence, overcome by playing the perfect, doting wife—”

You shot her a look, one withering enough to turn bone to dust and ego to rubble.

“I mean… maybe people would care, but I wouldn’t judge you! Super soldier, metal arm… so hot, or whatever.” Yelena prattled on, and you ignored her, exhaling through your nose.

"I think he’s just mortified that people assume something did happen. He’s got enough brooding energy as it is." You muttered.

“I just don’t believe nothing happened, trapped in that hotel room together for a week. Apparently, you were convincing enough to keep the targets off your scent, and we all know Barnes’ acting is as stiff as a cadaver on ice—”

Your face twisted into a look of exasperation before you could control yourself, straightening in your seat. “God, you two really are like vultures, picking around for the slightest bit of gossip—”

“Wow, defensive—”

“Isn’t that the joy in life? Digging for gossip?” Natasha cut back in with a sharp smirk.

“You two are insufferable!” You interrupted, slapping your palms onto your thighs. "I think I’ll keep my secrets. I’ll leave the both of you to continue plotting this fantastical mystery you’ve created in your minds—”

“It’s only fun because you get so worked up about it,” Natasha cut back with a grin you could only describe as predatory. “Plus, I do love watching Rogers squirm listening to all the theories."

“You know,” Yelena mused, swirling the thought around before letting it slip, “I don’t think Steve is as innocent as we think he is. I’m pretty sure I heard him and Sharon—”

She cut herself off just as the door swung open, and the rest of the team filtered in.

You schooled your reaction, easily slipping back into the picture of nonchalance. Bucky’s blue eyes flickered towards yours for a split second before darting away. It had been two weeks since your first ‘lesson’. Two weeks of carefully measured distance, of subtle glances that never lasted too long, of conversations that stayed just professional enough to not raise questions.

Bucky had been doing well—shockingly well, actually. He was receptive to your touch, followed your guidance with careful precision, and was beginning to trust you, bit by bit. You hadn’t gone much further than heated make-out sessions that usually ended with him finishing in his pants, but you weren’t in a rush. You were still feeling out his comfort zones, making sure he never felt cornered or overwhelmed. There wasn’t exactly a handbook for this kind of arrangement.

You slumped in your seat even further, shaking off the feeling. It was fine. No one knew.

Still, the way Bucky avoided looking in your direction made something prickle under your skin.

You were certain the super soldier would combust on the spot if any of his coworkers caught wind of what the two of you had been up to. Hell, he turned red enough just having you perched in his lap during lessons, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. And yet, during meetings, training, or any moment the two of you were forced into the same orbit, you couldn’t help but wonder—did he think about those moments? Did his mind drift back to the ghost of your touch the same way yours did?

You weren’t usually the sentimental type. Nostalgia was a luxury, a foolish indulgence you had long since trained yourself out of. But there was something about him—his quiet hesitance, his wary but willing surrender—that stuck with you. It was a service, nothing more. A transaction in which you gained no tangible benefit, so why did you linger on it? Why did the thought of his gaze meeting yours send a sharp thrill through your chest? Was it because he treated you like a person instead of a tool? Because he understood pieces of you no one else even tried to?

He wasn’t like the others. Never cruel, never greedy. He never reached for more than you offered, never treated you like something to be taken. Maybe that was why you kept coming back. Maybe, for once, you liked the control. Liked the feeling of choosing, of being wanted on your own terms. Of knowing that, for once, you weren’t a marionette dancing on someone else’s strings.

You swallowed the thought down and let your gaze flicker to him. Bucky sat curled in on himself, as if trying to shrink into nothing despite the broadness of his frame. He looked like a wounded animal—no, worse. He looked exhausted. The dark circles beneath his eyes had deepened, his hair unwashed and slightly greasy at the roots. He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t taking care of himself. You didn’t need to be a genius to figure that out.

He stared blankly at the grain of the wooden table, shoulders hunched between Steve and Sam, who were deep in conversation about something you didn’t care enough to eavesdrop on. And for reasons you weren’t ready to name, that quiet, hollow stillness of his sat uneasily in your chest.

You had… concerns for Bucky after what he had confessed to you. But you weren’t sure what to do with those concerns. Or those confessions. You held them close to your chest, unwilling to betray his trust, but understanding instead. You knew it was probably irresponsible of you to sit on them, but you didn’t want to overstep. Besides, Steve and Sam didn’t know you. You’d had maybe three conversations with each of them, most of them mission-related. To them, you were just Natasha and Yelena’s friend—Red Room collateral. You weren’t social, you weren’t a part of their circle, and you sure as hell weren’t someone they trusted.

And if they knew about your arrangement with Bucky… well, you didn’t want to think about what conclusions they’d draw—

“Hi!”

The sudden, chirpy voice nearly startled you out of your seat.

Kate Bishop had arrived—loud, bright, and effortlessly excitable, like a golden retriever in human form. She had that kind of energy that made you suspicious. No one was that happy all the time. Her dark hair was pulled into a ponytail, messy strands framing her face. She was dressed in casual, slightly dishevelled layers, looking like she had just come from sparring but didn’t have the same dead-in-the-eyes exhaustion you did after a training session.

“I’m Kate!” she announced, beaming at you like you were about to be best friends. She pushed her hand out. “Kate Bishop.”

You blinked at her, ignoring her outstretched offer. “I know.”

Her grin didn’t waver, and she coolly withdrew her hand.

“You’re Clint and Yelena’s pet project.” You spoke again, your tone perhaps a little more hostile than necessary.

“It’s apprentice, actually.” Yelena cut in before Kate could argue. “You know, you’re starting to hurt my feelings. Stark has an apprentice, so why are you always giving me shit—”

“Oh yes, Stark’s pet project.” You gave an exaggerated sigh. “What was his name? Paxton, Peyton, or was it Parker?”

“Did I ask for your opinion, K.G.B. Barbie?” Tony Stark’s voice cut in lazily as he walked past, sitting at the head of the table like he owned the place—which, unfortunately for you, he did. As usual, he didn’t look pleased to see you, and the scent of entitlement wafted off of him in waves.

You met his gaze evenly. "No, but I was under the impression that unsolicited opinions were your love language, considering the amount your hand out.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Remind me why we let you sit at the big kids’ table again?”

"You don’t." You glanced at Stark, unimpressed. "But I was invited, shockingly enough. Or are you reckless enough to ignore Fury’s instructions now?"

There it was. That smirk. He smirked at you, and you knew in your heart he had the foulest, most cutting rebuke to lay upon you. He hadn’t even opened his mouth, and you were already grinding your teeth in frustration as you stared back at him, eyes locked onto his smug face—

Kate cleared her throat, stepping in before you and Stark could escalate any further. “So, what do you do?”

Stark held his tongue, so in return, you slid your gaze back over to a nervous Kate. And in that moment, you knew you couldn’t help yourself. Natasha had already shot you a warning look, but the redhead's trained patience for the playboy Stark had unfortunately never extended to you.

"Infiltration, espionage, recon." You shrugged, expression carefully neutral. "I gather information, and then the big boys get to swoop in, throw a few punches, and take all the credit. Isn’t that right, Stark?"

Maybe you had woken up grouchier than usual—not that you could even call the few hours of restless tossing and turning sleep. Or perhaps it was the fact that you’d spent the morning eating the training mat, then had to suffer through Natasha and Yelena’s constant interrogations that had soured your mood. Either way, you weren’t exactly in the best headspace to deal with him.

Truthfully, you thought Stark was a prick, and unfortunately, you had never been exactly shy about that opinion. You and Stark had just never really clicked. Not in the way he had with the others, not in the way Natasha had seamlessly folded herself into the team, or the way Yelena had bulldozed her way in, loud and brash. You existed somewhere in between, tolerated but always lingering on the outside. It wasn’t that you didn’t get along with them. You could banter with Sam, hold an easy conversation with Steve when necessary and trade dry humour with Clint in a way that made you feel almost at home. Even Stark, for all his grating personality, wasn’t always intolerable. But there was always something between you and them—an unspoken distance, a careful line you never crossed. They didn’t entirely trust you yet, and you never gave them a reason to try.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because trust had never been a luxury you could afford.

Your job was reading people—analysing, dissecting, and manipulating. You understood them better than they understood themselves, saw the cracks in their foundations and knew precisely where to apply pressure. It made you valuable. Indispensable even, but it also made people wary. The team knew what you were, even if they didn’t know the full extent of what you had been. But deep down, you knew they were smart enough to assemble the pieces.

So you kept yourself at arm’s length. You wanted to believe you could have that feeling—belonging. But wanting and trusting were two very different things that you did not dare confuse.

Kate’s eyes lit up. “That’s so cool.”

“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Stark interjected, leaning against the desk. “She’s just a pretty face we send in to distract while the rest of us do the actual work.”

There it was.

Your jaw clenched, but you didn’t rise to the bait. This was your hubris. You could already hear Natasha’s scolding—You really shouldn’t egg him on like that. The two of you are as bad as each other, always trying to get under each other's skin. A bunch of alleycats fighting it’s ridiculous—

Somewhere across the table, Bucky’s eyes had shot up. The movement startled you, and your eyes met briefly. It was milliseconds, maybe not even that, but as soon as you registered your brief exchange, Bucky shied away like a spooked animal.

And when you looked back at Kate, Natasha and Yelena, you found that Natasha had been watching the whole thing. She didn’t speak, didn’t even react. There wasn’t the slightest twitch in her brow or twinge in her lips. She stared like some kind of omnipotent god, and deep down, you knew. You knew she knew.

Maybe she didn’t know the full extent, but the way she stared… it made you shudder.

Fuck.

Kate, however, frowned, turning back to you. “That’s not true, right?”

“Of course not,” you deadpanned, not letting the dread pooling in your stomach let you miss a beat. “I do much more than look pretty. Sometimes I get to torture people—”

Kate’s face pale, then through several stages of grief, trying to figure out if you were joking.

You weren’t about to help her.

“Relax, Kate Bishop, she is messing with you,” Yelena said with an amused grin, though it was tight. A silent warning behind her eyes told you to keep your mouth shut.

Kate still looked mildly concerned, but she shook it off quickly. “Okay, but—so you can fight?”

“Of course.”

“Not as well as me,” Yelena cut in before you could elaborate, grinning smugly. “Don’t worry, Kate. You’re being trained by the best of the best. Me? I am the best. You know this.”

You rolled your eyes, and Kate beamed. That girl was too fucking cute for her own good.

The door swung open before anyone could respond to Yelena. Fury stepped inside, long coat sweeping behind him, his boots heavy against the floor. His usual expression—somewhere between perpetually pissed off and quietly judgmental—was firmly in place beneath the shadow of his eyepatch.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," Fury said, his voice edged with dry amusement, though his gaze flicked between you all with razor-sharp scrutiny.

"No, sir," Steve said, back straightening. Natasha, ever composed, merely leaned back in her chair. Stark didn’t even spare a glance.

“First off, I’d like to extend my deepest, most heartfelt gratitude for your attendance,” Fury began, spreading his arms in a broad, insincere gesture, his tone so dry it could have turned the room to dust. “I know how much of a hardship it is, taking an hour out of your busy lives to sit in a comfortable chair and listen to me talk.”

Sam snorted. Yelena smirked. Bucky, as usual, remained unreadable.

Fury’s eye landed on you and Bucky before he tossed a slim tablet onto the table, the display already flashing with the text of a mission report you hardly cared to examine in detail.

“Congratulations are in order. The gala infiltration went exceptionally well despite the odds stacked against you.”

You dipped your head in acknowledgement, catching movement out of the corner of your eye—Sam begrudgingly sliding Fury what seemed to be a twenty-dollar bill. Asshole.

Fury tapped the screen embedded in the table, replacing the mission debrief with a new set of images. An aerial view of a club, snippets of surveillance footage, a grainy close-up of a man slipping out of a side entrance, bodyguards in tow.

“And thanks to that intel recovered,” Fury continued, “we now have a location on our next target. Dmitry Karpin. Friend to H.Y.D.R.A. Dealt in smuggling high-profile weapons in and out of Soviet countries for a time, but now he’s taken to smuggling drugs. Serums, to be specific.”

Across the table, Bucky had gone still. Tension coiled in his shoulders, his hands resting stiffly on the surface, knuckles taut. H.Y.D.R.A. Serum. The words alone were enough to suffocate the room when Bucky or Steve were around. You didn’t let your eyes linger on him long nor allow your frown to deepen.

Fury didn’t acknowledge the shift—maybe he was used to it by now, or perhaps he just didn’t care. His voice remained steady, rolling over the tension in the room as if he were reciting lines from a well-rehearsed script. Karpin’s security detail. The club’s weak points. Entry and exit strategies. The words blurred together, dissolving into background noise beneath the low hum of static in your head. It was hard to focus when you could feel Bucky sitting across from you, motionless, barely even breathing, his whole body locked up like a loaded fucking gun. And the worst part? He probably thought he was doing a good job hiding it.

You didn’t stare, didn’t let your concern show. Instead, you leant back in your chair, tilting your head just enough to feign disinterest. “So, just another fun-filled evening of chatting up sweaty old men for me? Sounds like a dream.” Your voice came out dry, with just enough sarcasm to mask any wobbles.

Fury didn’t spare you a glance. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself,” he said, tapping the screen again. More grainy footage. More blueprints. The details kept coming, but you barely registered them.

You picked at your thumbnail hard enough that the cuticle began to bleed.

Eventually, the meeting drew to a close. Chairs scraped against the floor as the team rose, murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out. You stood, ready to follow, but—

“You two, stick around,” Fury instructed.

You hesitated, glancing at him, then at Bucky, who had also stalled mid-step. Natasha and Yelena exchanged a knowing look, their amusement not at all subtle. You ignored their barely concealed grins as they disappeared through the door.

Fury exhaled, hands bracing against the table as he surveyed the two of you.

“I’ll be honest,” he said finally. “I wasn’t convinced it would work when I paired you two. Thought maybe you’d kill each other before you got anything done.”

Bucky scoffed quietly, gaze flicking away.

“But you proved me wrong.” His good eye narrowed as he continued. “The mission was a success. You handled yourselves well.”

A beat of silence. Then, just as flatly, “I want to know if you’d be open to working together again. Similar style of operation.”

Your eyes slid over to Bucky, gauging his reaction. You didn’t want to appear too eager or give any more credence to the stories Yelena and Natasha were spinning, but most of all, you didn’t want to put words into Bucky’s mouth. You weren’t in the business of pressuring him in or out of the bedroom.

Bucky was quiet as if silently working through some thoughts before deciding. Finally, he offered a dismissive “Sure.”

You nodded slowly, offering Fury a nonchalant shrug. “I’m fine with that.”

Fury’s lips twitched. Not quite a smirk.

“Well, that’s the most enthusiasm I’ve heard all day,” he deadpanned before shaking his head. “Damn, you two are depressing. Sitting there all broody, staring at me like I shot your goddamn dog.”

Neither you nor Bucky reacted, which was met by a low chuckle from Fury. “Regardless, I appreciate the hard work. You made me a nice chunk of money winning some bets.”

Your brow furrowed. “You bet on us?”

Fury raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “Course I did. Had to make it interesting. Half the team thought you’d get caught or kill each other before the first day was up.”

You blinked. “...Who bet against us?”

“Stark.” Fury’s lips twitched again. “He didn’t think you’d make it past security.”

Of course he did. Prick.

—

"Alright, I’m in position."

You blinked. Bucky sat there like he was awaiting orders, his posture rigid as if he were about to breach enemy lines. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure where to put them like touching you required the same level of strategic planning as a high-stakes extraction mission.

You stared, straddling his hips, your fingers ghosting over his collarbone, feeling the tension thrumming beneath his skin. He didn’t quite meet your eyes, his gaze fixed somewhere just past your shoulder as if making direct contact might detonate something neither of you were ready for. For a split second, you half expected him to press a finger to an earpiece and murmur something about securing the perimeter.

In the dim glow of his bedroom, he looked every bit like a man being held hostage rather than one about to receive a very generous favour.

Lately… something felt off. The signs had been subtle at first, the way he always seemed a beat too calculated, his hands found the same places every time, and he would grow still like he was waiting for a command.

And now, looking at him, so wound-up he might actually vibrate, it finally clicked.

Every touch and kiss was executed with the precision of a soldier running a drill rather than a man lost in the moment. It was methodical. He was analysing a strategy rather than experiencing pleasure. You half expected to glance down and see him taking notes—touch here, kiss there, don’t forget to do this. The thought horrified you, but if you were honest… it also amused you.

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“…Bucky, are you seriously treating this like a mission?”

He stiffened beneath you, his reaction just a fraction too quick, too defensive.

“What’d you mean?” His voice was steady, but there was an edge. He was already on guard, bracing for imaginary discipline.

“The way you’re…” You trailed off, head inclining as you studied him. His jaw was clenched, brows drawn tight, the creased skin between them betraying him entirely. One could mistake him for a soldier behind enemy lines, waiting for the crack of a rifle. There were dark smudges under his eyes, no worse than usual. You knew he didn’t sleep well. Nightmares haunted him and left him running on fumes more often than not. You recognised the signs, and it was like you were looking into a mirror.

“It’s like you have a mental checklist,” you murmured, watching for his reaction. “Like every move you make is planned like you’re running through a strategy in your head instead of just… feeling it.”

Bucky remained silent, his lips pressing into a firm line.

Gently, you squeezed his shoulder, fingertips pressing into hard muscle. He was tense—too tense. “You’re not clearing a building, Bucky. You’re not scanning for threats. You’re here with me. Just relax a little, won’t you?”

“I am relaxed.” He bit the words out, though neither his voice nor expression were even remotely convincing.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “I appreciate the attempt to lie, but when I can feel the fucking tension in your body, it’s a little, well, very obvious.” Your hands traced along his shoulders, fingers kneading into the tight knots beneath the fabric of his shirt. His muscles were rock-solid, never fully uncoiled. His body had forgotten how to rest.

“See?” You gave a pointed squeeze. “This is not ‘relaxed,’ Bucky. This is as solid as a goddamn steel beam.”

Bucky scoffed a tiny huff of air through his nose. “Those are my muscles. I work out. Don’t you?”

You gasped in mock delight, lips parting in exaggerated shock. “Oh my God. Did you just make a joke? Bucky, was that a joke?”

Something flickered in his expression for the first time, a sliver of amusement breaking through the ever-present brooding. He finally met your gaze, eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners, and the sight sent a flicker of warmth through your chest.

You grinned. “Well, isn’t that a first? Guess I should mark the calendar.”

His smirk was brief, fleeting—but it was there.

You softened, your voice dropping just a little. “But seriously, you need to loosen up.” Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, slow and deliberate.“Attraction, desire… sex. It’s messy, it’s unplanned. It’s not a mission. This isn’t the army.”

You didn’t dare say the following words in your mind aloud.

This isn’t H.Y.D.R.A.

But you knew that was where his thoughts drifted, that unspoken trouble that plagued you both. Your fingers ghosted along the silver chain at his throat, the faint jingle of his dog tags barely audible under the fabric of his shirt. “You don’t have to follow orders. You can just be.”

“I know.” The words came low, rough, frayed at the edges. You could feel yourself losing him, his eyes growing foggy as if pulled away to a place you couldn’t quite reach to drag him out from.

“I just…” Another breath, deeper this time, as though steadying himself. “They used me. For so long, they used me as a weapon. I don’t know if I can ever be anything different than that. I don’t want to lose control—what happens if I lose—”

“Hey.” Your hands framed his face now, thumbs brushing against the sharp angles of his cheekbones, anchoring him. “Hey, look at me.”

His eyes lifted, hesitant, guarded.

“You are more than that.” The words were gentle but unwavering, as steady as your hands on him. “We are more than that, okay? You’re Bucky. Just Bucky. And you are in control. Say it.”

His fingers curled against your thighs, knuckles pressing into the cotton fabric of your shorts. He was quiet momentarily as though testing the words in his mind before speaking them aloud. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m in control.”

“You’re in control.” You echoed, smoothing your thumb over the faint stubble on his cheek. “And you still want to do this?”

His breath was slow, deliberate. “Yes.”

Your fingers had drifted higher, threading into his hair, the strands silky and cool beneath your touch. You swept a loose lock from his forehead, letting your fingertips linger against his temple. “And if you don’t want this at any point, what do you say?”

“Stop.”

“And what will happen if you say that?”

“You’ll stop. We’ll stop.”

“Good.” You praised him, your smile widening as you felt him squirm beneath you. There was a subtle hitch in his breath as your hands began to trail lower, palms smoothing down to his chest. The pulse at his throat fluttered beneath your fingertips, quick and uneven, betraying the calm he was trying to hold onto. You leant closer, your breath warm against his skin as you pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his temple. Then lower—to the sharp line of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, and finally to the hollow of his throat. A shudder ran through him, his grip on your hips tightening just a fraction. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.” He uttered after a thick, audible swallow.

You pulled back just enough to study him, to see how his lips parted slightly as though chasing the warmth of your touch. A quiet, almost reluctant noise rumbled in his chest, just shy of a whine. You traced your fingers along his jaw before tilting your head, considering him. “I want to try something.” You hummed to him. “You can say no if it’s too much, but I think it might help you.”

His brows furrowed. “Yeah?”

“I want to blindfold you—”

“You want to what?” He went rigid beneath you, every muscle tightening again as if you’d flipped a switch and snapped him back into defence mode.

“Hold on, just let me finish.” You held up your hand, hoping to counteract his immediate, instinctive reaction.

He huffed, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off the response, but said nothing.

“I want to blindfold you,” you repeated, slower this time, words deliberate. “And I want to kiss you. And touch you. I want you to focus on feeling good rather than anticipating something bad. I want you to just… be here with me. Not thinking about what comes next, not waiting for an attack. Just focusing on feeling. That’s all.”

His expression was cautious before turning to contemplation—as though weighing the idea against everything instinct told him.

“You can say no,” you reminded him gently.

“No, I—” He hesitated, his fingers twitching against your hips.

You shifted back just a little, offering him the space to decide. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do it.”

“No, I—shit—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I mean—no, I want to. Yes. I want to try that.”

Your gaze searched his. “You’re sure?”

His lips pressed together, and then he nodded once, firmly. “Yes.”

You grinned, pressing a sloppy, lingering kiss to his temple before slipping off his lap with ease and rolling onto the bed beside him. “Do you have something we could use?”

“Uh, I don’t—”

“Like a tie, maybe? You wear suits, right? Or does Stark demand them back the second you step foot in the compound?”

Bucky let out a huff, eyes narrowing. “I don’t want to talk about Stark right now.”

You shot him a knowing look, but before you could tease him further, your gaze flickered downward—and you smirked. Even through the soft material of his sweatpants, you could see he was already half-hard. “Sure.”

A faint flush crept up his neck, staining his ears and cheeks pink. He cleared his throat, voice rough. “Top drawer. In the wardrobe.”

You were on your feet before he could finish, slipping into his walk-in wardrobe. Every apartment in the compound had one, though Bucky’s was noticeably bare. His clothes were monochrome, muted shades of grey, navy, and black. No bursts of colour. No sign of impulse. It was not a lack of wealth. You knew that for sure. No, this was intentional—a desire to blend in, to disappear.

You’d always known he was the type who preferred the shadows, slipping between crowds unnoticed. No wonder he hated the tailored suits Stark and Fury forced him into—arm issues aside. For some reason, S.H.I.E.L.D. were determined to parade him around. Look, the Winter Soldier. He’s a good boy now. He plays nice. Nothing to fear anymore. You were unsure how he felt about such displays, but you were sure it wasn’t too far off from how you felt about it. You had once been in his shoes, though more in the eye candy territory. A doll to dress up and play with, to smile and play the part.

Powerful men enjoyed degrading that which they knew to be dangerous, enjoyed playing with fire, and enjoyed the illusion of control.

Shaking off the thought, you pulled open the top drawer, sifting through a few neatly folded ties. You selected a smooth black silk, running the cool fabric over your palm before returning to the bedroom.

Bucky was still seated at the edge of the bed, stiff as a board. His hands curled into fists atop his thighs, knuckles taut. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

You slowed, holding the tie between your fingers like approaching a spooked animal. Visible to inspect and assess. No threat.

“Yes?” you asked, giving him another chance to change his mind.

His jaw tightened, but he gave a short nod. “Yes.”

You smiled softly. “Just breathe, yeah? Like we always do.�� You inhaled deeply through your nose, then exhaled slowly and steadily through your mouth.

After a beat, Bucky mirrored you, chest rising and falling with measured breaths.

You moved behind him, settling onto the bed. He sat still, poised for an attack. Carefully, you draped the silk tie over his eyes, looping it around his head and securing it with a loose knot. It wasn’t tight—one purposeful tug and it would slip free.

You could feel the tension radiating from him. Even blindfolded, he was hyper-aware, attuned to every rustle of the sheets, every shift of your weight. His breathing had turned shallower, the serum sharpening every sound, every sensation.

“If you need to stop for any reason, just say so.”

He jolted slightly at your voice, caught off guard in the quiet. “O-okay.” His voice wavered, and then he cursed low under his breath in Russian.

You grinned. Some habits died hard.

“I’m going to touch you now.” You crept closer, lifting onto your knees behind him. “Just focus on me and how it feels. Nothing else. Can you do that?”

He gave a slow, hesitant nod.

You started at his shoulders, palms skimming over firm muscle, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. Every dip and ridge, every knot of tension. Your hands slid to his collarbone, then across the joint where flesh met metal, mapping out the contrast between warm skin and the smooth, cold vibranium.

He was solid beneath your touch, every muscle taut and solid as it stretched across the bone.

You had noticed the way his shoulders gave him grief. The slight tilt of his frame and the way his left arm always sat heavier. It was incorrect weight distribution; the metal limb was too heavy compared to its flesh counterpart. S.H.I.E.L.D had surely offered him physical therapy—massages, treatment plans—but you doubted he had ever taken them up on it. He didn’t like to be touched by strangers. Too wary. Too untrusting.

“Can I take off your shirt?” you asked softly.

He stilled.

“I don’t—” His voice was lower now, rougher. “My scars. They’re not—”

“I don’t care about that.”

He swallowed hard. “You don’t?”

“No,” you said firmly. “Why would I?”

Without a word, his hand reached behind his head, gripping the collar of his shirt. He yanked it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing the fabric to the floor. You adjusted the blindfold where it had shifted, then let your gaze drift over the broad expanse of his back.

His shoulders were massive, sculpted with muscle. The scars on his left shoulder were brutal—jagged lines of gnarled tissue where the vibranium met flesh. It might have been seamless after the amputation. Painless even. But it had been H.Y.D.R.A who had ruined him, left scars so deep even the Wakandans couldn’t erase.

And H.Y.D.R.A didn’t care for comfort. They cared for necessity. Likely, you suspected, they had wanted him to suffer.

An endless reminder of their ownership.

You swallowed, then placed your hands on his shoulders again, thumbs pressing gently into the base of his neck. You started slow, careful, massaging along the muscle, working your way down. His skin was warm beneath your palms, the mass taut and unyielding at first, like stone beneath your fingers. But you took your time, applying gradual pressure, thumbs circling into the knots built over time.

Beneath your hands, Bucky let out a low, guttural sound—a half-growl, half-sigh of approval. His head dipped forward slightly, chin brushing his chest, an unspoken invitation to continue.

You kept going, kneading deep into the knots in his shoulders, feeling the tension resist before you coaxed it loose. With each press and roll of your fingers, the stiffness unravelled like a cord being undone, thread by thread. You worked methodically, digging your thumbs along the curve where his neck met his shoulders, pressing firmly enough to elicit another low, unconscious groan from him.

You bit back a smile as you felt him lean into you just a little.

Trailing downward, you traced the slope of his shoulder blades, following the ridges of tendons and old wounds. The scars on his left side were tougher, the tissue uneven where flesh met metal, but you didn’t hesitate. Your fingers brushed the seam between the vibranium and skin, then continued downward, thumbs pressing slow, firm circles along the fuse.

Bucky shuddered.

His breath hitched as you dug into the deep-seated strain along his spine. A sharp inhale, a low exhale—he was losing himself to the sensation, surrendering to your touch. You didn’t rush. You worked him slowly, thoroughly, feeling him yield with each measured stroke. When you reached the dip of his lower back, you flattened your hands, smoothing over the tightness that lingered. He was warm now, his skin melting like wax beneath your fingers.

Satisfied, you finally pulled back, smoothing your hands along his spine one last time before shifting your position.

Rising onto your knees, you moved around him, hands trailing over his shoulders as you slid into his lap. His breath stuttered, but he didn’t pull away. You settled against him, straddling his lap, your arms draping lazily over his shoulders. The blindfold was still secure, and he looked… calmer now. Less wound up, his jaw no longer locked so tightly.

“You okay?” You murmured.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you hummed, tilting your head, lips just inches from his ear. “I think you needed that.”

Bucky exhaled a breathy, almost disbelieving laugh, but he didn’t deny it.

Your fingers trailed up the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly against the short hairs, and you felt him shiver beneath you. You leaned in, lips brushing over his cheekbone, just at the edge of the blindfold, before trailing downward. You kissed along his jaw, soft and teasing, pressing your lips into the warm skin beneath his ear, down the column of his throat.

His hands fidgeted at his sides, tightening around the sheets. Then, as if giving in to some internal battle, they rose—hesitant but desperate. His fingers found your waist, sliding over the curve of your hips before gripping tight.

You grinned against his skin.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice a breath of silk against his throat.

A sharp exhale left him, his fingers tightening, pressing you closer, holding you in place. You cupped his jaw, tilting his face up before pressing your lips to his.

Bucky groaned into the kiss.

It was soft at first, your mouth moving against his, teasing, coaxing him deeper. But it wasn’t long before he cracked. The tension he had held onto for so long—his control, his restraint—it frayed at the edges with every pass of your lips against his. You pressed closer, shifting in his lap, and the moment your hips rolled against him, his breath stuttered.

A broken sound escaped him, part groan, part whimper.

You did it again just to hear it.

His hands flexed against your sides, his hold firm, frantic, but he didn’t stop you. He only breathed harder, his forehead falling against yours as you peppered kisses along his lips, his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

Then you moved again, grinding against him slowly, carefully, and Bucky outright whimpered.

He made no effort to stop you—no attempt to control the rhythm, no resistance left in him. His mind was no longer caught in the tangle of right and wrong, of what he should or shouldn’t do.

He only felt.

Only responded.

You kissed him again, deeper, fiercer this time, and he met you with equal hunger.

Bucky’s hands roamed, sliding up your back. Then, his vibranium hand found your face, cradling it between cool, unyielding metal, and you shivered at the contrast—the bite of cold against your flushed skin, the sheer strength in his hold, barely restrained.

He kissed you like he was starving.

You sighed into his mouth, rolling your hips down to meet his, and he groaned—deep and guttural as his body jerked beneath you. He was fully hard now, the evidence pressing against you through his sweatpants, and you couldn't help the soft, breathy giggle that escaped between kisses.

Bucky growled, his grip tightening, his body chasing yours as you rocked against him.

Your hand trailed down, slipping between your bodies, fingers teasing along the waistband of his sweatpants. You could feel the heat of him, the way his breath hitched as your fingertips ghosted lower—

Then he flinched, catching your wrist in a shaky grip.

“Too much,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but the strain was evident.

Immediately, you withdrew, pulling your hand away without hesitation. “I’m sorry. Do you want to stop—”

“No.” he replied quickly, breathlessly.

You cupped his jaw, kissing him slowly, tenderly, as he shuddered beneath you. His hands flexed where they held you, his body still trembling with need, but he didn’t pull away. You kept your movements soft and gentle, pressing your forehead against his, letting him breathe as you kissed him repeatedly.

“Is this better?” you checked in between kisses, voice warm, reassuring.

“Yes.” He muttered against your lips.

You kissed him deeper, tongue sweeping across his bottom lip and into his mouth.

His body convulsed beneath you, hips twitching up to meet yours, his breath turning shallow and erratic. You could feel the tremors coursing through him, his muscles tensed, his restraint crumbling with every slow, dragging roll of your hips.

Then, with a choked groan, he stiffened.

A broken moan tore from his throat as he came, his body shuddering beneath you. His breath hitched, then stilled, his head falling back onto the bed as he panted heavily, completely spent.

You smiled, watching his chest rise and fall, his body finally wholly relaxed.

You let him catch his breath, your hands smoothing over his chest in slow, soothing strokes. His eyes were still covered, the black silk of the tie snug against his skin, and for a moment, you just watched him—his expression relaxed in a way it so rarely was, his lips parted as he inhaled deep, steadying himself.

Reaching up, you brushed your fingers over his jaw before carefully undoing the knot at the back of his head. The tie slipped away with ease, and his eyes fluttered open, blinking as he adjusted to the room's dim light. His pupils were blown, irises hazy, but there was something else. Softness. An openness you didn’t often see.

“Hey,” you whispered.

His lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “Hey.”

You leant down, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple before shifting off of him, allowing him to breathe. He hesitated momentarily before sitting up, his movements slow, almost reluctant. His sweatpants were clinging damply to his skin, and he grimaced slightly before rubbing a hand over his face.

“I should, uh—” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be right back.”

You nodded, watching as he climbed off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. The soft sound of running water followed soon after. You stayed where you were, fingers idly playing with the silk tie as you listened, giving him the space to clean up and gather himself.

When he returned, his sweatpants had been swapped for a fresh pair, the fabric hanging loose around his hips. His hair was damp in uneven patches where he’d raked wet fingers through it, a lazy attempt at tidying up. He lingered in the doorway, weight shifting from one foot to the other, eyes flickering over you like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

You patted the empty space beside you. “Come here.”

His shoulders loosened just a fraction before he climbed back onto the bed, settling beside you with a quiet sigh. He was warm—solid and steady. Without thinking, you nestled closer, resting your head against his chest. His arm came around you automatically, like muscle memory, pulling you in and holding you there.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, barely above a whisper, you asked, “Did you like it?”

Bucky exhaled a deep, slow breath. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice lower than usual, like he wasn’t used to saying it. “I did.”

You smiled, tracing absentminded circles against his chest. “What did you like about it?”

He was quiet for a long moment, his fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful.

“It made it easier,” he murmured. “Not seeing. I could just… feel. Focus on what was happening instead of everything else.” His thumb brushed lightly against your side. “Didn’t have to worry about if I was doing something wrong.”

You frowned slightly, tilting your head up to look at him. “Bucky, you’ve never done anything wrong.”

“I know,” he said, but his voice was tight, a shadow crossing his expression. “It’s just—” He stopped, mouth pressing into a thin line.

You reached up, smoothing a hand over his cheek. “Talk to me.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he said, “I’m scared of it sometimes.”

Your brows furrowed. “Scared of what?”

“Pleasure.”

His fingers tightened slightly against your side like he was bracing himself, but he didn’t look away from you.

“I was taught…” He inhaled sharply. “That it could only be taken. Taken from me. That it was never given freely.” His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “That it wasn’t mine to have.”

Slowly, carefully, you sat up, shifting so you were fully facing him. He looked at you, expression guarded, but there was something vulnerable beneath it, something fragile in the way he held himself.

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Those people, the ones who taught you that, they were trying to hurt you, degrade you,” you told him firmly. “Pleasure is to be shared equally. It’s something you deserve.” You squeezed his hand, your voice softening.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no words came.

“I want you to know that you don’t have to do anything to earn it,” you whispered.

He swallowed hard, his grip on your hand tightening. His voice was barely above a breath when he said, “I don’t know if I know how.”

You smiled softly. “That’s okay. We have time.”

You lifted his hand again, pressing a lingering kiss to his knuckles before settling back down beside him. His warmth seeped into you, but the ache in your chest remained—persistent, lingering. It had nothing to do with exhaustion, the tension in your muscles, or even the way your body still hummed with remnants of touch. No, this ache came from somewhere deeper, from the thoughts unravelling in your mind like a loose thread tugged too far, too fast as you contemplated his confession.

You had always been a giver. That was your role, your purpose. You gave and gave until there was nothing left. Until you were hollow inside. And yet, the world kept asking for more. You wondered if, over time, it had chipped away at your soul, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

The words left your lips before you could stop them, before you had the chance to weigh whether you truly wanted to say them aloud.

“Do you ever feel like you’re not… whole?”

Bucky turned his head slightly, his brows furrowing in the low light, lids heavy as he blinked his dark lashes. He didn’t press or demand, didn’t look at you as if he needed clarification. He just waited, silently, like he knew you weren’t finished.

So you kept going.

“Like with every mission, every fight, every demand, you lose something? A tiny piece of yourself, given away without even realising it?” Your voice dropped lower. Bucky was still beside you, completely still, only his breath tickling your cheek with each slow rise and fall of his chest.

“I don’t even know if I’m still the person I was when I was born or if I’ve just been rebuilt from borrowed parts. Pieces given to me, made for me, shaped to fit what I was supposed to become.” You exhaled a sharp breath. “Or maybe… what they wanted me to become.”

The words were bitter on your tongue, and yet they kept coming.

“And I think… maybe I’m afraid that if I ever showed the real me, the world would reject me. That they’d be disgusted by my soul. By everything I have done.”

A shaky breath left your lips, your voice barely more than a whisper now.

“Because sometimes… sometimes I think the only way people will keep me around is if I give them something in return.”

Silence.

You turned your head toward him, searching his face, waiting for something—anything—that would tell you what he was thinking. You hoped for a look, a breath, a word to ground you. But as your gaze swept over him, you realised his breathing had evened out, his lashes fluttering softly against his cheeks. The sharp furrow of his brow had smoothed, his lips slightly parted in a way that spoke of exhaustion finally pulling him under.

Asleep.

Your words had been lost to him.

You weren’t sure if that was a relief or a disappointment.

Maybe it was for the best. He needed the rest, the peace of slumber more than you did. Even now, in the soft glow of the room, dark circles remained etched beneath his eyes.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling momentarily before carefully slipping out of bed. You moved with quiet precision, gathering your things without making a sound. When you reached the door, you hesitated, glancing back.

For a second, a small, selfish part of you wished he had—wished he had heard you, had held you, had given you something, anything, to quiet the storm inside your chest. But he hadn’t.

And maybe that meant you could take the words back.

Tuck them away for another time.

Or hold onto them forever, maybe all you had needed was to say them aloud, even if only silence itself was listening.

Bucky didn’t stir from his slumber, not even when the door clicked shut behind you.

PART THREE

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taglist: @civilbucky @buckysbbydoll @rosegarbage @fleurenoir @oikarma @blackstabbath6 @kcbug1128 @ellesbellswrites @thaynarajejheje @wunder-blunder @oceanaroma @dyscalculiaaa @murdocklvrr @pursuedbyamemoryy @fantasyheroine @chronicallybubbly @nikkinss @maryevm @doilooklikeagiveafrack (sorry if it didn't tag anyone properly)

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes smut #bucky fanfic #beefy bucky #bucky smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #winter soldier #marvel fic #marvel au #marvel #lessons in lovemaking

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0bticeo · 4 months ago

Text

mark grayson | boyfriend material

summary:

“boxers? as boyfriend material?”

you shrug, your movements stifled from your position between his legs, your cheek pressing up against his thigh. you shift a little, the pleats of the oversized tee you’ve stolen from him somehow having gotten stuck under his leg.

“what? you can’t tell me these-” a gesture towards his boxers, the ones you’re currently wearing “- aren’t the type of stuff a hypothetical girlfriend would steal.”

tags: mlw, aged up a little (early 20's), idiots to lovers, pwp, mark is adorable, pining, sexual tension, making out, fingering, edging, marking, biting, loss of virginity, use of the pull out method (wrap it before you tap it), mark is down bad and so is reader, no y/n, lowercase intended.

there’s a ringing in your ear. nagging, persistent, strident little thing. everything is too loud, too much. you’re overwhelmed, maybe. there’s a metallic taste on your tongue, and your shoulders ache, skin too warm under the tight leather of your catsuit.

movement to your right. invincible, landing next to you, his hand steady on your shoulder. you lean back against him, panting, just the time for the taste of blood in your mouth to recede, for you to breathe-

a commotion.

your head tilts in its direction, your weary gaze hidden by your domino mask. journalists. it’s almost funny, how they swarm scenes of wreckage, flies drawn to a burning carcass. ruins stretch around you. the wounded are under the GDA’s care. you wonder what the fuck cecil was thinking, sending a team as uncoordinated as the new guardians of the globe on the field. you barely work for him, and neither does invincible, yet-

here you are, stumbling down a pile of rubble, invincible’s grip steadying you.

“you okay?” he breathes.

you know he can hear the erratic drum of your heartbeat. smell the blood dripping down your split lip.

“i’m fine. really.”

a flash. a journalist. tall, sharply dressed in a black tailored suit, with a cute pencil skirt, long red hair falling graciously on the long slope of her neck. striking green eyes. the embodiment of the office siren, coming straight at you to sing her pretty song and coax the filthiest gossip out of you.

you share a look with invincible and watch as his lips curl into an exasperated smile.

and so it begins. lights, camera, action!

“my age?”

you frown a little, titling your head to the side. besides you, mark - invincible - snickers. you can almost hear the words. like a cute little puppy. insulting. you’re more of a cat person.

you grin, two fingers tapping your chin.

“that’s classified.”

the journalist in front of you - twenty something, almost made your jaw drop and did cause you to get slammed into a nearby wall by the lizard league, because wow - groans, green eyes rolling playfully.

“come on, shadow,” she grins, extending her mic a little more. she’s close enough for you to grip her arm and disarm- relax. civilian. “you can’t leave us hanging! we barely know you!”

that’s the point. the voice in your head sounds oddly like cecil. done with this shit, done with life, done with this conversation. but the GDA can and will be up your ass if you unleash a PR disaster, so you humour her.

“and i don’t even have your name, hun’.”

a little blush creeps up her cheeks. your smile widens a little, sharp in all ways it shouldn’t. besides you, invincible rolls his eyes, exasperatedly fond.

“meg.”

“ooh, pretty name. right, ask me anything.”

she seizes you up. you, clad in a catsuit so dark it looks like it’s absorbing the very daylight. you, hip cocked to the side, gloved fingers tapping at your hip bone. the way the lapels of your coat brush the bloodied ground, dripping red. invincible at your side, lazily leaning on your shoulder. you, swatting at him with a tired grin because blood on leather is a pain to clean up.

meg pulls out her phone. you lean forward a little, intrigued, and catch a glimpse of what appears to be a list of questions.

“are you aware you have a fanbase?”

you exchange a glance with invincible. you may not see the soft melted brown of his eyes, but you know there’s a little spark of mischief beneath his mask.

“oh?”

“yeah, you guys are as popular as teen team, if not more. how do you feel about them? any gossip you want to share?”

a pointed look. between rex’s… explosive relationship with eve and… well, his other relationship… relationships? with dupli-kate, you’d be stuck here for a while. you settle for a lesser evil. gotta throw a bone or two to the press. makes for nice trivia for fan books.

“robot recently discovered that he has a fondness for junk food.”

“yep, he’s been pretty unsettled by it.”

meg stares at you with a pointed look. no juicy drama. both of you refuse to play the game. infuriating but understandable. she checks her watch, grimaces.

“shit, gotta wrap this up. ugh, if i had it my way, the two of you would answer the web’s most searched questions.” her gaze snaps back to you, green eyes rooting you in place. “the two of you work incredibly well together. what’s a usual mission like?”

it’s a relatively innocent question. you describe it, invincible occasionally chiming in, still leaning on your shoulder, hovering a little above the ground for comfort. (a flash. you staring up at mark after a mission as he pulls off his mask, feet a few inches off the ground. flying just… feels natural, y’know?)

usually, you get to the scene, assess the situation, neutralise the villain of the day and rescue those caught in the crossfire. get in, punch some people, get out. try not to have a heart attack when you watch invincible getting the shit beaten out of him by aliens/wizards/mafiosi/clones/dragons. cradle his face after a mission while scolding him because that was reckless, you idiot.

meg hums, perfectly manicured finger scrolling down on her screen, on the lookout for the next juicy question. her lips split in a slow grin.

“no… longer missions? undercover missions?”

oh, you should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. there’s a little curl to her lips, the sweet professional smile bordering on something more cutting. invincible laughs. you feel the vibration of it seep under your skin, percolating straight to your heart. you think you’re getting a little warmer, the summer sun high above you.

you think invincible’s blinding you with how wide he’s smiling.

“we’re superheroes. not spies.”

she hums, steps closer, fingers lightly trailing over the fabric of your coat.

“people have noticed this little number.”

“oh, yeah, it’s fairly new.”

meg looks up from her phone and smirks.

“we have a question from inviciboyfan25: is it boyfriend material?”

undeterred, you lean a little closer, until all the camera can see is the sharp edge of your smile.

“too heavy for that. the real deal? boxers and oversized tee. unparalleled.”

a smack at the back of your head. you let out a little yelp, your phone landing flat on your chin, cradling the sore spot with a pout.

“what was that for?”

mark glares at you, holding up his phone. on it, images of your encounter with that cute journalist three hours ago. he’s got a bandaid on his cheek, another one on his nose, both of them pink with hello kitty patterns.

he’s frowning. you gaze up to the small crease between his eyebrows and wonder how to smooth it away. you boop his nose instead, giggling when his frown deepens. he swats your hand.

“boxers? as boyfriend material?”

“what? you can’t tell me these-” a gesture towards his boxers, the ones you’re currently wearing “- aren’t the type of stuff a hypothetical girlfriend would steal.”

he groans, leaning back on his pillow. his fingers close on the sleeve of your (his) shirt, the one with seance dog proudly taking off, all heroic blues and reds.

“but why?”

you grin up at him, scooting a little closer.

“because it’s comfy. and smells like you.”

you’re delighted when you watch the blush blossom on his cheeks, all soft pink awkwardness. he averts his gaze, turning his attention back to the video on his phone. you shrug and grab a nearby comic - seance dog, again, because markus sebastian grayson totally isn’t seance dog’s biggest fan. nope. doesn’t have every collectible on earth.

you’ve juuust started to get invested in the plot, something about a meteor shower the loyal hero must stop to protect billions from dying, when mark groans again, his hand leaving the sleeve of your t-shirt to cover his eyes.

“dramatic much?”

a muffled groan. you cup your ear, the back of your hand brushing his thigh, the corded muscle of it tensing by a fraction under your skin.

“sorry, what was that?”

“people are dogs. just… look at the comments!”

you lean back further into him, craning your neck.

“if you’re not planning on reading some out loud, at least lower your damn phone before i break my neck.”

he complies with a grumble, arms framing your head as he holds up his phone for you to see the comments. your eyes widen upon seeing the amount of views under the video.

“one million? you’ve got to be kidding me.”

you scroll down the comment section, the heat of mark seeping into you, your index near his thumb. progressively, your eyebrows raise. something like giddiness takes hold of your heart. people are dogs. you see it all, from people commenting on how sick that coat is, to complaints about property damage, to-

“no way. ‘i just know they be fucking nasty?!’ ”

“that’s one of the tamest ones. someone wrote a literal fanfiction in there.”

you look up at him, neck craned back. mark swears he’s never seen a sight as endearing as this one. you, snuggled up against him, drowning in his favourite shirt, so close he’s freely running his fingers over your shoulder, thumb occasionally creeping up your trapezius.

“you are not shaming fanfiction on my watch, grayson.”

“it’s about us!”

you poke his thigh. he twitches uncomfortably.

“like you haven’t read at least one.”

he flicks your forehead. you squeal, grinning wide.

“you can’t prove anything.”

a pointed look.

“fine. yes, i have. it’s… i don’t know. weird.”

you turn around, flipping on your belly, palms cradling your cheek as you look up at him. his breath hitches in his throat. you’re playing with the hem of his shirt absently, nails lightly scratching the navy fabric, the back of your fingers a light pressure on his adonis belt. you narrow your eyes, and he’s able to make out each individual lashes fanning your cheeks.

there, in the quiet light of melting sunset, molten golds and pinks frame the edges of your face. he wants to cradle your cheek. he wants to trace the slope of your nose like you do his, down to your split lip, still swollen from that bastard king lizard punching you in the face. he wants-

“you do know invincible shadow is a thing, right?”

he blinks back to reality.

“uh? like a ship name?”

you nod, still fiddling with the hem of his shirt. despite the cool air breezing in past his open window, heat creeps up his neck. his fingers flex in the sheets, nails digging in the cotton threads - egyptian cotton, because dad knows a guy who owes him a favour or two and you don’t say no to omni-man anyway.

“yeah. a ship name. super popular too. crazy, right?”

right. right. like you’re totally not molding your body to his. he can feel you, down to the bone, pressing against him, skin impossibly soft, lightly smelling of his own laundry detergent, something barely there because viltrumite senses are sharp. he feels the pounding of your heart in his throat, the way your lips part, tongue darting out to wet them.

“yeah,” he mumbles, voice a little choked. “crazy.”

and fuck, where’s his bravado? fighting alongside you as invincible, when all you can see of each other are smiling, grinning, bloodied mouths, blood drip dripping down chins, is easy.

he thinks you might as well be a part of him, with how the two of you move around each other like you know what the other thinks. he has your six, you have his. his fists back you up at the slightest inconvenience, your shadows ripple whenever someone gets so much as an inch closer to him.

it’s easy. when he snatches you by the waist after a mission, pressing you close enough to inhale the marrow of you without burying his nose in your hair - doesn’t need to. viltrumite senses are sharp, y’know.

when he zooms insides the drive thru and orders your favourite - that one greasy cheeseburger with french fries. when you remind him for the nth time that, first of all, there’s no way these qualify as fries. this is mcdonald's, for christ’s sake. second, fries are belgian, and- and that’s no reason to steal your fries, dammit!

it’s easy, being with you. when you’re sitting together, shoulder to shoulder on the edge of a skyscraper, your head lolling on his shoulder because you get sleepy once the adrenaline dies down.

it’s easy. he thinks he’s going to die of a heart attack, with how fast it’s beating. here lies markus sebastian grayson, killed because his best friend is too beautiful for this world and sent him into damn cardiac arrest.

the day melts away. you don’t talk anymore, just bask in each other’s presence, his hand in your hair, your cheek a little beside his knee. his thumb brushes a fading bruise on your cheek bone and he winces in sympathy.

your fingertips run over his knuckles, finding them bruised and torn. you want to press your lips to them. you want to cradle him against you and never let go, because hero work may suck, and his civilian friends may not understand what he goes through every day, getting bloody and beaten and worn down down down, but you’re here.

“so they ship us, huh?” mark mumbles.

“mm.”

“crazy.”

you snort.

“i already said that, dummy.”

he flicks your forehead.

“m’not dumb.”

“are too!”

“that is not true.”

“please, you’re like. the embodiment of the jock stereotype. the kind jock, of course.”

he rolls his eyes, ruffling your hair, ignoring your soft cry of protest because it’s hair day, nooo don’t mess it up!

“i’ll have you know, i have more than decent grades.”

“they’ve been slipping ever since you started out as invincible, though.”

“ouch.”

you chuckle.

“you do have the physique though.”

“yeah, whateve- ow!”

he looks down at you incredulously. did you just… bite his thigh?

your teeth press against the corded muscle, bone over tender skin, a hint of warmth from your breath, and he thinks he’s dying. everything is too hot. too fucking hot, nevermind that it’s the middle of autumn and the air is getting colder and colder.

shit. he sees the imprint of you in his skin. his hips shift uncomfortably. your tongue laps at the bitemark, soothingly. it’s almost tender, the softness of your tongue against him, scorchingly intimate.

your eyes meet his. time stops. he’s only aware of the metronome beat of his heart and your own - fuck, he can hear your heart, the way the blood rushes south. he lets out a shuddering sigh, and almost moans when he smells it. your arousal.

something snaps.

you’re kissing up his thigh, lips a lover’s breeze over his skin, the dips and curves of his muscles. you feel him gasp more than you hear it, when you put your mouth to him through his briefs, pressing soft little kisses to his bulge.

his fingers cup the back of your neck, weave through your hair, a gentle pressure, desperately trying to keep his strength under control. he could crush you like he did with komodo dragon, brain matter staining his fingers, drip drip dripping down to the ground. he doesn’t.

he doesn’t, yet you can feel him strain against the weight of his desire, tensing beneath you, breath shallow and wanting. you nip at his thigh again, a gentle press of tender teeth. he shivers, legs parting for you.

you nuzzle against him, feel the sheer heat of him against your cheek, like the warmth of a blazing sun. you want to melt into him until you don’t know where you start and where he ends.

“w-wait,” he groans.

heat pools between your legs, and it’s hot, and - and his hand cups your face and he pulls you in until finally, he’s kissing you. it’s soft. a brush of his lips against yours, until you’re melting against him, arching into him because his hand - broad and calloused and heavy - is cupping your breast.

he pulls you close before you can react, lips brushing yours again and again until you’re not sure you can breathe without him. your nose brushes his. your eyes open and you meet his, dark pools of molten desire.

“hey, you.”

“hey.”

he grins, something a little soft, a little shy. you inch closer and bite back a soft whimper when the motion has your core grinding down against his hardening cock. it strikes you, then. the thin edge you’re walking. he’s your friend. you can still back away. pull away, mumble something about your mama calling you - and it’s quite the walk, so you should go home-

fuck it.

you trace the shape of his abs, nails digging in his skin, and he arches into you, hips bucking up, desperate for friction. you’re dizzy. dizzy with him, with the way his hands encircle your hips, with the way his fingers dig into you, grinding you down on him with barely controlled strength.

“mark-” you gasp.

it’s not enough. doesn’t matter, there’s too much fabric between you, you’re not close enough, you need him in you, you need him to make himself at home between your ribs and burrow himself there, bloody and viscous and yours.

he cups your cheek, thumb brushing against the plush of your lower lip, gaze impossibly soft.

“have you ever… ?”

you flush a little.

“n-no.”

he pecks your nose, your forehead, your eyelids.

“s’okay. lemme make you feel good…”

he pins you down, fingers slipping under your shirt until he pulls it off you, discards it in the corner of his room. he runs his fingers up your side, brushing against your bruised ribs, lips ghosting the contusion, knees bracketing your hips. you shiver, lips parting in a soft sigh of his name. he grins down at you, a little soft, a little feral, a white flash of too-sharp teeth.

“so, so pretty…” he mumbles, mouthing at your neck, teeth dragging up, up, up, until-

until you let out the softest whimper. he grins against your skin, nipping at your neck, his breath burning brands on that soft spot under your ear. his hands roam your body, trailing lower and lower, dipping past the waistband of your boxers.

“so wet,” he moans, and he sounds as wrecked as he’s making you feel.

his touch is tentative, you can feel the trembling of his fingers as they brush against you, lightly dipping between your folds, almost.. almost petting you. your hips grind against his hand, your own fingers wrapping around his wrist to get him to please, please more-

he tuts, pinning your arm to the side.

“no, no, no, lemme- just relax, i need- please, i want to make you feel good-”

you bring up your other arm willingly for him to keep pressed against his pillow, fingers flexing against your wrist in an unbreakable grip. your thighs part for him and you desperately try not to moan, because- fuck, because his dad may be home, you think, and what if you’re too loud, what if-

he curls his fingers - so pretty and slender and long - and you keen, back arching off the bed. he laughs at that, something breathless and teasing, claiming your lips for himself again and again and again, swallowing your moans. his tongue coaxes your lips open and he lets out a low growl as he finally gets to taste you.

you think he made you come. you’re not sure. you’re panting. there’s a ringing in your ear. everything is too loud, too much. you’re overwhelmed, maybe. there’s a metallic taste on your tongue - he bit you - there’s a ringing in your ear, and everything is too much-

mark worries his lip between his teeth, tugging down your boxers, fumbling a little, eager, so very eager to taste you, to make you feel as good as you do him.

you’re squirming in his grip, you realise, distantly, as you try to press closer to him, breasts brushing tantalizingly against the fabric of his shirt and-

“what’s wrong?

“i need- please let me touch you, mark.”

he blinks, a little owlishly.

“you- yeah, yeah okay-”

he lets go of your wrists and your hands slip under his shirt, nails raking down his chest, a thumb teasing his nipple and he groans, panting hot against your neck. his hips rut against yours, mindlessly, each thrusts having you biting your lips because the friction is just too much and- and he’s cupping your breasts, mouthing at them.

“ah!”

“too much?”

your breath catches in your throat. he’s looking up at you, chin resting on your chest, a lazy smirk on his lips, one long finger lazily trailing around your nipple, thumb flicking at it. and fuck, the way he looks at you, eyes dark and wanting, like you’re the most precious thing in the universe…

“fuck me.”

he raises an eyebrow.

“are you su- mn...”

you pull him to you, hands cupping his cheeks, kissing him like he’s the very air you breathe. the earth rotates around the sun. the sky appears blue to the human eye. you’re in love with mark grayson.

he knows, you think. with the way you whisper soft praises against his ear, with the way your fingers thread through the baby hairs on his nape. he knows.

he takes it slow. leans back on his heels, taking off his shirt. the moon is kind to him, silver light hiding in the dips of his collarbones, draping the sharpness of his chest, his abs, rippling down his arms, to the edge of the veins curling around his inner wrist.

you trace the shape of him, your touch reverent. he guides you, leading your hand from his chest, from the strong beat of his heart, to his adonis belt. you think you’re dying with how dizzy you feel, your thighs desperately pressed together for some friction.

your fingers wrap around the base of him and you let out a strangled sound. he’s big. he-

“fuck, you’re never gonna fit-”

he laughs at that.

“wanna bet?”

you groan.

“you’re horrible. you’re not the one getting nine inches of your crush-”

his eyes widen. you flush, mortified, eyes darting away, your grip on him faltering. gently, he tilts your head back towards him.

“yeah?”

you nod.

“yeah.”

he pecks your lips, gentle.

“me too.”

he eases you into it. takes you apart, bit by bit, until you’re dripping for him, babbling an incoherent mess of his name as his fingers spread you open, knuckle deep in you. when he lines himself up with you, leaking tip dragging against your entrance, he groans, low and deep and primal in a way that makes your core throb with need.

a damn tease is what he is, with the way he barely slides in you, tip sliding against your cunt with wet, sloppy little sounds, lightly brushing against your clit in a way that has you biting back a desperate little whine. he pants.

“need- fuck, baby i need you, please lemme-”

“yeah, yeah mark, just-”

your words die on your tongue when he slowly pushes himself into you, holding your thighs apart. he bites his lip at the sight. you, spread wide under him, chest littered with love bites, lips parted as you whisper his name. you, nails digging in his shoulder blades until you draw blood, begging him to please, please get closer. he spreads you open, thumbs holding your folds apart, watching as your walls flutter against him, as you drip down his length, slick and filthy.

“please, move,” you whisper. “i can take it, i need-”

“yeah? you need me?”

“mn.”

he smiles at that, a happy little lopsided smile, as he slowly starts thrusting into you, biting back a groan at how tight you are.

“shit, baby-”

he pulls you up, hand cupping the back of your neck as he plunders your mouth, lightly suckling on your tongue. he’s everywhere, hands reaching for you, pulling you closer, and closer, until your chest is flush to him and he’s fucking himself into you with reckless abandon, hips snapping against yours.

and what else can you do but take it? but wrap your arms around his neck and pull yourself closer, nipping at his earlobe, the vein jutting out of his neck. but let your nails dig in his back and feel his muscles ripple with contained strength - and fuck, if the thought of him holding back for your sake doesn’t make you wetter.

“m’gonna cum, mark-”

he grins at that, something like a broken chuckle escaping his kiss swollen lips. he tilts your head back, one hand on your hip as he drills himself in you, the other under your chin.

“yeah? gonna cum for me, baby?”

you nod, heat burning across your cheeks, your chest, your core. he hums, hand pressing against your abdomen, where he can feel himself move in you. satisfaction flashes in his gaze, at having you this full of him. (at having you.)

“good girl.”

that does it for you. you come apart, face buried in the crook of his neck, choking on his name. there’s that ringing in your ear. you think you hear him chuckle. you do know that he slides out of you, leaving you empty, hollow, and you reach for him with a soft whine of protest. he leads your hand to his leaking cock, guiding you, hips stuttering towards you as you pump his length, until he cums, thick ropes of it landing on his stomach, on your hand.

everything is still. he reaches for the tissues on the nightstand and cleans the slick mess between your thigh, something like longing on his face. his eyes meet yours, and you feel heat creep up your neck, gaze darting away from his, stuck on the way he wipes away his cum, abs rippling under the crumpled tissues.

“what?” you mumble.

“next time, i’ll eat you out.”

you let out something like an undignified squeal, burying your face in your hands. he laughs. strokes your cheek, lowering you down on the mattress, cradling you against him. he pulls the covers over you, a hand on your hip, the other lacing with yours.

“feel okay?”

you smile, a little sleepy, nuzzling against him, pressing a soft kiss to the hello kitty bandaid on his nose.

“mn.” you let your finger trail down the slope of his nose. “love you.”

he gives you a closed-eye smile, and you think you’ve met your sun.

“love you too.”

#obticeo writes #invincible show #invincible smut #invincible x reader #invincible x y/n #invincible x you #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson x y/n #mark grayson smut #invincible series #invincible season 3

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ds-angel1 · 21 days ago

Note

hi my love! could you do a toxic! rafe turnt into a soft rafe. maybe he bodyshames her and makes her change herself to the point where she gets seriously ill and he realises how much she’s messed up? xx

1st part

cw: body shaming, eating disorder themes, emotional manipulation, fainting, a start towards recovery

a/n: i am so so so so so sorry that this took so long

You were tired all the time now.

Not in a way that could be fixed with sleep, but in the way your bones ached when you moved. Like gravity had gotten heavier just for you. Like your body was protesting the way you treated it, and you didn’t have the energy to fight back.

But you still tried to smile.

You still brushed your hair. Shaved your legs. You still waited for his compliments like they were rations. Little affirmations you could chew on until the next day.

“Damn,” he said one night, eyeing you while you changed in the low lamp light. “I can see your ribs again. That’s so hot.”

It made your skin crawl. But you laughed. Twirled for him like you were proud. Like this was a reward, not a symptom.

It was so easy to pretend, especially when he wrapped his hands around your waist and said, “This- this is what I want. Just like this.”

You stopped eating in front of people. They asked questions. Said you looked pale. Said you looked small.

“You always say you’re not hungry,” one friend pointed out during a group brunch. “But you never eat later, either.”

You shrugged, picked at your napkin, smiled too hard.

Rafe squeezed your thigh under the table. Not lovingly. Not reassuringly.

Just… pressure. A warning.

“Some people are just disciplined,” he said, tone smooth. “That’s rare these days.”

You basked in it. That was love, wasn’t it?

Being the girl he could brag about.

But it got harder.

Your period vanished. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had it. Your hair started thinning, clinging to your brush like strands of guilt. You wore concealer to cover the purple hollows beneath your eyes, but it always creased. Your hands trembled at the steering wheel. Walking up stairs made your head spin.

You kept going.

Because when you skipped a meal, he kissed your temple. When you skipped two, he said, “Good girl.” When you skipped three, he fucked you like he couldn’t get enough. Told you you were perfect. Told you he could carry you forever.

It was working. It was finally working.

…

It didn’t happen in some dramatic moment. There was no gasp, no cry for help, no cinematic fall.

You were standing in the bathroom, brushing your teeth. That was it.

Your vision wobbled at the edges like heat on pavement. You blinked. Swallowed. Thought, Just sit down. Just breathe.

But your body didn’t listen.

The brush slipped from your fingers, clattered into the sink. And then your knees just buckled. Not hard, not sudden, like your bones had simply… given up.

You folded in on yourself, shoulder hitting the cabinet, hip skimming the edge of the tub. Not loud enough to call attention, but enough to leave a bruise. Enough to knock the breath from your chest.

And then the tile was under your cheek, cool and oddly comforting.

You didn’t black out.

You just laid there, watching the light shift on the ceiling, your heart skittering like a trapped bird. Too fast. Too light.

Rafe didn’t find you right away.

He was in the kitchen. You heard him, talking to himself, opening drawers, swearing about something stupid like misplacing his wallet.

When the door creaked open, you didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. You were afraid to.

He stood in the doorway for a second too long.

“…Baby?”

His voice was cautious. Not yet afraid. Not yet anything. Just confused.

You saw his bare feet cross the floor toward you. Then a pause. A sharp inhale.

“What the fuck are you- are you okay?” He crouched. Reached for your wrist. His fingers were warm and dry and trembling.

“Hey. Hey. Talk to me.”

You swallowed. Your mouth tasted like metal.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled.

“You’re on the fucking floor,” he snapped, voice pitching up now, something sharp edging in. “Did you fall?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t explain it. The fatigue. The hollowness. The way your limbs didn’t belong to you anymore.

“I just got dizzy,” you said. “It’s not- just give me a second.”

His hand hovered near your face, then pulled back like he didn’t know what to do with it.

You turned your head away, eyes fluttering shut. “It’s not a big deal.”

Silence.

Then:

“How long?”

You blinked. “…What?”

His voice was low. Flat. Measured.

“How long have you been like this?”

You didn’t answer.

And that told him everything.

He helped you sit up slowly, carefully, like you might break in half. His hand pressed against your back. You were shaking. He could feel it.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re freezing.”

You rested your head against the cabinet. Couldn’t quite lift it. Your limbs felt miles away.

“I’m okay,” you murmured. “I just need water. I haven’t eaten yet today.”

He flinched like the words physically struck him.

“Not yet?” he echoed. “It’s five o’clock.”

You blinked slowly.

That felt irrelevant.

He looked at you for a long time, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle twitched.

Then he stood, walked out, and slammed the door behind him.

You sat there alone for a while. Not crying. Not thinking. Just… still.

Then the door opened again. Softly this time.

He came back with a hoodie. A glass of juice. A granola bar in his pocket.

He knelt beside you, quietly, and pulled the sweatshirt over your head. Guided your arms through the sleeves like you were fragile. Like you were made of glass.

You didn’t meet his eyes. You didn’t want to see what was in them.

But when he pressed the cup to your lips and said, “Please,” his voice cracked.

And that made you drink.

…

He started small.

Grocery runs with color. Fruit, bread, things with softness and warmth. No more scale. No more poking. No more comments. He made pancakes one morning and nearly cried when you ate three bites.

“You don’t have to finish,” he said, gently, when your hand started to shake. “I’m proud of you either way.”

It sounded fake. It sounded like a script.

But he meant it.

He put his phone away at dinner. Looked you in the eye. Watched your face instead of your plate.

He still touched your waist sometimes, out of habit, but now he stopped himself. Flinched like he had been burned.

And at night, when he pulled you into him, he didn’t grope. Didn’t grab. He just held. Whispers soft and shaking into your hair:

“I love you even like this.” “I’m not going anywhere.” “You’re not a mirror. You’re mine.”

You weren’t better yet.

You still skipped meals sometimes. Still counted calories without thinking. Still searched for the old praise in his eyes like an addict looking for a fix.

But he never gave it anymore. And maybe that hurt. But maybe it also helped. Because you weren’t shrinking for him anymore.

You were growing, painfully, into someone who could survive this. And this time, he wasn’t leading the way. He was just following. Soft. Careful. Quiet. Like he finally understood how close he’d come to losing you for good.

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itendtothinkalot · 3 months ago

Text

professional yearner (jake sim edition)

summary: growing up, you had two heroes: jake and sunghoon. thick and thin, chaos and crayons, they were always there. so when your ex dumped you for "being so oddly close to your best friends” well… fair. but what he didn’t get is that you never needed him. you’ve always had jake sim and maybe that was the problem.

genre: fluff | best friends to lovers | jake's a professional yearner

characters: best friend!jake x f!reader

words: 13k??

warnings: kissing? making out? thats it!

The schoolyard was too hot. The kind of heat that made your socks stick to your ankles and your patience wear thin. It smelled vaguely like cheese sticks and someone’s forgotten gym shirt. And in the middle of it all—Jake Sim was crying.

Not the loud, hiccuping kind. No. Jake cried the way the sky threatened rain—quiet, heavy, trembling on the edge. His eyes were red, his mouth pressed into a thin, brave line, and his fingers clutched a half-crushed grape soda like it might hold him together.

Across from him stood Minhyuk Kang. Middle school tyrant. Bad haircut. Worse personality. He was smirking like he’d won something.

You weren’t having it.

Your backpack hit the ground as you stormed across the yard, fists curled tight. Your heart pounded in your ears. You didn’t even think—just moved, fueled by friendship and blind loyalty.

“Hey!” you shouted, voice cracking. “Pick on someone your own size, you—oversized… loser!”

Not your best. You were eleven. Your brain was still 60% Capri Sun.

Minhyuk blinked, unimpressed. Then shoved you. Hard.

You hit the pavement with a thud, landing on your butt. Your backpack burst open–papers, pencils, and one private doodle of a sparkly unicorn horse went flying across the asphalt.

Laughter erupted around you.

And then—

That sigh.

That tired, long-suffering sigh that said “I’m getting tired of this,” from a boy who was spiritually seventy-five years old.

Park Sunghoon.

He approached with his hoodie sleeves covering his hands and his cap tilted sideways, like he couldn’t be bothered but also like he was already deciding how to fix this. He stopped beside you and glanced at the chaos—Jake’s glassy eyes, your scraped knees, Minhyuk’s dumb smirk.

Without saying a word, he gave Minhyuk a look.

The kind of look that could curdle milk. Or send boys twice his size packing.

Minhyuk flinched. Then, like the coward he was, mumbled something about catching his bus and slinked away.

You blinked up at Sunghoon. Jake sniffed beside you.

And then—without coordination, without thinking—you and Jake both lunged forward and wrapped your arms around Sunghoon at the same time.

He froze. Sighed again. But he didn’t pull away.

“I’m gonna be stuck looking after you two for the rest of my life, aren’t I?” he muttered.

You grinned into his sleeve. “Yep.”

“Definitely,” Jake added, his voice a little wobbly but smiling now.

Sunghoon didn’t say he loved you.

He didn’t have to.

The cafeteria buzzed around you—noisy, fluorescent, filled with the sound of trays clattering and people trying too hard to sound casual. Jake was nursing a carton of strawberry milk, lazily spinning it between his fingers. Sunghoon sat across from him, trying and failing to look like he wasn’t deeply regretting his protein bar.

Jake leaned over dramatically, voice pitched just loud enough to reach Sunghoon but still just out of your range. “Look at her,” he whispered, grinning. “In love. Disgusting.”

Sunghoon didn’t look up. “I give it two minutes before she makes us throw up.”

You shot them a look over your shoulder and tossed a crumpled napkin in their direction. “Shut up. I’m talking.”

Jake put on a high-pitched falsetto immediately. “‘Hi baby. No, baby, you hang up first. No, you.’”

Sunghoon chimed in, completely deadpan. “‘Babymuffin. Babylove. Babyback ribs.’”

You bit back your laugh and turned away, pressing the phone closer to your ear, trying to keep your voice soft. “No, I’m not ignoring you. I’m with Jake and Sunghoon.”

There was a pause.

Then, flat and cold: “…Again?”

Your stomach dropped. Just a little.

“I told you I’d be with them today,” you said. “It’s the championship game.”

“You said you’d try to come to my gig,” came the reply, sharper now. “You promised. But of course you’d rather play cheerleader for those two.”

“It’s not like that,” you said, your voice tightening. “I told you weeks ago this was important. They’ve worked so hard for this—”

“Jesus. Do you even care about me?” he cut in. “Or am I just the guy you date when your real boyfriends are busy?”

Your hand clenched around your phone. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re always choosing them. Every time. Like I’m your backup plan—”

“They’re my best friends.” You snapped now, barely keeping your voice down. “You knew that from the beginning.”

And that was when you noticed: the table had gone silent. Jake wasn’t spinning his milk anymore. Sunghoon’s jaw was tight. Both of them were watching you.

“And you’re supposed to be my girlfriend,” your boyfriend hissed through the line. “But I guess that means nothing to you.”

You stared down at the table.

Then, softly, with every ounce of control you had left: “You should know that Sunghoon and Jake are–.”

Click.

The line went dead.

The phone hit the table with a muted thud.

You didn’t look up. Not right away. Your arms crossed, your nails digging into your sleeves. Your heart pounded too fast, too hard, and it wasn’t even from the words. It was from how familiar this had started to feel. Like you were always apologizing for choosing the people who never made you feel like a second choice.

Jake’s voice came low, tight. “What’d that idiot say this time?”

Gone was the teasing lilt, the sunshine tone. He looked like he was one bad sentence away from marching across campus and settling it the old-fashioned way. Sunghoon nudged him under the table but Jake didn’t look away from you.

You finally glanced up, eyes tired. Your voice came quiet. “It’s your championship day. Let’s not ruin it.”

Jake held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary. His jaw flexed.

But he nodded.

For now.

—

You kept your arms crossed, head low, your gaze fixed somewhere on the cracks in the pavement. Not in a sulking way. Not even angry. Just… heavy. The kind of quiet where the world felt muffled, like someone had turned the volume down on everything.

Jake didn’t say anything. Not at first.

He just walked beside you in silence—his steps matching yours like second nature. Every few moments, the soft fabric of his hoodie brushed your sleeve, but he didn’t try to fill the quiet with noise. Just stayed close. Present. Like always.

Then, after a beat, he gently bumped your shoulder with his.

You didn’t look up, not right away. But you felt it. That familiar nudge. Like he was reminding you: hey, still here.

A few more steps passed before his voice came, light but careful.

“How many fingers am I holding up behind my back?”

You stopped walking.

Your breath hitched, just a little.

God. That game.

It used to be your thing. A childhood ritual for every scraped knee, every bad grade, every time you wanted to cry but didn’t. Jake would hold his hand behind his back and make you guess. If you got it right, you’d get a prize—usually something ridiculous. A neon sticker. A broken crayon. One time, a scribbled picture of you with superpowers and him as the hulk.

You hadn’t played that game in years.

But the second he said it, a small appeared on your lips.

You glanced sideways.

“…Seriously?”

Jake smiled. The kind that barely lifted one corner of his mouth—the one that felt like a secret. Like it was just for you.

“C’mon,” he said, eyes glinting. “Let’s see if you’ve still got it.”

You swallowed.

“Two,” you murmured.

Jake didn’t break eye contact. Just slowly turned and held out his hand behind his back, showing you—

Two fingers.

You let out the softest breath of a laugh. The kind that didn’t really sound like one. Just a shaky little puff of air. But it was enough to lighten your shoulders.

Jake grinned, triumphant. “Correct. Prize pending.”

You shook your head, a real smile threatening your lips now. “You still owe me for the time you cheated and held up zero.”

Jake’s eyes widened in mock horror. “That wasn’t cheating. That was high-level psychological warfare.”

“You made me do the chicken dance in front of my mom for a sticker.”

“You did it twice.”

“You said the first one lacked commitment.”

Jake was laughing now, soft and golden, and you couldn’t help it. You laughed too. Quiet. Cracked around the edges. But real.

The silence between you didn’t feel heavy anymore.

He tilted his head toward the lecture hall ahead. “Go grab a seat,” he said softly. “I’ll get you a coffee.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, already backing away. “Unless you’d rather have emotional support gummies.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile was warm. “Coffee, please.”

Jake gave you a little salute—two fingers, same as before. “Coming right up, princess.”

You stood there for a beat too long, then finally made your way into the lecture hall, choosing a seat near the back. You slung your bag down beside you and reached into your pocket, fingers brushing something crinkly.

You frowned. Pulled it out.

Your favorite candy.

The exact brand. The exact flavor. Not something you’d had on you today.

Your breath caught.

Jake.

He must’ve slipped it into your pocket when he bumped your shoulder. Probably while you were distracted. Quiet. Thoughtful. Stupidly considerate.

You stared at the wrapper like it meant something. Like it said everything he couldn’t.

You tucked it into your bag gently, like it was something precious.

Outside, somewhere in a line too long for a Tuesday afternoon, Jake was probably ordering your coffee with extra sugar and exactly two pumps of vanilla.

Because of course he remembered.

Of course he always did.

And maybe you didn’t say it out loud.

But in that moment—you didn’t feel so heavy anymore. Because no matter what, you had Jake.

—-

The bleachers vibrated beneath your feet, alive with nervous energy. Late afternoon sunlight poured across the field in gold streaks, turning everything too bright, too cinematic. You stood at the railing beside Niki and Sunoo, fingers curled tight around the metal bar, heart pounding harder than the game announcer’s voice overhead.

Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Are you seriously ditching my gig for those two idiot friends of yours?Again? Really?You’re always doing this.You say I'm important, but it’s always them.You’re not dating them. You’re dating ME.

You rolled your eyes.

There was no use replying. You’d tried. He never got it.

Jake and Sunghoon weren’t just friends.

They were everything. They were your history. They were your present. They were scraped knees and matching science fair disasters. They were the reason your parents felt safe sending you to college. They were Sunday family dinners and sleepovers that never really ended.

They were home.

And okay—maybe your gaze drifted toward Jake a little more than it should’ve lately. Maybe it always had. Not in a way you noticed at the time. Not in a way that meant anything.

Just… in a way. As a friend, cf course. He was just…always sweet. What could you do?

Your eyes found him instantly.

Jake—number 10.

Sunlight caught the edges of his hair, wind tugging at the loose strands near his ears. His jersey clung to him, damp with sweat, legs quick and sure as he shouted across the field. His eyes were locked in, his whole body moving with this reckless kind of energy that made him hard to look away from.

Not that you were trying to look away.

You shook your head and scanned the field again, trying to find Sunghoon—but your gaze found Jake instead.

Again.

The crowd roared as the clock ticked down. 2–2. Final minute. The tension in the air buzzed through your chest like a live wire.

“I can’t watch,” Sunoo muttered beside you, peeking between his fingers. “He’s gonna pass out.”

“Shut up,” Niki hissed. “It’s getting good.”

Your eyes tracked Jake’s every step. He had the ball now—legs moving like water, flowing past defenders like they weren’t even there. Sunghoon flanked beside him, silent and steady, drawing players away.

Then Jake cut sharp to the left.

A beat.

A breath.

And then he kicked.

The ball soared.

Time stopped.

It flew past the goalie—clean, sure—and hit the net with a glorious, perfect thwack.

Silence.

And then chaos.

The stadium erupted. Teammates swarmed the field, screaming, leaping, colliding into Jake like a tidal wave of celebration. People were crying. Someone was waving a flag. You might’ve blacked out for a second.

But Jake—Jake didn’t stay buried in the huddle.

He pulled himself out.

Looked up.

And saw you.

And then, he ran.

Straight through the chaos, through teammates and coaches and cheering fans.

Right to you.

“PRINCESS, DID YOU SEE THAT?!” he yelled, already grinning like he couldn’t contain it.

You didn’t even think.

You ran.

You jumped into his arms—legs around his waist, arms around his neck—and he caught you like gravity didn’t exist between the two of you.

He spun you around, both of you laughing, breathless and weightless in the middle of a stadium filled with noise.

“That was insane, right?!” he said, still spinning, still grinning like a madman.

“You’re insane!” you yelled back. “That’s my best friend!!”

He held you tighter for a second.

You barely noticed how close you were. How steady his hands felt against your waist. How natural it felt to be in his arms.

You didn’t think too much about the way your laugh curled into something softer as he smiled at you. Or how your fingers lingered at the back of his neck just a moment too long.

You were just happy.

And Jake?

Jake was still looking at you like you’d hung the stars yourself.

But then you saw him.

At the edge of the crowd.

Your boyfriend.

He was standing stiffly, guitar slung over his back, eyes dark. He looked right at you. Then at Jake.

Then back at you.

And you saw it happen—saw the confirmation of every suspicion he’d ever thrown at you. Every insecure question. Every argument. Every pointed “you’re always with them.”

His jaw clenched.

And then he mouthed it.

Two words. Sharp. Final.

We’re done.

And he turned.

—-

The door slammed open behind you with enough force to shake the picture frames.

You didn’t check to see if Jake and Sunghoon were behind you. Of course they were. You could hear their footsteps trailing in, less hurried than yours but tinged with the same confused urgency. Like golden retrievers caught in a rainstorm—uncertain, blinking, too loyal to run.

“I cannot believe he dumped me!” you snapped, flinging your bag onto the floor like it had betrayed you. “He. Mr. Can't-Name-Three-Films-By-Studio-Ghibli. Mr. ‘I think astrology is fake but also I’m a Scorpio so that’s just how I am.’”

You kicked your shoes off, one of them narrowly missing the umbrella stand.

Jake ducked.

Sunghoon raised his eyebrows and wisely stayed quiet.

“I mean,” you huffed, voice going up a pitch as you spun toward them, “he plays the same three songs on guitar and called Christopher Nolan ‘overrated.’ And he—that man-child with a Spotify playlist called ‘sad vibez’ and no vowels—broke up with me?!”

Sunghoon winced. Jake looked like he was watching a house on fire and wondering if throwing himself into it would help.

You threw your hands up in disbelief. “I was going to dump him! I had a list! A literal note in my phone! And this man—this emo scarecrow of a boyfriend—had the audacity to beat me to it?!”

You stormed to the living room and collapsed onto the couch like it owed you reparations, arms flung over your face as you let out a long, frustrated groan.

“I can’t believe this. He said I was emotionally unavailable. Me! The girl who went to all his stupid open mic nights and pretended his lyrics weren’t just stolen posts from 2018 Twitter in stupid long verses.”

In the hallway, Jake leaned toward Sunghoon.

“Should we, like… say something?”

Sunghoon didn’t even look away from you. “Absolutely not.”

Jake frowned. “You’re the stable one. You talk to her.”

“You’re the one in love with her.”

Jake made a wounded sound in the back of his throat. “That’s not—I mean—I’m—”

“You literally made her tea last night and wrote her name on the mug in sharpie like a loser.”

Jake whispered, “It was a nice mug.”

You sat up abruptly, glaring at them like a storm cloud with a vendetta. “HEY. Tweedle Dee. Tweedle Dum. Shut the hell up. I’m having a justified crisis.”

They both stiffened like they’d been caught shoplifting.

You threw yourself back onto the couch again, dramatically draping your arm across your face.

Silence.

Then—

“She definitely just called us Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum,” Jake whispered.

“You’re Dum,” Sunghoon replied flatly.

“At least I didn’t cry watching Tangled.”

“…You said you wouldn’t bring that up again.”

“Then stop being Dum.”

You let out a guttural groan. “Can one of you just bring me ice cream or, like, a time machine so I can go back and tell myself to swipe left?”

Another pause.

Then quiet footsteps.

And a moment later, something cold landed in your lap.

Your favorite ice cream.

Jake didn’t say a word. Just sat on the floor in front of the couch, back leaning against it like it was the most natural thing in the world, head tilted slightly to look up at you.

He didn’t smile. Not fully. Just that soft, familiar curve of his lips that you’d seen a thousand times, always reserved for you. The kind that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t demand a response—just offered quiet presence.

Sunghoon dropped onto the floor beside him with a sigh, already scrolling through Netflix.

And you?

You breathed. For the first time all day, you breathed.

It didn’t erase the anger. Didn’t fix the betrayal. Didn’t un-stupid your ex.

But it made your chest ache a little less.

Because even in your most unhinged, spite-fueled, mascara-streaked moments—you still had this.

You had your boys.

—-

Your room was quiet, except for the low hum of the party a few buildings down—the bass thudding like a heartbeat through the floorboards, too far to join, too loud to ignore.

The fairy lights on your wall glowed soft and golden, casting little halos across your shelves, your pillows, the stack of unread books by your bed.

You sat cross-legged on your comforter, oversized hoodie bunched around your hands, hair damp from your post-meltdown shower. There was still a tightness in your chest, the kind that didn’t quite hurt, but hadn’t let you breathe fully in days.

Sunghoon stood behind you, a hairbrush in his hand.

“You sure you don’t wanna go?” he asked, gently easing the brush through the tangles near your crown.

You shrugged, slow and small. “And see him all over her? I’d rather chew glass.”

Her—being the bass player in your ex’s band. The one he swore was “just a friend” until he posted a ten-second Instagram story of himself shoving his tongue down her throat. Classy.

Honestly, you still didn’t know what you ever saw in that idiot.

Sunghoon sighed. You felt it more than you heard it—low and long, his breath ruffling a strand of your hair.

He didn’t say anything else. Just kept brushing, slow and steady, like he could detangle your hurt the way he was detangling the ends of your hair.

He always did this.

Ever since you were ten and crying after a costume mishap in the school play. He’d walked you home, sat you down, and—wordlessly—grabbed the brush from your desk. He’d been doing it ever since. Whenever your heart cracked, he patched it up strand by strand.

He even used your products now. Knew the exact amount of leave-in conditioner. Knew how to finger-detangle without tugging too hard. Knew when to talk—and more importantly, when not to.

You sat still, head tilted slightly forward, letting the rhythm lull you. The brush paused near the ends.

Then came the voice.

Quiet. Measured. A little softer than usual.

“He didn’t make you happy.”

You opened your mouth. But before anything could come out—

“Not once,” Sunghoon continued. “You bent so far backwards for him I was scared your spine would snap. And he never once met you halfway.”

You stared at your lap. Said nothing.

“I know it’s only been two days,” he said, letting out a little laugh, “but honestly? The air’s been easier to breathe without him around. Jake and I Fortnite danced to High School Musical in the living room earlier. Jake even tried to do a backflip.”

You snorted. Couldn’t help it.

Sunghoon grinned behind you. “Almost died. But I’ve never seen the boy look so free.”

You hummed, lips twitching faintly. “He wasn’t that emo.”

“He had stupid hair,” Sunghoon said flatly. “And he smelled like cigarettes and insecurity.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling.

“He called The Wind Rises boring,” you muttered.

Sunghoon gasped, mock horror in his voice. “Criminal. Unforgivable.”

He gently brushed the last of your hair over your shoulder, like a finishing touch. Then crouched in front of you, eye-level now.

And when he spoke next, the teasing was gone.

“You are the actual sun,” he said softly. “And he made you feel like a flickering lightbulb. That’s not love. That’s dimming someone just to feel taller.”

Your eyes stung, just a little.

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. He never did, when it came to you.

“I hated him from the beginning. Jake started calling him ‘the ashtray’ after the second time we all hung out. Not even behind his back. Just… said it.”

That made you laugh—truly laugh—for the first time in days. You shook your head. “You two are mean.”

“We’re honest,” Sunghoon corrected, getting to his feet. “And we love you. More than that guy ever could.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him.

And he didn’t say anything more.

Didn’t need to.

You let your head fall back against the headboard and sighed. “Okay. If you keep monologuing in my ear like this, I’m never gonna change.”

“Change?”

“You want me to go to this stupid frat party, don’t you?”

He smirked.

“Get out,” you said, pointing at the door. “Shoo. Go do your weird little victory dance with Jake.”

He walked backward, ruffling your hair on the way like a proud big brother. “She’s back,” he sing-songed, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Not if you keep talking.”

He opened the door with a dramatic bow. “I’ll tell Jake you caved.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered even after he was gone.

And yeah, your heart was still cracked.

But it felt a little less sharp now.

A little easier to carry.

And when you looked at your reflection in the mirror, your hair brushed smooth, cheeks still warm from laughter—

You didn’t look like a girl trying to forget.

You looked like someone learning how to feel light again.

—

As soon as Jake stepped through the door, he barely made it three steps before he was swallowed by chaos.

“JAKE! JAKE! JAKE!”

A rush of frat boys and soccer teammates surged toward him, loud and reckless, lifting him up like some war hero. His legs kicked midair as they carried him toward the heart of the party, chanting his name with increasing volume.

“JAKE! JAKE! MVP! MVP!”

Fairy lights spun above him, casting halos over sweat-damp foreheads. The bass pulsed through the floor, the air thick with beer and adrenaline and championship glory. Jake laughed, a little breathless, a little panicked.

“No—no, I’m good, I swear—”

Then… you saw him. Your ex. And her.

They were near the kitchen—your spot. The one you always waited at after his gigs. The one where he used to pull you into those tired, post-show hugs and whisper how glad he was you came. Now? He was there with her. Arm thrown over her shoulder like it belonged there. Like it hadn’t been around you last week. She was laughing like she’d earned it. Like she hadn’t been “just a friend” two seconds ago.

And the worst part? He looked fine. Smiling. Relaxed. Comfortable.

You weren’t sad. You didn’t miss him. But god, you were angry.

He moved on like you were an old t-shirt. Like you didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t just made you feel like you were the problem for weeks on end. Like he hadn’t convinced you to shrink for him—and then left anyway.

You stood there for one second. Just long enough to feel the burn in your chest. Long enough for your hands to curl into fists at your sides. Long enough for the blood in your veins to scream Really? Already?

Then you turned.

Fast.

Didn’t look back.

You didn’t know where you were going, only that the party felt too loud and too quiet all at once. People brushing past you, drinks in the air, music thumping. And still, all you could hear was your own pulse.

“SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS!”

You blinked—and somehow, it was your voice leading the chant.

Your heels dug into the floor. Your lip gloss was smudged. There was probably mascara under your eyes. You didn’t care. You didn’t want to care.

Someone handed you a shot. You didn’t ask what it was. You downed it like medicine.

It burned. But that was the point.

You slammed the glass down on the nearest surface. “ANOTHER!” you shouted, voice cracking, spinning in place. “Let’s go! If I’m gonna be replaced, I might as well be unforgettable!”

Someone whooped. Someone clapped. Someone handed you another.

You tossed it back.

You weren’t spiraling. You were burning.

And the only thing worse than being dumped… Was being replaced this fast. Like you didn’t even leave a dent.

You were angry.

Angry that he got to be fine. Angry that she got to stand where you used to. Angry that your hands still shook while his were busy holding someone else.

And yeah, you’d moved on too. You didn’t want him back. Not for a second.

But it still felt like something had been stolen from you.

And you needed control. Any kind.

So when someone handed you another shot, you took it. And when someone said, “You okay?” you laughed so hard it echoed. Loud, sharp, cracked.

“Never better,” you said, the words tilting sideways like your balance.

And then he stumbled toward you.

Tall. Drunk. Slurring your name like he knew you. Like he mattered.

“Hey,” he grinned, “you’re the girl Jake never shuts up about, right?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Yeah,” he said, swaying. “In the locker room. He’s always like ‘she’s so funny, she does this scrunchy angry face when she’s mad,’ and like… he’s totally into you.”

Your stomach twisted—but your face didn’t budge.

“Cool,” you muttered. “Love being a conversation topic.”

“He thinks you’re amazing,” the guy said, nodding like he just solved world peace. “Hey—have you ever considered going bald?”

You stared. “Excuse me?”

He squinted. “I bet you’d look hot with a buzzcut. You have a strong jaw. That’s what matters, right?”

And maybe it was the alcohol. Or the smoke in the air. Or the ache in your ribs.

But you laughed. Loud. Too loud. And you grabbed his wrist.

“Got scissors?” you asked.

He blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”

“Bring them. Let’s find out.”

He stumbled into the kitchen drawer and came back, holding up a dull pair of kitchen scissors like a prize.

You snatched them, raised them in the air. “Thank you, brave soldier,” you said dramatically. “Now go lay down before you die of alcohol poisoning.”

And you turned, marching up the stairs like a woman with a mission and a pair of scissors she had no business holding.

Jake was mid-conversation when Jungwon ran up, breathless.

“Dude. DUDE. Your girl—she just went upstairs. With scissors. Talking about rebirth.”

Jake blinked. “What?”

“She said something about French bangs and reinvention and then took the stairs like a goddamn hurricane.”

Jake didn’t even think.

He ran.

Bolted through the crowd, shouldered past two people doing body shots, and took the stairs two at a time.

Because he knew you.

He knew that look. That chaos. That split-second decision to feel anything other than the helpless, boiling anger clawing through your chest.

He remembered it from middle school, when someone said your braces made you look like a robot and you tried to cut them out yourself with nail clippers. He remembered it last year, when your cat died and you bleached your bangs at 3AM.

Jake had always known your brand of chaos.

And he had always shown up before it got too far.

Now, he shoved open the bathroom door with zero hesitation.

“Don’t—”

The words died in his throat.

Because there you were.

Standing in the middle of someone else’s bathroom, scissors in hand, eyes glassy and smile way too proud.

“Jakey!” you beamed. “I did it!”

He froze.

There was a pile of hair on the counter. Your bangs—if you could call them that—sat uneven across your forehead. One was short. The other… shorter.

One eye was half covered. The other? Wide, glassy, wild.

Jake covered his mouth with both hands.

“Princess,” he whispered.

“Do I look like Tyra Banks?” you asked earnestly.

Jake blinked. Took a step forward. Then another.

And slowly—so gently—took the scissors from your hand.

His voice dropped to a hush. Steady. Calm. Familiar.

“Hey,” he said. “Let’s put these down, yeah?”

You pouted. “But I wasn’t done.”

He gave you a small smile. “You were perfect before you even started.”

Your lips parted.

His eyes searched yours, scanning every flicker of emotion you were trying to bury beneath alcohol and eyeliner and rebellion.

“You don’t need to do this,” he said. “You’re angry. I get it. I swear I get it. But cutting your bangs at a frat party is not justice.”

You blinked. The world tilted slightly.

“He moved on,” you whispered. “Like I was nothing. Like I was just a placeholder.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. His grip on the scissors hardened.

“You were never a placeholder,” he said, voice sharper now. “You were the whole damn story. He was just a footnote.”

Your eyes welled, but no tears fell. Not yet.

“You’re angry. And you have every right to be,” he said, stepping closer, his hand brushing your cheek. “But don’t punish yourself because he couldn’t see your worth.”

Your lip trembled.

“You think I’m punishing myself?” you asked.

Jake smiled softly. “Princess, look at your bangs.”

You let out a snort. A real one. Ugly and sharp and full of sudden breath.

“I look like an art student who lost a bet.”

Jake laughed. “You look like you could start a girl gang and lead a revolution.”

His voice dropped again. Gentle. Unshakable.

“But you still look like you. And you look perfect.”

You didn’t know what possessed you, but your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. Like holding onto something solid in the middle of a storm.

Jake leaned down, resting his forehead against yours.

“You don’t have to set yourself on fire to prove you're still burning,” he whispered. “You’re enough. Even when you’re mad. Even when you're messy. Even with gravity-defying bangs.”

Your breath hitched. The room stilled.

And finally, finally, your heart began to slow.

You closed your eyes.

And Jake just held you there.

Right in the middle of the chaos, in someone else's bathroom, with scissors on the counter and party noise below—

He held you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like he’d always been the one who would.

—

The next morning came quicker than you wanted. Your head throbbed, your mouth tasted like the inside of a frat house, and your body ached in weird places. But none of that mattered.

Because the second you looked in the mirror— “AAAAAAAAAAAH!”

The scream tore through the apartment like a war siren.

Sunghoon shot upright in bed, blanket wrapped around his legs like a noose. “WHAT THE—?!”

Jake fell off the couch with a dramatic thud, landing in a heap of hoodie and boxers. “SHE’S DYING, SHE’S BEING KIDNAPPED, THE LOVE OF—”

Both boys sprinted down the hallway like the apartment was on fire.

They crashed into your room, out of breath, expecting blood or a ghost or at least an explosion.

Instead, they found you standing in front of the mirror, gripping your bangs in both hands like you could physically undo last night.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” you wailed, your voice cracking halfway into a sob. “WHY DIDN’T ANYONE STOP ME?!”

Jake froze.

Sunghoon stared.

“I told you we should’ve hidden the mirror,” Sunghoon muttered.

“We have a bathroom,” Jake hissed back.

You whirled around dramatically, face streaked with tears, eyes wide and watery, holding up a sad tuft of hair like it was a smoking gun.

“I ruined my life!”

Jake opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Because, truthfully?

Your hair looked like it had been through a war. A bad one. Like a rodent got stuck halfway through building a nest and gave up. It was uneven in four different directions. The bangs… bent at angles. You defied geometry. Possibly physics.

Sure, you looked pretty. Beautiful. Perfect, even.

But that was only because Jake was in love with you.

And love had a way of turning disaster into art. Even when the art looked like a sewer rat.

Sunghoon sighed and rubbed his face. “I’ll make pancakes.”

He turned and walked out without waiting for a response. Pancakes were your household’s official emergency protocol.

Jake stayed. Still in the doorway. Still barefoot and half-asleep, but trying really hard not to laugh and even harder not to love you more for looking like this and still somehow being the most you he’d ever seen.

You looked up at him with trembling lips, eyes full of absolute heartbreak.

“I look like I lost a fight with a Edward Scissorhands.”

Jake blinked. “C’mere.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You launched yourself at him like a flying koala, knocking him flat on his back. You landed in a tangled heap of limbs and cotton and regret, curled into his chest, face shoved against his hoodie.

“I’M UGLY!” you wailed.

Jake didn’t even flinch. He wrapped his arms around you, full-on bear-hug style, holding you like he was trying to glue your shattered pieces back together.

“No, you’re not,” he murmured.

You let out a sound that was half sob, half snort, and buried your face deeper into his chest.

“You’re not ugly,” he said again, voice quieter now. “You’re the cutest person I’ve ever seen with a rat’s nest on their forehead.”

You groaned. “I look like Coconut Head from Ned’s Declassified.”

Jake snorted. Actually snorted.

Which made you groan even louder and smack his chest half-heartedly.

“I’m never going outside again,” you mumbled.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “We’ll start a new civilization here. No mirrors. Unlimited pancakes. Sunghoon and I will scavenge for food outside, bring it back here to feed you and our rat children.”

You sniffed.

“I’ll knit you a beanie,” he added. “It’ll say ‘emotional damage’ in rhinestones.”

From the kitchen, Sunghoon shouted, “There’s only enough chocolate chips for one stack, so I’m taking nominations for who’s had the most public breakdowns in the past 24 hours.”

“I CUT MY OWN BANGS AT A FRAT PARTY!” you yelled into Jake’s hoodie.

“And we have our winner!” Sunghoon replied.

Jake chuckled beneath you, brushing a strand of hair gently out of your eyes—or at least tried to. One strand was… vertical.

You blinked up at him. “I want them gone.”

Jake smoothed his hand through the top of your hair. “Let me try to fix them?”

You squinted. “Can you?”

“No,” he admitted. “But if I mess it up, you’ll get to yell at me instead of yourself.”

You stared at him.

He gave you that stupid little grin—warm, patient, already yours.

You sighed. “Deal.”

Jake grinned wider, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. “Okay. Let me grab scissors, YouTube, and a whole lot of…uh…prayer.”

You smiled, soft and reluctant. But real.

Because even with tragic bangs, a hangover, and your dignity in shambles—

Jake made it all feel survivable.

Maybe even a little bit okay.

You were still in Jake’s lap, curled up like a broken barbie from a 6 year old with plastic scissors, when he sat up slowly, fingers brushing back your hair with more care than you thought anyone could ever use on someone so messily undone.

“Alright,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Let’s fix this rat’s nest.”

You sniffled, eyes puffy. “You mean my hair?”

Jake’s lips quirked. “Same thing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Say one more dumb thing and I’ll cry again.”

He grinned and stood, effortlessly lifting you into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Jake—” you squeaked, clinging to him. “What are you doing?!”

“You’ve clearly lost your decision-making privileges. You’re emotionally unstable. And you keep sniffling like a baby bird,” he said matter-of-factly. “So, I’m airlifting you to your redemption arc.”

You buried your face into his hoodie. “You smell like detergent and protectiveness.”

“You smell like tequila and impulsive choices.”

He walked you into the bathroom and set you carefully onto the counter, warm hands steady at your waist as you adjusted your balance. The moment you were settled, he stepped between your knees without hesitation, reaching for the comb and scissors.

You blinked. Suddenly, the bathroom was a little too quiet. A little too warm. And Jake was a little too close.

“I’m gonna try to even these out,” he murmured, running his fingers gently through your bangs. “Try being the keyword.”

“I feel like this is where I die.”

“You look like a girl on the brink of a villain origin story.”

“Perfect,” you muttered. “Make me look dangerous.”\

As you sat still on the bathroom counter, knees lightly brushing his chest. Jake picked up the scissors again, his brows drawn tight in concentration.

He was taking it seriously. Too seriously. His tongue peeked out just slightly as he combed a section of your hair, eyes sharp, focused like he was performing life-saving surgery instead of fixing your tequila-fueled haircut.

You smiled—couldn’t help it. Because how was he still so cute, even now? Even while fixing the disaster you made of your bangs, looking like an overworked stylist with something to prove.

He tilted his head, snipped gently. Paused. Tilted again.

“Stop smiling,” he muttered, eyes still fixed on your hair.

“I’m not,” you said, definitely smiling.

“I can feel it.”

You laughed softly. “You’re just cute when you’re stressed.”

That made his hands falter. Just a little.

But he didn’t say anything. Just cleared his throat and kept going, slower now—more careful. Like he was stalling. Or maybe... savoring.

Jake leaned in just a little, brow furrowed in quiet concentration. “Hold still,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked. “What—”

“There’s a bit of hair on your face,” he murmured.

His hand came up gently, fingers brushing the side of your cheek as he tried to sweep away the tiny, stubborn strand that had clung to your skin. You froze.

Because Jake—without even thinking—tilted your chin up with one hand, and with the other, he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered against your jaw, fingers grazing your cheek, and then staying there.

You froze.

Jake didn’t move either.

His hand remained cupped on your face. His thumb brushed your skin. And his eyes—God, his eyes were locked on yours like they were holding something he hadn’t meant to let show.

You could feel the shift in the air. Heavy. Quiet. Like the entire world was holding its breath, waiting.

His gaze flicked to your lips. Just for a second.

And then it flicked back.

But it was enough.

Your heart stuttered. Your knees curled inward, brushing his hips. He leaned in—slowly, almost unconsciously. You could feel his breath now. Feel the tension between you, burning like something fragile and explosive all at once.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

It was so close. One more inch. Half an inch. Less than that.

You could see the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked. The way his jaw clenched like he was holding something back.

His forehead almost touched yours.

And just when you thought he might do it—just when your lips parted like they were waiting—

“GET YOUR DAMN PANCAKES!” Sunghoon’s voice echoed through the apartment like an accidental earthquake.

You jolted.

Jake stepped back too fast, hands dropping like they’d been burned.

You blinked hard, your pulse pounding.

“Right,” you said, hopping off the counter like it wasn’t shaking beneath you. “Breakfast.”

“Let’s go,” Jake said, voice too casual, too quick.

Neither of you looked at each other as you walked out of the bathroom.

But your fingers were still tingling.

And Jake’s heart was still lodged somewhere in his throat.—

The three of you were seated around the kitchen table. You sat across from Jake. The air smelled like sugar, butter, and unbearable tension.

Normally by now, you and Jake would’ve been locked in a battle of sarcastic wits, tag-teaming insults about Sunghoon’s tragic playlists or the sociopathic way he peeled his oranges.

But this morning?

Silence.

Sunghoon was the only one talking.

And he noticed.

“…So I told her, yes, I do moisturize, actually, and no, you can’t just borrow my $60 toner like it’s a sample at Sephora,” he said, pausing only to cut a triangle of pancake. “Anyway. These are the fluffiest pancakes I’ve ever made. Probably because I put love into them and not repressed rage, for once.”

You nodded absently. Jake let out a weird little hum like he was underwater.

Sunghoon squinted at you both.

He continued, tone flattening: “Also, I’m quitting college to become a juice bar cult leader. I’ll sell turmeric shots and emotional detachment.”

Sunghoon blinked slowly.

“…Hello?”

Silence.

He dropped his fork dramatically. “Okay. What is going on?!”

You and Jake looked up at the same time, startled like toddlers caught stealing cookies.

“You’re both being weird,” Sunghoon said, stabbing his fork in the air like a courtroom prosecutor. “Aren’t you usually bickering by now? Or pelting me with toast? Or roasting my skincare routine?”

You blinked. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Jake coughed. “Totally fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Sunghoon snapped. “You’re sitting there like someone died. Did the bang trauma finally kill your friendship? Was it the haircut? Did a ghost tell you to never speak again?”

Sunghoon turned to Jake. “And you. You haven’t insulted me once. Not even when I said I wanted to start a juice cult.”

Jake shoved pancake in his mouth. “I support your passions.”

Sunghoon froze.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Who are you two?!”

You and Jake exchanged a glance.

Sunghoon’s jaw dropped. “No. No. No—”

“What?” you said too quickly.

Jake sipped his coffee like it was spiked with sedatives.

Sunghoon pointed at both of you. “Something happened. I don’t know what. But if this is about some repressed ‘we accidentally almost kissed while trimming tragic bangs’ situation, I swear to god I will scream.”

You choked on your juice.

Jake muttered, “N–nothing happened.”

Sunghoon leaned back, crossing his arms like a dad about to issue consequences.

“Right,” he said. “And I’m emotionally stable.”

He stood suddenly and grabbed his coat off the hook by the door.

You looked up. “Where are you going?”

Jake jolted upright. “Wait—wait. What? Where ya goin’, man?” His voice cracked slightly.

Sunghoon didn’t even blink. “Out.”

Jake laughed nervously. “Nooo, don’t go. We’re having a good time. Bonding. Pancakes. Healing.”

“Yeah,” you said with a smile that definitely wasn’t panicked. “Stay. We can watch something. I won’t even make fun of you for picking a romcom from the 60s.”

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes.

“…You two are being so weird right now.”

Jake blinked. “What? No.”

“Totally normal,” you said simultaneously.

The tension between you and Jake buzzed like a power line. Sunghoon stared. You and Jake sat a full cushion apart on the couch, but somehow it felt like you were breathing the same air.

After a pause, Sunghoon grabbed the doorknob.

“I’m gonna get some more eggs, we ran out of them.” he muttered, and slammed the door behind him.

Silence.

One beat.

Two.

Then you and Jake both shot up and retreated to your rooms at the exact same time, slamming your doors like a choreographed sitcom exit.

You paced around your room.

Back and forth. Arms crossed. Hair bouncing (the parts you hadn’t murdered). You could still feel the ghost of Jake’s hand on your jaw.

Yes. Okay. Sure. You almost kissed him in the bathroom. But let’s review.

You were vulnerable.

You just got dumped.

Your bangs looked like they were cut by a raccoon with ADHD.

It meant nothing.

…Right?

You stopped and groaned into your hands. “It was the vulnerability. I was emotionally compromised and Jake’s dumb face got too close.”

You paused.

“…Jake’s dumb, pretty face…”

—

Late in the afternoon, you wandered into the kitchen with a bowl of greens and the vague desire to do something normal. Something quiet. Something safe. Your fingers moved on autopilot as you chopped vegetables—lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers—something about the rhythm calming the noise in your head.

Until you heard it.

The shuffle of feet down the hallway. That familiar cadence. Soft, unhurried. Jake Sim.

You paused mid-slice.

Jake walked in a second later, completely unaware you were already there—ramen in one hand, phone in the other, texting with his usual boyish ease. The hoodie he wore was slightly rumpled. His hair still damp from a shower. He looked so effortlessly himself it made your chest ache.

He looked up.

And froze.

Your eyes met for one long, breathless second. Too long. Too much.

Then he spun around so fast he nearly dropped the ramen.

He stood in the doorway, awkwardly half-turned, clearly debating whether bolting would make things better or worse. The silence was loud.

After a beat, he cleared his throat and forced himself to turn back.

“Cool,” he said, voice pitched an octave too high. “Great. Dinner.”

He grabbed a pot from the cabinet like it was a lifeline. Filled it at the sink with determined focus, pretending not to glance at you from the corner of his eye.

You turned back to your chopping. Tried to focus.

But the air in the kitchen had shifted—thicker now. Heavier. Like all that nearly-spilled affection from the bathroom was still clinging to your sleeves.

You could feel him next to you. Could sense every inch of space he left between you. Could feel every inch he didn’t.

Then you both reached for the stove.

At the same time.

Your fingers brushed.

You both flinched.

“Sorry—” you mumbled.

“No—you—uh—go ahead—” he said quickly.

It should’ve been fine. It was a stove. It was cooking.

But it wasn’t.

Now you were standing shoulder to shoulder, the side of his arm barely grazing yours every few seconds, and it was like touching static. Every brush sent sparks to your spine.

His noodles boiled. Your chicken sizzled.

And still, neither of you moved.

Jake kept stealing glances—tiny, fleeting ones, like he couldn’t help it. Like he needed to make sure you were real. You weren’t looking at him, but you felt him looking. You felt it like a pulse.

Your heart wouldn’t stop tripping over itself.

This is nothing, you told yourself. It’s proximity. It’s leftover tension. You’re vulnerable, fresh off a breakup. You’re not—

You reached for the pan.

Too close.

Your fingers hit the hot edge. Hard.

“Shit—ow!” you gasped, jerking your hand back.

Jake turned like he’d been shot.

“What happened?!” His voice was sharp with panic as he lunged toward you. “Are you okay?!”

“I just—I touched the—” Your words tumbled over each other as you blinked at your hand, already stinging and red, the skin rising into a welt.

Jake didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed your wrist with both hands—gentle but urgent—and rushed you to the sink, flipping the faucet with his elbow. The cold water hit the burn and made you wince.

But you barely felt it.

Because all you could feel was Jake’s hands wrapped around yours. His thumb against your pulse. His breath too close. His panic louder than yours.

“You okay?” he asked again, eyes never leaving the burn. “Can you feel this? Are you dizzy? Why aren’t you saying anything—why are you—”

He stopped.

Because you were smiling.

Barely. Just the smallest curl at the corners of your mouth.

But it was there.

And so was he. Right there in front of you, looking like he was breaking apart from how badly he wanted to keep you safe. Like your pain physically hurt him.

No one had ever looked at you like that before.

And suddenly, everything shifted.

Because in that moment—burning finger, cold water, trembling hands—you knew.

You were falling for Jake.

And maybe you had been for a while.

The realization made your chest tighten. Made your throat close. You looked at him and your heart skipped like it knew this moment mattered.

Jake helped you sit on the counter, still holding your hand like it might disappear. He moved carefully—so carefully—as he opened the first aid kit, his lips pressed together in a worried line.

He dabbed ointment on the burn with a lightness that made your chest ache. His brows furrowed as he wrapped the bandage, his thumb stroking the back of your hand like a whisper.

“You never pay attention,” he muttered, voice tight with concern. “Always spacing out. Always in your head. It’s like you want me to have a heart attack.”

“You make me worry so much it’s insane,” he whispered. Like he hadn’t meant to say it. Like it spilled out before he could catch it.

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Not when your pulse was roaring in your ears and his touch made you feel like you might float out of your body.

Then you heard it—quiet, almost to himself.

“God, you’re the only person in the world who makes me feel like this.”

“Like what?” You mumbled.

“Like I’m going fucking insane.”

Jake’s eyes widened a second too late. Like he’d only just realized he said it out loud.

You stared at him.

“…Say that again,” you whispered.

“I didn’t—” he started, panicking. “I didn’t mean—”

You slid off the counter slowly. Your hand still throbbed—but your heart was louder. Too loud.

You looked at him. And in his eyes, you saw everything.

The longing. The panic. The thousand things he wasn’t saying.

And then—

“If you’re gonna keep having slow-burn movie moments in the kitchen, at least don’t do it in the kitchen.”

You both jumped.

Sunghoon stood in the doorway, a grocery bag in one hand and a carton of eggs in the other. His eyebrows were already in judgmental orbit.

Jake stammered, “We weren’t—!”

“You were,” Sunghoon said, breezing past. “You were doing the eye thing.”

“What eye thing?” you asked, flustered.

“The longing one. With the breathing and the tragic backlighting. The tragic yearning...it’s disgusting.”

—

The BBQ joint was already full when you walked in—heat rising from tabletop grills, laughter spilling over like steam, the air thick with the smell of sizzling meat and farewell speeches. You stood at the entrance for a second, bag slung over your shoulder, your heart thudding a little faster than necessary.

You weren’t even sure why you’d come.

Sunghoon had bailed last minute, claiming a “group project emergency,” and you could’ve easily ghosted too. But something had pulled you here—maybe the closure, maybe the company, maybe the quiet, ridiculous hope that things might feel normal again. That you might feel normal again.

Your eyes swept the room, searching for a familiar face.

And there he was.

Jake, halfway across the restaurant, hunched slightly in his chair as he laughed at something someone said. His hair was a little messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His denim jacket hung on the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up as he reached for the grill tongs, utterly unaware that he’d just knocked the breath out of you.

You took a step forward. Small. Tentative. A part of you hoping—aching—that maybe he’d seen you already. He saved you a seat.

But then you froze.

Because a girl slid into the chair beside him.

She was pretty. Confident. One of those girls who didn’t need to try to draw attention. She leaned in with ease, like they already knew each other. She laughed, tossed her hair, said something that made Jake glance over and smile—polite, soft.

Not your smile.

Your feet stayed planted. Your throat tightened, jealousy wrapping around your chest like a rope. You didn’t want to feel it. You didn’t even know what it meant. But there it was.

That empty chair had never not been yours before.

And now, suddenly, it wasn’t.

You blinked hard and turned on your heel, moving so fast it felt like fleeing. You didn’t care where you sat—anywhere but there. Anywhere but near him and her.

Jay looked up from his grill station just in time to see you drop into the seat next to him with the force of someone trying to bury a feeling. His eyebrows lifted, chopsticks paused mid-turn.

“Woah,” he said, startled. “Dramatic entrance. Everything okay?”

You forced a smile that didn’t quite make it past your cheeks. “Peachy.”

Jay looked unconvinced.

You stared hard at the sizzling grill in front of you. The sound of meat crackling felt louder than the conversations around you. Too loud. Too sharp. But not sharp enough to cut through the coil of emotion in your chest.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Jake glance your way. Brief, unsure. You didn’t look back.

Instead, you reached for a piece of lettuce like it wronged you in a past life and stabbed your chopsticks through it.

Jay watched you for a moment, then cautiously leaned in. “Sooo... wanna tell me why you look like you’re about to wrestle that cabbage?”

You didn’t answer.

Because on the other side of the table, Jake was laughing again. Soft. Casual. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t been on the verge of kissing you in a bathroom two weeks ago. Like he didn’t used to look at you first when he walked into a room.

But today, he didn’t.

He looked at her.

Something sharp twisted in your gut. Something bitter.

Jealousy, maybe. Or disappointment.

Not that he was talking to someone else.

But that he let her sit there. That he gave away your spot like it never mattered.

Your jaw clenched. You shoved the lettuce into your mouth like it was responsible for your emotional spiral.

Jay winced in sympathy. “So… no comment?”

“None.”

“Cool, cool. I’ll just assume you’re possessed and move on.”

He turned back to the grill, wisely choosing not to push further. You didn’t notice, but your shoulders stayed tense. You didn’t speak. You didn’t breathe right. Your fingers picked apart a piece of grilled pork until it was unrecognizable.

Across the table, Jungwon raised his voice.

“Hey! Let’s talk about the class’s power couple!”

You looked up mid-chew. Wrong move.

“Jake and her, obviously!” he said, pointing at you both with a grin like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You nearly choked on your lettuce. “Yang Jungwon, I will throw this piece of meat in your face if you don’t–”

Jay coughed into his drink. “Here we go.”

Jungwon beamed. “What? You’re always together. It’s, like, a known thing.”

Someone else piped in. “It’s true. Jake’s always doing the sweetest things for her. Didn’t he bring you bubble tea for a whole week when you got your wisdom teeth out?”

“And didn’t he carry your whole bag once when your wrist hurt?”

“And hold your umbrella even though he was getting soaked?” Everyone at the table nodded, laughing. Agreeing. Smiling at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You flushed.

Jake stayed quiet.

Still across the table.

Still next to her.

And still not looking at you.

The realization hit slow and hard—like a wave you’d tried to outrun finally catching your heels.

Everyone saw it.

Everyone had always seen it.

Except you.

Until now.

Your throat felt dry. Your chest felt hollow. And your skewer? Obliterated. You stabbed through the last piece of beef with more aggression than necessary.

Jay leaned over and whispered, “You’re gonna set off the smoke alarm if you keep grilling that poor meat.”

You didn’t respond.

Because the chair he used to save for you wasn’t yours anymore.

And for the first time—you realized how much that seat had mattered.

You didn’t even realize how tightly your hands were gripping your chopsticks until your knuckles turned white. Your jaw ached from how long you’d been clenching it. Everyone at the table laughed at something you didn’t hear, and it felt like you were underwater—sound muffled, air thick, eyes locked on your untouched plate.

You hadn’t meant to care so much.

It was just a chair.

Just a seat at a dinner party.

But it was your seat. The one he always saved without asking. The one he used to pat with a grin like, "Reserved for royalty." The one where your jacket used to end up without thinking, your chopsticks already unwrapped by the time you sat down.

So seeing someone else sitting there—smiling like she belonged there—felt like stepping into a memory and realizing it didn’t remember you back.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

You weren’t together. Not really. Not even close.

But god, that seat had never been up for grabs before.

You slid into the open spot across the table like it didn’t burn, even though every movement felt like betrayal. Like you were betraying yourself by still hoping for something you couldn’t even name.

And then, he tapped your shoulder.

You stiffened immediately, already knowing it was him.

Jake.

The very air changed when he was around. Lighter, tighter, like it had more weight and less oxygen at the same time.

“Hey,” he said, voice easy. Too easy.

You didn’t look at him.

Tap.

“Princess.”

You froze.

Your throat tightened.

Because Princess used to be the softest thing in the world. A tease. A comfort. A reminder that he knew you, saw you, adored you in all the quiet ways he never said aloud.

But now?

It felt… different. Tainted.

It didn’t land the same when your chair was already taken. When he’d let someone else into the only space you thought was sacred.

So you didn’t turn.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t soften.

He hesitated—like he felt the shift, too.

“Hmph,” you crossed your arms like a child.

Jake’s voice dropped, lower this time. “Why are you mad at me?”

You still didn’t answer.

He let out a slow breath and walked around the table instead, crouching beside your chair like a boy trying to pick up something broken.

Your gaze stayed glued to your half-torn napkin.

“Is it… about the seat?” he asked, voice gentler now. Like maybe he already knew the answer. Like he knew exactly what that seat meant.

Your silence answered for you.

Jake swallowed hard.

“I wasn’t thinking,” he murmured. “She sat down before I even before I realized you were coming. I swear, I wasn’t trying to—”

“To what?” you cut in, quiet but sharp. “Replace me?”

Jake flinched.

You regretted it instantly. But not enough to take it back.

Because that seat—that tiny, stupid thing—meant something. And tonight, he let someone else take it like it didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “I should’ve waited for you. I should’ve saved it.”

Your hands tightened in your lap. “Forget it.”

“Princess,” he said again, softer now. Pleading. Like maybe if he said it right, it would mean the same thing it used to.

But it didn’t.

Not tonight.

You looked up, finally meeting his eyes.

And he looked wrecked. Not in the dramatic, cinematic way. Just quietly ruined. Like he hadn’t realized how deep this cut would go. Like he was only just now understanding what he’d done.

You turned away before it could get worse.

Before your face could say too much.

Jake didn’t move.

Didn’t say another word.

Just sat there beside you like he would’ve done anything to rewind the night and start over.

But some things you couldn’t undo.

You were chewing in silence, half your brain stuck in a loop of spiraling thoughts and the other half… fully aware of Jake beside you. The way he kept glancing at you every few seconds. The way his leg bounced under the table like he had something to say but didn’t know how to say it.

You shifted in your seat.

He didn’t look at you, but he nudged your knee gently with his.

Then came his voice—soft, tentative, like he was knocking on a door he wasn’t sure he was allowed to open.

“I still owe you a prize.”

Your head turned.

Jake was already half smiling. That crooked, boyish smile that always cracked something open in your chest.

You blinked. “…What?”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“…Two,” you whispered.

Jake turned, hand still hidden behind his back—and slowly revealed two fingers.

Your breath hitched. Just barely.

He smiled wider now, eyes lighting up like he’d been holding that hope in all night.

“Correct,” he said gently. “Which means…”

Jake stood up suddenly, brushing his hands on his jeans. “Wait here.”

You blinked again. “What? Where are you going—?”

He was already walking off, dodging servers and plates of steaming food. He made a beeline toward the front of the restaurant where the owner stood at the counter, scribbling on receipts.

From your seat, you watched him gesture animatedly. He pointed to a pen. Then to a napkin. The owner blinked, clearly confused, but handed him a small notepad and a black pen.

You watched Jake furrow his brows, crouching at a little side table and scribbling furiously, tongue poking out slightly as he focused. His shoulders hunched like he was working on something important.

He returned a minute later, cheeks flushed with effort, pen still tucked behind his ear like an afterthought.

Without saying a word, he slid the paper toward you.

“Your prize,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes.

You looked down.

It was a drawing.

A bad drawing.

Stick figures, crooked lines, and a questionable attempt at your haircut—short, jagged bangs that stuck out at odd angles, cartoonishly captured in the most chaotic way possible. You almost laughed.

But then your eyes caught the words scribbled underneath:

‘Even with that haircut, you’re still the prettiest girl in the world.’

Your breath hitched.

You looked up.

Jake was pretending to sip water, very invested in the contents of his cup.

Your fingers tightened around the edges of the paper.

“…You’re such an idiot,” you whispered.

His gaze finally flicked to yours.

And even in the low lighting of the restaurant, you saw it.

The softness.

The hope.

The fear.

Like he didn’t know how you’d take it—but he meant every word anyway.

Your throat was suddenly too tight.

You didn’t say anything else.

You didn’t have to.

Because you were still holding the drawing.

—

You slipped your bag over your shoulder, the strap digging slightly into your coat as you muttered a quick goodbye to Jay and Jungwon. They teased you on the way out—of course they did.

The air outside hit your face like a wall. Sharp. Cold. Honest.

You exhaled, breath clouding in the dark. The city lights blurred into little golden halos around you as you wrapped your scarf with clumsy fingers, your hands still shaky from the night. From everything.

And then—

“Wait—hey!”

You turned.

Jake.

He was jogging after you, his jacket flapping open behind him, cheeks flushed red from the heat inside meeting the cold outside. His hair was a little windblown. His eyes found yours like they always did—easily, like home.

You blinked, lips parting. “What are you—”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” he asked, breath puffing in the cold. He slowed beside you, steps syncing with yours before you even answered.

You paused, your fingers still tangled in your scarf.

“…Weren’t you still talking to her?” you asked softly. Softer than you meant to. Your voice barely carried.

The silence stretched between you.

Then, wordlessly, Jake reached for your scarf.

You froze.

“Here,” he murmured, fingers brushing yours. “You always do it too tight.”

He didn’t wait for permission. His hands moved gently, expertly—unraveling the mess you’d twisted, smoothing the soft fabric like he’d done it a hundred times. Like muscle memory.

His knuckles grazed your jaw as he tucked the ends in.

You held your breath.

And when you finally looked up, he was already watching you.

You, wrapped in the coat he gave you. In the scarf he’d fixed. In the silence he hadn’t tried to fill with anything other than quiet care.

“I’d rather be walking us home,” Jake said gently. Not a question. Not even a request.

And still—you let him.

The two of you walked slowly, the glow of streetlamps casting long shadows across the pavement.

Jake was rambling beside you—something about Jungwon’s tragic karaoke and lettuce on a grill—but your mind was somewhere else entirely.

It was on him.

It was on every version of him.

On all the times he showed up when he didn’t have to. On all the gentle, quiet ways he loved you without asking for anything back.

On the umbrella he always tilted toward you.

On the bubble teas and playlists and dumb printed emoji sheets.

It hit you so hard you physically stopped walking.

Jake didn’t notice until he took two more steps and realized your footsteps had vanished.

“—and I swear, if he ever touches a mic again—wait, hey, you okay?”

He turned around.

You stood there, frozen in place, eyes wide and glassy like you were realizing something you couldn’t un-realize.

Jake’s face shifted instantly.

“W-What’s wrong?” he asked, stepping forward, concern flashing across his face. “Did I say something? Are you—”

You didn’t answer.

You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him—just like that. No hesitation.

You pressed your cheek against his shoulder, arms looping around his back like you needed to hold something steady. Like he was the only thing steady enough to hold.

Jake stilled.

Completely.

And then his arms came around you.

Slow. Firm. Certain.

You felt his hand press gently into your back, the other cupping the back of your neck like he was trying to piece you back together with touch alone.

Your voice cracked when it came out.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His breath hitched. “Tell you what?”

“That you’ve been in love with me.”

Silence.

Jake went still again. His hand flexed slightly against your back.

You pulled back just enough to see him—your hands still clutching his coat, his eyes wide, mouth parted, heart in his throat.

“That would’ve made everything so much simpler,” you said, voice trembling. “Maybe I wouldn’t have dated that idiot. Maybe I would’ve chosen you. A long time ago.”

Jake looked stunned. His lips parted like he wanted to say something—but you didn’t let him.

“I thought you were just being nice,” you whispered. “I thought… you saw me, maybe, like a sister. I didn’t know…you–”

His brows drew together. Something deep and aching passed across his face.

“I’m sorry,” you went on. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it. You’ve always been there. Always. And I never looked at you the way I should’ve. Not until it was too late.”

Jake stared at you like you’d just knocked the air out of him.

And then.

He cupped your jaw with both hands.

Thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks. Fingers resting gently, reverently, like you were porcelain. His eyes were locked on yours, searching. Burning.

And then he leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t tentative.

It was everything he’d held in.

Years of friendship, of quiet pining, of every moment he almost let it slip and didn’t—it all spilled into that one kiss.

His lips found yours with a kind of desperate relief. Like coming home. Like breathing after drowning. Like maybe, finally, he didn’t have to hold it back anymore.

Your hands curled into the front of his coat. You tilted up into him, breath catching as he deepened the kiss—his hands sliding into your hair, one curling at the nape of your neck, the other still cupping your jaw like he couldn’t bear to let go.

His lips moved, with tenderness, with the kind of aching care that made your knees weak and your chest full to bursting.

When he finally pulled back—just barely—you were both breathless.

Your noses brushed.

His hands didn’t move.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes still closed, as if he couldn’t look at you and survive it.

“You didn’t have to see it back then,” he whispered. “I loved you anyway. I always have.”

You closed your eyes.

And kissed him again.

Because you didn’t need to say it yet.

You were already saying it in every breath.

And Jake?

Jake held you like he’d waited his whole life to because well…he did.

Because maybe you hadn’t fallen first.

But you were falling harder now.

You barely made it halfway down the street before you stopped again—just to kiss him.

It started soft.

His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing lightly beneath your cheekbone as your lips pressed to his, slow and testing, like you were still trying to figure out how this all worked now. How it was real. His nose brushed yours. Your fingers curled in the collar of his coat, tugging him just a little closer.

You took three steps.

Then stopped again.

This time his hands slipped lower—one landing on your hip, the other skimming the small of your back as he leaned in again, mouth warm and insistent. His kiss deepened, lips parting against yours, breath catching in his throat as your fingers found the hair at the nape of his neck and tugged, just a little.

“Jake,” you mumbled against his mouth, your nose nudging his cheek, “we’re literally in public.”

He didn’t move away.

Just smiled against your lips. “Not my fault you’re addictive.”

You rolled your eyes.

And then kissed him again.

Longer. Slower. Your body pressed into his chest as his arm wrapped firmly around your waist. He tasted like cinnamon gum and the cold air between you. His teeth grazed your bottom lip before his lips found yours again, open and hungry now.

By the time you reached your building, the two of you were fully drunk on it—on each other.

He had you backed up gently against the brick wall by your door, your back hitting it with a soft thud. His hands braced either side of your head. Yours slid down his chest, fingers dragging across the buttons of his jacket before slipping underneath and fisting in his hoodie.

His forehead rested against yours, your noses brushing.

“I can't believe I get to do this now,” Jake whispered, breathless, lips still ghosting over yours. “Like this. With you.”

You smiled, whispering back against his mouth, “I should’ve kissed you years ago.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his mouth dipping lower, kissing along your jaw before finding your lips again. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten to fall in love with you like this.”

Your arms curled around his neck. You were just about to pull him back in when—

“OH MY GOD. MY EYES!”

You both jerked away.

Jake turned first, one hand still protectively on your waist. You peeked around his shoulder, blinking through the haze of hormones and heat.

Sunghoon.

Standing frozen a few feet away, grocery bag in hand, jaw dropped so hard it could’ve cracked the sidewalk.

“SERIOUSLY?!” he shouted, voice breaking with disbelief. “MY ONE NIGHT OUT?! THIS IS WHAT I COME HOME TO? TONGUE WRESTLING? ON THE DOORSTEP?”

You immediately hid your face in Jake’s shoulder, laughing so hard you nearly collapsed.

Jake just grinned. “You’re just jealous you’re bitter, old, and single.”

“I LIVE HERE, YOU FERAL ANIMALS.”

You peeked up, cheeks burning, still giggling like a teenager. Jake reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers like he’d been doing it forever. His thumb traced slow circles on your skin.

Jake giggled, stepped in, slow and sure, until there was barely an inch between you. His hand let go of yours only to slide around your waist, pulling you in until your chest brushed his. His other hand found your jaw again, thumb grazing your cheekbone.

And then he kissed you. Again. Harder this time.

Behind you, Sunghoon made an actual gagging noise. “CUT IT OUT! This is why I prayed for your downfall, Jake.”

Jake just tugged you toward the elevator, still holding your hand.

—-

You barely made it into the apartment before Sunghoon yelled from his bedroom, voice muffled through the door:

“I’M NEVER WASHING YOUR LAUNDRY AGAIN.”

You and Jake burst into laughter, tripping over each other as you kicked off your shoes, still tangled in giggles and flushed skin and stolen kisses.

Jake followed you straight to your room, still holding your hand like it was his favorite thing in the world. His other hand? Firm on your waist. His mouth? Absolutely relentless.

The second the door clicked shut, he was on you again—his lips warm and insistent against your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. He kissed you like he couldn’t stop, like he didn’t want to stop, like he was mapping every inch of you with his mouth.

You laughed breathlessly, leaning back against the wall as his hands framed your face and his mouth finally, finally met yours again—deeper this time, slower but more demanding, like he was memorizing you.

“Jake—” you gasped between kisses, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes, “we have class at eight tomorrow.”

He didn’t even blink. Just leaned back in and kissed you again, his thumb brushing along the underside of your jaw as he tilted your face up to him. “I don’t care,” he whispered against your lips.

You barely had time to respond before his mouth crashed into yours again, open-mouthed, his hand sliding from your cheek down to your waist, gripping just tight enough to make your knees weak. Your fingers threaded into the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer as your back hit the door, and you swore you felt the room spin slightly.

When you finally broke apart, panting, your lips felt swollen, kissed raw. Your heart was racing.

“So,” you murmured, dazed and breathless, “does this mean we’re… dating?”

Jake blinked, cheeks flushed, lips red. Then he grinned, cocky and breathless. “Are you asking me out?”

You rolled your eyes, still pinned between the wall and his body, smiling despite yourself. “It’s the least I could do, considering I didn’t realize you were in love with me for, like, a decade.”

Jake laughed—a low, husky sound that made your stomach flip. He leaned in again, brushing your lips with his, soft and slow this time. “You don’t owe me a single thing,” he whispered, one hand still at your waist, the other stroking your cheek like you were something fragile.

Then—just like that—he kissed you again. Harder. Messier.

He angled your chin just right and slotted your mouths together in a way that made you exhale a broken sound against his lips. His tongue teased against yours, slow and devastating, and when you whimpered into the kiss, he tightened his grip on your waist like he couldn’t help it.

It wasn’t just kissing anymore. It was kissing like gravity didn’t exist.

“Gosh,” he murmured against your lips, breath ragged, “I can’t stop. You’re like—” kiss “—a drug or something.” Kiss. “A really addictive one.”

You giggled mid-kiss, your hands sliding up into his hair. “You’re insane.”

And then SLAM.

Your bedroom door flew open like a jump scare.

Jake jumped away from you like you’d just been caught stealing a national treasure.

Before either of you could process what was happening, Sunghoon stormed into the room, dragging Jake into a headlock mid-sentence.

“WHAT THE—!” Jake shrieked.

You collapsed onto the wall, laughing so hard your knees buckled. Sunghoon grumbled something incoherent as he dragged a flailing Jake down the hallway like a sack of potatoes.

“I’m trying to sleep,” Sunghoon barked. “And instead I get moaning and giggling through my wall like I’m living in a romcom directed by Satan.”

Jake was breathless. “I wasn’t even going tor—”

“Yeah, yeah, pipe it, dumbass.”

Sunghoon slammed Jake down onto his bed and slammed the door behind him like it owed him peace.

You were still giggling in the hallway when Sunghoon’s door creaked open again. He stepped out looking 800 years tired, hoodie wrinkled and hair in chaos.

“And you!”

He pointed at you.

You stood straighter.

He stared. Then sighed.

“…Sleep well,” he muttered.

But just as he turned away, he mumbled under his breath: “God, you’re so happy it’s disgusting.”

And you were.

You were dizzy, breathless, borderline giddy.

Disgustingly happy.

And it felt perfect.

—

You laid in bed, the blanket tucked snugly beneath your chin, heart still racing from the absolute whirlwind that had been your night. Your lips were still tingling. Your cheeks ached from how much you’d smiled. Everything inside you buzzed, giddy and light, like you were a teenager with her first real crush.

Only this wasn’t a crush.

This was Jake.

You giggled into your pillow, kicking your feet beneath the covers, limbs wriggling like your body had no idea how to contain this much happiness.

Then—

Ping.

Your phone lit up beside you.

Jake 💙 i miss u already hehe

You let out an actual squeal, smacking your pillow with both hands, grinning like a complete lunatic.

God.

You’d never felt like this before. Not even with your ex. Not even close. This was warm. This was exciting. Safe. Stupid and lovely all at once.

This was Jake.

Still smiling, you typed back quickly, almost shy:

can u sneak back in?

You held your breath, eyes glued to the typing bubble.

But before it even disappeared—you heard it.

The quiet creak of a door unlocking.

You bolted upright.

Heart stuttering, you threw off your blanket and padded toward your bedroom door, cracking it open just enough to peek into the hallway.

And there he was.

Jake.

In pajama pants and a hoodie, hair tousled and fluffy, tiptoeing across the hallway like some cartoon burglar. His socked feet made no sound, but his face was full of mischief, lit up with a secret smile like this was the best part of his whole night.

He looked up and spotted you, then quickly pressed a finger to his lips.

“Shhh,” he whispered, a ridiculous grin tugging at his mouth.

You had to bite down on your knuckle to keep from laughing. He was impossible.

He reached your door in two quiet steps, gently pushing you backward into your room with both hands on your shoulders, like you were something delicate.

Just as he was about to step in—

SLAM.

Sunghoon’s door burst open like he was a horror movie jump-scare.

Jake froze.

You froze.

Both of you turned slowly, like kids caught red-handed raiding the snack cabinet.

Sunghoon stood in his doorway, hair sticking out in ten different directions, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, expression one hundred percent done with everything.

Jake opened his mouth, already guilty. “We—”

“Go. To. Sleep,” Sunghoon said flatly. His voice had the kind of force only a sleep-deprived man could deliver. “You absolute rabbits.”

You immediately clamped a hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter as Jake stepped back like a scolded puppy, both hands in the air.

“Okay okay! We’re sleeping!” he whisper-yelled as Sunghoon groaned, rubbed his temples, and slammed his door shut again.

The second it clicked closed, Jake leaned down toward your door and whispered with a grin:

“Tomorrow night, I’m climbing through your window.”

You giggled, heart racing again, and whispered back, “You better.”

And he did.

He really did. But he also got caught by Sunghoon. Again.

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toasterkoi · 1 month ago

Text

Still your jaded shadow was forced to look upon

Sights not even a ghost should have to see

And as he slumps so listed, he cannot bear to watch

And yet he cannot draw his gaze away and flee

The reason why there's a white baby fuzz Shadow there holding current Shadow's hand is because it went with my headcannon from that one post I did where he originally had that coat color before he was injected with Black Doom's DNA. (VERY briefly, though)

A homage to what he could've been without the impurity that attached itself to him, the alien dna. Which is ironic in a sense, as Shadow is who he is as an indirect result of Doom's influence.

I really liked a comment on that previous post about the headcannon that said something akin to how his white fur that was left over represented the only place Black Doom failed to corrupt: his heart. Like YES!!! PREACH!!!

And, he has all this chaos energy and some kind of alien power that has dangerous consequences if not kept in check (he didn't know this he was like...10 minutes old) Gerald, of course, was aware of this about Shadow, but paid no mind to warn the hedgehog of his capabilities, as he was sure he had the means to control such a consequence. A fatal flaw of his part. So maybe he had crafted the inhibitor rings beforehand but kept them as a failsafe of sorts.

I imagine that Maria was looking to spend time with newly-released Shadow on a regular morning where she was feeling better, show him some of her favourite songs, or create fun mischief around their space-home, but oddly couldn't find him anywhere. Gerald was probably off doing further research for how to link Shadow to Maria's illness. She found herself peeking into an old storage room where the lights were off, and the door slightly pushed open as if someone had entered but not returned. And then... there's a horrifying and mutated elderich horror in the corner that's growling in pain. It's Shadow, and Maria knew that despite the melting and mutating figure in front of her appearing nothing like a small hedgehog. Because, despite the horrid and dark goup, deep down, it was still Shadow.

She was awfully calm about the entire encounter, too, and managed to get Shadow the help he needed to come back to his hedgehog form. I feel like this says alot about their closeness and relationship, because I bet if a rookie, overworked, below minimum wage employee and scientist walked in on mandela catalog Shadow like that, they would've screamed, peed their pants, and run away. They are NOT getting paid enough for this. (Unless they're used to stuff like that, but idk I'm not a scientist on the ARK guys). Just my thought dump herherher

#done after a month of collecting dust yipee!!!#nothing better than going on an ark sibling spree amirite?!?!?😫😫#Matt Elliott truthers wya 🤨#sonic the hedgehog fanart #sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #sonic #sonic fanart #sth #shadow #shadow fanart #sonadow #<- heck yeah #maria robotnik #ark siblings #shadow and maria #my art

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munsonify · 1 month ago

Text

admiring

pairing. bob reynolds x reader

summary. three times bob catches you staring, and the one time he confronts you about it

content warning. slight nsfw thoughts 18+ (very very brief/light detail), a little angst but mostly just a load of fluff, pining, new avengers!era and new avengers!r, mentions of insecurities (bobs), overthinking (both bob and r), non-established relationships

word count. 3695

a/n. i’m hardcore projecting myself into some of this my bad gang. also the dialogue kind of sucks so im sorry. not proofread

———

the briefing room

it had been an oddly quiet day for bob. he’d spent it alone, catching up on laundry that was 2 weeks overdue, finishing a book that’d been glued to his hand for the past couple days. there wasn’t a single interruption, not a single word spoken or an accidental run-in from anybody on the team.

bob hadn’t quite noticed until around 6 in the afternoon, lounging on his bed, staring at the ceiling. music played lowly in the headphones he had on, fingers thrumming against his chest in tandem with the soft bass in the back. normally by now, he would’ve had a knock at his door from walker, or a handful of missed texts from yelena claiming they needed him for something important.

he found that the word important meant very different things to these people.

the only person who seemed to have a grasp on what that was was bucky - who, by the way, was the one who interrupted his incredibly peaceful day. the thrumming of his knuckles against bobs door broke him out of his trance. letting his eyes roll into the back of his head, he pushed himself off of his bed, tugging his headphones off and letting it settle around his neck.

bucky was standing outside bobs door, visibly annoyed. and as if reading his mind-

“can’t let you rest for too long, kid. val wants us down in the briefing room in ten.”

“did she say why?” bob asked, scratching the back of his head. he really didn’t want to deal with her today.

“nope,” bucky told him, shaking his head in disbelief. “she barely ever does. just be there, got it?”

that’s how bobs perfectly fine day turned into a raging headache. val had practically nothing of value to say, and even if she did, he wasnt listening. after five minutes of sitting in those god awful office chairs, his mind began to wander elsewhere. specifically, it went to how comfortable his bed had been just 20 minutes ago.

what snapped bob out of his thought was the odd feeling that someone was staring at him. with furrowed eyebrows, his eyes began to flick through the room until they landed on you.

in the few short months that the team had been living inside of the tower, bob hadn’t quite gotten a read on you. he’d spoke to you briefly in passing, just a simple hello, but never anything more. that seemed to be how you were with everyone though. quiet. he never took quietness personally. needless to say, seeing you staring at him caught him by surprise.

bob saw the way your eyes grew wide the moment he noticed you. you quickly pried your eyes away from his, your fingers that were once fiddling with a pen grew steady, gripping it enough for it to bend and nearly snap in your hold. his eyes lingered on you for a long few seconds, trying to finally get his read on you, only to fall short.

he wondered if, by accident, you had zoned out just like he had. that’s happened to bob before - zoned out directly staring at someone he didn’t mean to be. he remembers how mortified he’d been when that’d happened. surely, that’s what you’d done. simply tuned out of the conversation at hand.

and while bob left it at that, your mind started to spin.

for the weeks that you’d known bob, you’d grown a raging sense of curiosity about him. even from the beginning, there was something about the man that intrigued you - it wasn’t the serum he’d stumbled upon or the powers he’d gained from it, no. it was the way he carried himself, awkward and lanky with a sort of sideways confidence tied in with it. the sharp features he had didn’t seem to quite fit him you didn’t think, though you couldn’t help but admire them, especially in contrast to his soft, round blue eyes.

you were simply admiring bob when he’d caught you staring. god you wished he hadn’t. despite how entranced you were with him, you’d barely spoken to him. you couldn’t quite bring yourself to hold a conversation with him just yet. eventually, you were sure you would.

———

the training room

training with walker was always exhausting. he’s a diligent, hardworking, relentless man who strived for perfection - of course that shines through when he trains. it was good practice sparring with him, and you always felt good about yourself after somehow managing through workouts with him. still, you were over the moon when you finally called it quits for the day.

“you did good, just remember to keep your shoulders back when you’re throwing punches,” walker commented, tossing a cool towel at your chest.

“thanks walker,” you mumbled as you searched around for your crisp water. neither of you were the best with words, so you kept it at that. simple. effective.

your knees nearly gave out on you as you bent down to grab the water you were in desperate need of. walker was somewhere across the training room putting away the rest of the equipment you’d used today. somehow, he still had the energy to do all of it. you simply chalked up to the super serum. it makes you feel better about yourself.

through the clanking of metal, you could hear footsteps approaching the training room. the sound of two voices slowly began to echo into earshot, one in which made your heart miss a beat or two. you looked down at yourself in agony.

with the towel hung around your neck to soothe your heated skin, you began to realize just how worn you looked. your thin tank top clung to your sticky skin, sweat dripping slightly down onto the floor below you. your knees were trembling still, something that only worsened the moment he walked into the room.

yelena strutted her way into the room with confidence, bob right behind her, nearly tripping over the foamy mat as he stepped onto it. you were quick to look at the man - tall and clumsy, wearing workout clothes you were sure he’d never wear out of this room. your mind was quick to move from your appearance at the sight of him.

while your confidence has grown the longer you’d been in the watchtower, you still couldn’t bring yourself to communicate properly with bob. you were beginning to be a little better with it, making small talk that eventually died down after a few minutes. otherwise, you fell short.

“i was just telling bob how you finally did the widow move,” yelena spoke out to you, snapping you out of your thoughts. a few awkward moments passed as you realized bob had caught you staring again before you forced your eyes away. “it was pretty badass.”

you hummed out in agreement with yelena, taking a nervous drink of your water as you started your way towards the exit. this was your time to leave before things became worse for you.

“yeah,” you chuckled nervously, small smile playing on your lips. your eyes glanced over at bob, who hadn’t let you out of your sight since he’d caught you. “‘s a pretty cool move. glad to finally master it.”

“oh, i didn’t say master,” yelena quipped, pointing her index finger at you sternly. “i just said you did it.”

“i’m sure you did g-great,” bob finally spoke, stuttering slightly on his words. he knew the widow move, he’d seen yelena do it himself. the thought of you doing it successfully had him choking on his words.

he was quick to move past your stare this time around, his mind otherwise preoccupied. that didn’t stop him from wondering on it later in the day, long after the both of you left the training room. he still chalked your gaze up to nothing but a coincidence, even if it did have him a nervous mess.

———

the kitchen

it was never uncommon for bob to stay up through the night. silence was hard to come by in his mind when he had so much to think about. when he became restless like this, he turned to quiet walks around the tower to try and clear his mind, or a book to read to try and suppress it all. unfortunately for him, none of his coping mechanisms quite worked for him some nights.

the coffee that just finished brewing was the first of many attempts bob made to keep his body going today, the late night turning into a very early morning. he could already see the sunrise on the horizon out of the corner of his eye as he poured the coffee shakily. his normal mug was sitting in the sink, the insides stained slightly by coffee he had drank the day before. the man settled on a mug with a garfield graphic instead.

bob glanced over at the stove, a huff of air coming out of his nose the moment his eyes found the time. 6:05. the grip he had on the mug tightened while he finished preparing it. with hunched shoulders, he shuffled over to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair just enough for him to slide into it. he wanted nothing more than to rest in his bed, large and warm and welcoming. but alas, his mind still wouldn’t quiet down, not quite. a buzz rang low and steady in the back of his head.

that’s when you walked in. bobs head snapped up the moment he heard your quiet footsteps, eyes that were once unfocused on the table focused in on your figure as you stumbled into the large kitchen. he could feel his whole body tense, throat tightening up slightly as you glanced over at him and offering him a small smile.

bob noticed that he tensed up around you a lot. he was prone to nervousness around you. everything about you captivated him - the way you spoke, the way you looked, the way you carried yourself. even if you never really interacted with him, he couldn’t help but admire you. a part of him knew that he tensed up around you for another reason. that weird little staring problem you had, one that only seemed to be directed at him and no one else.

“g’morning,” you spoke, voice quiet and a little raw from sleep. bob gave you a half-hearted smile back, mumbling a good morning to you. his eyes began to dart between you and the open space that surrounded him in an anxious sort of way. he wasn’t quite sure where to put his eyes.

“mind if i have some?” you asked, thumb motioning over to the pot of coffee on the countertop. you were already grabbing ahold of a floral mug in the cabinet, though, like you already knew the answer.

“‘course,” bob nodded. he suddenly became aware of how he must look - hair a mess, eyelids drooping and bloodshot, a slump to him that he couldn’t straighten up to save his life. he tried to distract himself from his own appearance with yours.

not in a bad way, never a bad way. simply in a curious way. with your back to him, pouring yourself a cup of coffee, he noticed that your baggy shirt had a few holes in it. it reminded him of the clothes he wears to bed, old and worn and perfect to sleep in. as a matter of fact, there was a hole in the armpit of the shirt he was wearing now. most of his clothes were like that.

bob noticed that you poured an obscene amount of milk into your coffee, almost too much. he was well aware of the bitter taste, a taste he didn’t like much, but this was just absurd. he could excuse it though on accounts of you being so pretty. even fresh out of sleep, you caught his eye.

his gaze snapped back to the table the moment he noticed you starting to move again. you turned around, mug in hand, before waddling yourself over to a seat. you sat at a respectable distance from the man - far enough away so that you weren’t crowding his personal space, but close enough so that it didn’t seem like you were allergic to being around him. you sometimes wished you could consider being a chronic over thinker a hobby.

you found your eyes wandering off to bob again. it’s like they couldn’t help but gravitate towards him. the first thing you noticed about him was his eyes, and how tired they looked. you were aware he struggled to sleep. there had been nights where you had caught him walking the halls of the tower while you were in search of a glass of water or a late night snack. he truly looked exhausted this morning, though, like he was forcing his body upright.

your eyes eventually drifted down to his hands. bob had both wrapped firmly around his mug with two fingers slipped beneath the handle. if you hadn’t known there was a garfield mug inside of the pantry you wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint what the orange peaking past his fingers was - bobs hands were large.

you blinked a few slow, hard times as you processed that thought of yours. you watched as a pointer finger of his traced the ceramic rhythmically, a grounding technique of his. you began to wonder what his fingers would feel like against you, dancing against your skin like they were that mug. you wondered what his hands would feel like against your face, warm and a little shaky. you wondered what they’d feel like against your hips, firm and unmoving as he held you close. the thought of his hands drifting further down your body has your head going a little fuzzy.

it wasn’t until bob let out a strained cough, shifting uncomfortably in his seat that you’d realized you’d been staring for far too long. your bottom lip that somehow traveled between your teeth was released from its confines quickly, eyes darting away immediately. now it was your turn to tense up.

while bob didn’t say a word, his mind began to swirl. of course, the moment he’d thought he’d had his mind under control, his thoughts began to betray him again, picking right back up at the speed from earlier.

why were you always staring at him? what he once thought was a coincidence was now quickly spiraling into something that had to be purposeful, personal. was he doing something wrong that was making you stare? were you upset with him? were you wanting the mug he was using? or was this all in his head? couldn’t be.

rather than asking you, bob chose to do nothing but sit in his uncomfortable-ness. this was something for him to deal with when he wasn’t so tired.

———

the common area

it was hard to find peace and quiet in the tower. between constant bickering, mission briefing and debriefing, and simply existing together, noise was something that was inevitable. while a fact, it didn’t make it any less frustrating. that’s why you appreciated any silence you were handed greatly. today was no different.

for the first time in two weeks, the common area was empty, motionless, and quiet. you were quick to occupy one of the squishy rocking chairs that inhabited the open room, resting into it and sighing in relief. the warmth of the sun spilled into the room through the large floor-to-ceiling windows, engulfing you perfectly. the sun wasn’t shining in your eyes, though it gave you the exact lighting you needed to get some reading done.

with your feet propped up on the now reclined chair, you did just that. in peace.

there were only two other members of the team inside of the tower. bucky was in his room, finally finding peace in the quiet tower just like you were. without walker and ava bickering, or alexei’s usual obnoxious demeanor, he didn’t have anyone to rope him into their bullshit. you liked bucky, and bucky liked you. you respected each others personal space.

bob was also inside the tower. though, while you respected each others space, you somehow always ended up within it anyways. at the beginning, you didn’t mind his company. he’s thoughtfully quiet, and you found that he made good conversation. but now? now all you wanted to do was crawl out of your skin and hide while he was near.

he made you painfully shy and insanely flustered and you hated it. the worst part? it didn’t even seem like he was trying.

it’s why you tensed up the moment you saw bob walk into the common area. you were sure that if you weren’t partially facing towards the entrance you wouldn’t have noticed him. the man was always so quiet on his feet. your eyes flicker up from your book, forcing a small smile on your lips to acknowledge and greet him.

bob offered up a small, toothy smile back at you, fingers wiggling slightly in a wave. if you weren’t so caught up in breathing properly you would’ve noticed the way he cringed at himself, nose crinkling up all cute as he overthought and instantly regretted his hello.

he went over to a chair closer to the windows, slipping on his headphones, before fumbling with his phone to find music to play. bob loved having this opportunity. it wasn’t often he could sit and listen to music, simply staring out the window and into the large city. sometimes he admired the sight, looking at what hustle and bustle he could make out down on the streets, scanning the skyline for everything and nothing. other times, he simply just stared, engulfed in his own thoughts or the music he had playing.

and, despite pressing shuffle on a good playlist of his, bob decided that thinking was the way to go today. especially since the thinking had to do with you, and how he desperately wanted to confront you. now would be the perfect time. you two were alone, and bob was sure bucky wouldn’t find his way in here anytime soon.

even if the man didn’t intrude on the conversation, bob felt like he was cornering you. you were so clearly enjoying your quiet time, engulfed in a book he couldn’t quite see the title of. he’d hate to interrupt you. that was until he caught you staring. again.

in your defense, you were also deep in thought. bob looked so cozy in his seat, a large black hoodie engulfing him in warmth, hair slightly disheveled. he finally looked well rested, too. you were simply admiring the man as your mind started to run laps, wondering how it’d feel to hug him, feel the warmth he felt right now. you didn’t even really notice you were staring at him this time.

“do you, like, hate me or something?” bob blurted out, breaking the silence between the two of you. he was quick to take his headphones off, placing it in his lap with a little too much force. your book that was once loosely grasped on your hands was in your lap in an instant, pages fluttering shut, losing your place.

“what?” you croaked out, eyes wide. you began to shake your head quickly. “no!”

bob couldn’t help but scoff. “are you sure? it kinda seems like you do!”

“yes, bob, i’m sure!”

“then what’s going on?” he asked you in a weak voice. his eyes were owlish as he stared at you, face etched in nothing but worry and anxiousness. bob looked like he could cry. “if you want me to give you space i can, i just… i wanna know why you’re always so weird around me. why you always stare.”

your heart dropped to the bottom of your stomach as he spoke, guilt and anxiety filling your bones as you tried to think of a response. all this time, bob thought you didn’t like him, that your staring and your awkwardness was out of spite, not out of admiration.

“bob,” you let out, voice cracking slightly as you adjusted upright in the chair you sat in. “i’m sorry, i don’t hate you.”

a hand found its way to your forehead, rubbing gently as you let out a shaky breath. you couldn’t believe you were about to say any of this.

“i stare cause i think you’re really nice to look at. like really nice. and you’re always so kind to me. i just get so nervous around you and i forget how to act. im so sorry i made you think i hated you or something, i actually quite like you.��

those round blue eyes of bobs don’t leave you even after you’re done speaking. they stare into you like it’d hurt to leave, or like he’d miss something important if he didn’t keep staring. you noticed quickly that his hands started to mess with the headphones in his lap, anxiously feeling against the warm material.

he tried and failed to push down the adorable red blush that started to creep up his neck, the tips of his ears thankfully hidden beneath his hair. this way, he was able to spare some of his dignity. your confession had him flustered and at loss for words. which really sucked right now. you were staring at him again, this time expectedly. you’re patient, you always had been - that didn’t stop him from feeling like he needed something to say to you, and quickly.

“oh,” bob whispered, only barely finding something to say to you.

“yeah,” you whispered back, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, chewing on it anxiously.

finally, bob had something meaningful to contribute. “i think you’re really nice to look at too.”

he let out a relieved sigh the moment he saw a small smile play on your lips. this time, when you looked over at him, bob didn’t overthink it. he didn’t question himself, or try to fold in on himself. he simply let it happen. he let himself stare back at you, eyes gazing into yours, smiling just like you were. it finally felt right.

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